New Englanders are egregious when it comes to summer beach homes.
During the warm weathered weekends, we either head up [to Maine, Vermont or New Hampshire] or down [to Cape Cod or Marthas Vineyard] for the freedom and the water. It’s like a tradition for us.
The “Where are you going for ________ [insert summer holiday weekend here]?” question is almost always smoothly answered with: “Oh, my _______ [insert family member/spouse/friend of family name here] has a cabin in….”
You get the idea. So this past Labor day weekend, I went down to Cape Cod.
The traffic was massive and especially miserable. I mean, it was piled UP. But I anticipated that: Library checkout, Books on CD: ‘Gone Girl’.
We had Friday night and Saturday morning to go outside and play on the beach before it began raining:
Saturday night, a huge thunderstorm hit directing the rain sideways. It was so loud, I could swear my bed shook. Surprisingly, I didn’t have nightmares.
Sunday morning, the weather showed no signs of letting up so the girls and I loaded up and headed back into the city :-(.
I took pictures of what I wore that day in my backyard, when I got home: