It’s been pouring all morning. I checked the weather last night – the rain will stop before I get to Little Compton. I travel south along the narrow, waterlogged roadways, past farms and stately homes, into another world, another time. The fog, rolling thickly in, obscures any traces of modern life. All is soft, and wet, and dream-like.

Later, I walk across the soggy expanse of lawn that spreads down to Round Pond from The Stone House. My blue rubber boots sink deep into the spongy, sodden turf. A lone car splashes down the lane, and then stillness descends. The mist obscuring the pond gives me a taste of infinity. I hear the soft lapping of waves against the cattails, the swallows singing as they dance over the hedges. Everything is saturated – the ground, the colors. The salty smell of the sea washes over me with the breeze, mingled with the heady scent of beach roses. Not another soul is around.

I think this might be the closest thing there is to heaven on earth, and, finished taking pictures for the day, I close my eyes to savor it.