The house began as a keeper's dwelling and a small boathouse on the eastern shore, put up in the 1880s to serve the sound. We took it over after a long quiet and rebuilt it slowly, the timbers where we could, the roofs and the flues where we had to. What you meet now is the same room the keeper met: whitewashed walls, exposed rafters, a stove kept lit through the shoulder seasons.
We are a small house, three rooms and a winter-garden pavilion at the eastern gable. There is no front desk in the usual sense; we open the door, we carry your bag up, we show you the ladder off the jetty and the tin where the waffle irons live. The rest of the day is yours.
Our year is ordered by the light. From the middle of May the sun stops setting; by the end of July it begins to dip again; by September the first darkness returns and we close the pavilion for the winter. The almanac at the back of this page tells you which weekends are open.