Long red fields slope to the sea. Sand dunes. Red sandstone cliffs stand vulnerable to the sea which eats away a foot of the Island's perimeter each year.
White churches of every sort point tall steeples to the sky. Clouds white against blue, or, grey and heavy with rain.
Trlmly kept houses cluster in half dozens and call themselves villages with names like Primrose, Culloden, Miscouche, and O'Leary, each one evoking memories of ancestors who traveled the sea to settle here.
Lobster traps piled high lean against weathered fishing huts along a wharf. When we say our goodbyes to the fisherman we've been chatting with, I mention that we'll be eating lobster for dinner and perhaps it will be one of his.
He hoists his plastic bin of bait and grins, exposing a missing tooth or two. "If it is," he says with an eastern lilt, "it'll be tasty."
And it was. A traditional lobster supper with friends last night and a lobster roll for lunch today. Tasty indeed.