We went exploring today and reminded ourselves just how lucky we are to have stumbled across our little piece of borrowed paradise.
We drove through winding tree lined streets that broke out into overgrown, pebbly pathways, surrounded by rolling meadows and quaint old farm houses, nestled amongst orchards, farm buildings and out-houses.
I could have sworn we had time travelled into an Anne of Green Gables storyline. In places, it was so unbelievably picturesque and seemingly untouched by the 21st century it was almost painful to see.
The roadside produce stalls with their little honesty boxes were overflowing all over the island, with eggs, organic vegetables, flowers and jars of pickles and jams and fruit, lovingly hand-labelled in curly whirly handwriting.
The geese trailed across the fields with their babies towing the line, turkeys gobbled and pecked at the earth and dust. The sound of bleating lambs could be heard even over the sound of the car engine as we wound our way through pure sunshine and fields of rich greenery and meadows of wildflowers, daisies, and wheat.
We picnic-ed at a picnic table at Ruckle Farm, with ocean to one side, and fields of cream and dusty pink coloured foxgloves stretching towards the horizon on the other.
I lay in the clover and thought of how appreciative I am that the universe spun us around and plopped us here for the northern summer, in this little paradise so near, and yet so removed from the hustle and bustle of 'the real world'.