Coastal Horizons... books, beaches, and backroad adventures
Nature & Books belong to the eyes that see them.
- Emerson
January 6, 2026
A Year With Maggie O'Farrell
January 3, 2026
A Month in Summary - December 2025
64th Birthday:
December 31, 2025
A Far-flung Life
It's hard country, out this way. Back in England, a farm might support two or three sheep per acre. Here, with the lack of rainfall, you need more like forty acres per sheep. There is heat. There is sun. But on winter nights the water in the tanks will freeze over. The searing light that coaxes life into being here will bleach it out of existence with the same indifferent shrug, leaving blanched trees, and rusted corrugated iron on the roofs of abandoned homesteads. The wind that brings the rain can bring floods and flatten shearing sheds. Everything that can do you good can also do you harm here--that's just the way of it.This land has seen improbable things: the evolution of marsupials and monotremes; of flightless birds and animals that fly. It's seen continents split and islands arise. It's seen oceans turn to desert and desert turn to glaciers. And it's watched people drag their little lives across its surface, flat and unforgiving.
In the homestead at Meredith Downs, silence is a canvas on which each sound trails like a color. The wind; a single fly; the clatter of a pan; the distant barking of a kelpie; the banging of a flywire door. There is no continuous murmur of traffic. No vague stream of voices. Each sound emerges for its solo, then fades into stillness, into a silence so complete it makes music of your heartbeat in your ears.
December 29, 2025
Tell Me Everything
“Olive was silent for a long moment. Then she said, meditatively, “It’s quite a world we live in, isn’t it. For years I thought: I will miss all this when I die. But the way the world is these days, I sometimes think I’ll be damned glad to be dead.” She sat quietly looking ahead through the windshield. “I’ll still miss it, though,” she said. Bob was watching her. He said, “I like you, Olive.” “Phooey. Now help me get out of this car,” Olive replied.”
and
“Lucy stood up and pulled on her coat. “Those are my stories,” she said, and then bent down to put her boots back on. “But you’re right. They are stories of loneliness and love.” Lucy stepped into the tiny kitchen for a moment and returned with a paper towel and she bent down and soaked up the drops of water on the floor left from her boots. Then she picked up her bag and said, “And the small connections we make in this world if we are lucky.” And then to Olive’s amazement, Lucy said, smiling at her with a gentleness on her face, “And I feel that way about you. A connection. Love. So thank you.” She moved toward the door. Olive said, “Wait.” As Lucy turned, Olive said, “Well, phooey. I feel connected to you too. So there.” She stuck out her tongue.”
December 26, 2025
Lucy by the Sea
Here is what I did not know that morning in March: I did not know that I would never see my apartment again. I did not know that one of my friends a family member would die of this virus. I did not know that my relationship with my daughters would change in ways I could never have anticipated. I did not know that my entire life would become something new.
Who knows why people are different? We are born with a certain nature, I think. And then the world takes its swings at us.
I thought then that William had been right to bring me up here, where I could walk freely even if I didn't see many people. The question of why some people are luckier than others--I have no answer for this.
It has been said that the second year of widowhood is worse than the first--the idea being, I think, that the shock has worn off and now one has to simply live with the loss...
And I also understood: Grief is a private thing. God, is it a private thing.
It is a gift in this life that we do not know what awaits us.
Heartwarming as well as somber ... Although simple on the surface, Strout's new novel manages, like her other, to encompass love and friendship, joy and anxiety, grief and grievances, loneliness and shame--and a troubling sense of growing unrest and division in America.... Strout's understanding of the human condition is capacious. ~NPR
Highly recommend, but should be read in order, at least with the Amgash books.
December 25, 2025
December 21, 2025
Oh William!
Grief is such a--oh, it is such a solitary thing; this is the terror of it, I think. It is like sliding down the outside of a really long glass building while nobody sees you.
"I would like to say a few things about my first husband, William."
"Also (I suddenly remembered this too) ..."
"What I mean to say"
“I don’t want to say any more about that...”
Since I have two other books by Strout to read (Lucy by the Sea is up next), I pushed through to finish this one even though it's not one that I can recommend. Had it been longer (I read it in less than two nights), I may have given up. Overall, a disappointment.
My reviews of the other books in this series:
My Name is Lucy Barton (4/5)
Anything is Possible (3/5)
December 18, 2025
Olive, Again
Here is the thing that Cindy, for the rest of her life, would never forget: Olive Kitteridge said, "My God, but I have always loved the light in February." Olive shook her head slowly. "My God," she repeated, with awe in her voice. "Just look at that February light."
Loneliness. Oh, the loneliness!It blistered Olive.She had not known such a feeling her entire life; this is what she thought as she moved about the house. It may have been the terror finally wearing off and giving way for this gaping bright universe of loneliness that she faced, but it bewildered her to feel this. She realized it was as though she had--all her life--four big wheels beneath her, without even knowing it, of course, and now they were, all four of them, wobbling and about to come off. She did not know who she was, or what would happen to her.
One day she sat in the big chair that Jack used to sit in and she thought she had become pathetic. If there was one thing Olive hated, it was pathetic people. And now she was one of them.
As soon as it got dark she tucked herself into her little single bed and watched television. The news was amazing to her. And this helped her. The country was in terrible disarray, and Olive found this interesting. At times she thought fascism might be knocking on the door of the country, but then she would think, Oh, I'll die soon, who cares. Sometimes she thought of Christopher and all his kids and she felt worried about their future, but then she would think: There's nothing I can do about it, everything is going to hell.
Olive is brash and outspoken, and yet underneath all of her gruffness and lack of filter, she's quite loveable. I hope she plays a prominent role in another book by Strout.
Rather than link to my earlier review, I'm including it here:
Marvelous! Was it insomnia that led me to finish this book at 1:30 in the morning or the mere fact that I couldn't put it down? After reading the final page, I kept thinking about Olive and the motley cast of characters in this follow-up to Elizabeth Strout's Pulitzer Prize winner, Olive Kitteridge. Truthfully, I had to force myself to turn off the light and not start rereading from the beginning of the book.
In 2014 I read Olive Kitteridge (giving it a second chance after previously quitting on the audiobook) in preparation to watching the four-part HBO mini-series of the same name. I not only fell in love with Strout's writing, but came to care about Olive, warts and all.
Olive, Again is an outstanding follow-up and does not disappoint. In similar fashion to the original novel, this book is comprised of thirteen vignettes. Olive takes center stage in most chapters, but is only a passing figure in others. I especially enjoyed the presence of characters from other novels by Strout (Isabelle from Amy & Isabelle was an unexpected treat!) and I'm now inspired to go back and reread each of her books.
Having watched Frances McDormand in the lead role of the mini-series, I had a vivid picture of Olive, laughing out loud at her caustic remarks while feeling a tug of sadness and empathy as her life grew emptier and lonelier. I felt an ache of melancholy as I turned the last page, not ready to leave Olive, with whom I felt a strong connection as she reflected upon her life as a wife and mother in her final years. Thankfully, I have copies of both books for future reading and plan to rewatch the TV drama.
Olive, Again is a poignant glimpse into aging, while providing levity with hilarious one-liners by the irascible and blunt heroine of Olive Kitteridge. Highly recommend!
December 15, 2025
The Marriage Portrait
The sky above her head is vast, stretching from the tops of the cypresses all the way to the distant peaks of the Apennines, which can be seen, far off, in the purple-grey haze. As she walks beneath it, she is aware of its spectrum shifts, from the pink of sunrise, to red, to orange.This, she thinks. All this. The cypresses like rows of upended paintbrushes, waiting for the giant hand of an artist, the low and subjugated wind, the jagged line of mountains drawn in charcoal on the horizon, the muted calls of servants to each other, somewhere behind her, the open doors of the villa, the clink of bells around the necks of cattle, the lines and lines of fruit trees that open into avenues as she walks by. She wants this. She feels the bliss of it all on her skin, like the graze of drizzle after a parching drought. She can take the other, she can bear it, if it means she can have this. She will exchange that for this. She will, she can.
The gown rustles and slides around her, speaking a glossolalia all of its own, the silk moving against the rougher nap of the underskirts, the bone supports of the bodice straining and squealing against their coverings, the cuffs scuffing and chafing the skin of her wrists, the stiffened collar hooking and nibbling at her nape, the hip supports creaking like the rigging of a ship. It is a symphony, an orchestra of fabrics, and Lucrezia would like to cover her ears, but she cannot.
December 11, 2025
The Nix
Samuel thought how his father married to his mother was like a spoon married to a garbage disposal.








































