House on the Island

This old house lives near Barn Creek off Gum Thicket road over on Gwynn's Island.

By the way, some Mathews natives  pronounce island as i- lunt or ah - lunt.  A "t" shows up where a "d" might otherwise make itself known.  Another example is, "I'll grab aholt (instead of ahold or a hold) of that rope if you toss it to me from the dock." 

I wouldn't mention this except if I don't this will all be forgotten 100 seconds years from now.  Sadly, the number of people who say Gwynn's Ilunt has dwindled almost as quickly as the number of commercial watermen. 

But all this is a topic for some other day, perhaps the same day we talk about how my grandmother used to say "poosh" instead of "push" and whether that's a Scottish or Irish influence. 

Let's return to the topic at hand, which has nothing to do with Scotland or Ireland but did have something to do with a lovely old house on an ilunt island.  

I very rarely go down this road and have never noticed this place before.

This beauty was such an unexpected sight, I actually let out a gasp.

She sits way back off the main road, which twists sharply to provide the nice profile view above. Are those curtains still hanging in the lower left window? If you click on the image, you might see some hanging in the upper right window too.

This is yet another example of a place I'd like to study and savor carefully, up close. But without permission from the property owner, it's just not legal possible.

Plus with my luck I'd open the door and the whole thing would come crashing down on me. If you suffered through  read Sunday's post, this was the day I was wearing  those hideous neon pink socks. And that would not have been good, to have been found under a pile of rubble, wearing pink socks with holes in the toes. Have mercy, my poor grandmother would have pooshed and spun in her grave, as many times as she told us to make sure everything we had on was just so and clean, in case we had to dash off to the hospital for the ever-looming emergency, and all.

And thus concludes a post about a beautiful old house; with a pit stop at an informal observation of the local language; before careening out of control onto previously-declared-verboten neon pink socks and what one should wear in the unlikely event of a dire emergency; all of which means that it's time for CBW to get some sleep call it a post.

The End.