On a recent sojourn along the coast, I landed in Port Clyde. We had spent a not so peaceful night anchored there last summer when the wind blew up on us and we were forced to take cover.
Today I was exploring on foot, and found a nondescript house with good bones right in the middle of town. It didn't look like anyone lived there, and reminded me of the old tough and simple-by-necessity life of fishermen on the coast of Maine. Someone will probably buy it and turn it in to a summer "cottage," but for no it stands defiant.