Town meeting is a springtime event around here. It is on this occasion that the townsfolk at last break out of the rut they’ve got themselves into, hanging around the kitchen stove and looking out the window, wishing the weather would finally straighten out. When the appointed day arrives, cars and pickup trucks congregate at the Town Hall, and their drivers, grumbling about the lack of parking space, file into the hall prepared to do battle until they drop, or the sun sets, whichever happens first. It’s a time-proven system for (…)

This post is contributed by Coastal Rivers Trustee Barnaby Porter. Read the previous post here. Editor’s note: This piece is from Barnaby’s archive. In the month of the Lion and the Lamb, flying, blustery days, one after another, go winging past, spinning on the skirts of arctic highs between the shivering damps of grey coastal lows. “I say,” says a friend one day, “I think I heard a red wing, but can’t be sure. Seems a little early.” All the signs come to me – teasing glimpses of light and warmth, of easier times in the offing. In the woods, …

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