A Trip to Fowey, Bodinnick, and Daphne du Maurier
As I look through all the photos of our trip to Fowey, I realize the difficulty of condensing all of our photographic memories in order to distill a time and place. I think, because I don't want to just throw up a few pictures and call it just a visit, that it's hard to actually capture this memory and place, and our time within. This place is special, this place pulled at our heartstrings, this place calls to old souls, our old souls. Is it possibly because we decided to re-read Rebecca, written here in this very place by Daphne du Maurier? Is it maybe because we were within arm's reach of where she wrote this other-worldly novel, maybe because it all seemed so close and maybe because so little has changed? I don't know why. I know it was unique and special, and I know I'll never forget the walk up the dark lane, when the owls were calling back and forth across the river and Jonathan just wanted to turn around, but I made us keep going uphill, up the black path…
