We slept in as a little more snow swirled outside, cozily ensconced in our favorite room at the Scotch Hill Inn. Our plan on this winter day was a quick outlet jaunt to Kittery with an opening lunch at Bob’s Clam Hut – a happy and hungry echo of a summer day, the kind of hunger only a fried clam platter can appease.

A stop at The Yarn Sellar inspired a planned return to crocheting, and I had an enjoyable conversation with one of the owners as she spun the yarn from a skein into a ‘cake’ using a wondrous wooden frame contraption that looked straight out of some steampunk fantasy. Crocheting or knitting would be a return to something real, something physical, something not in any way tethered to or corrupted by technological muck. Yarn felt like a grounding object, so I picked up three colors and told them I was going to try my hand at a few granny squares.

Gram often comes to mind when we are in Ogunquit, even when we don’t see a dachshund – and she’s the one who taught me how to crochet when I was about ten or eleven years old. We returned to town and I had my last cup of French hot chocolate for this trip – a tradition I already found myself missing. It was Mom’s birthday, and I’d made reservations at the York Harbor Inn as that felt like the sort of cozy, traditional dinner scene she’d appreciate on this winter night.

The snow was coming down again as we carefully wound our way to York, and the fireplace-backed lobby was the ideal setting to stave off a frigid evening. We dined looking out over the wintry street – a quaint, idyllic scene that Andy remarked looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Sometimes life gifts you a perfect moment and setting.

One more jewel of a moment awaited us, as upon our return to the Inn Anthony opened the door and invited us onto the porch for hot chocolate. The snow was still falling, now at a pretty healthy clip (several inches would fall during the night) the delicate silence punctuated only by the occasional snow plow (Ogunquit’s fanciest and finest).

This was the dream-scene and setting that we’d longed to experience when Anthony first told us of such magic years ago. There was beauty and stillness and calm as the snow continued to swirl outside and we approached the eleven o’clock hour. Anthony’s mug of hot chocolate warmed my hand, and a blanket thoughtfully left on the back of my rocking chair wound around my shoulders as we rocked the snowy night away. It made for a memorable end to Mom’s first birthday in Maine – and a sublime realization of a winter dream we’d held for many years.

Some dreams, when finally and fully realized, don’t always live up to the dreamer’s vision and hope – this one surpassed it. Winter, peace and tranquility don’t often go hand-in-hand, but for this one magical weekend in Maine, Anthony and the Scotch Hill Inn made it all happen.

And now we look forward to our return to Ogunquit in May… just four months away.

The first bit of snow fell during our first night. The dream scenario that Mom, Andy and myself had wished to see for decades had finally come to gorgeous fruition – the town was transformed into a vision of quaint, charming, winter-wonderland magic. For those of us who have only known Ogunquit to be adorned with spring flowers, summer foliage, and autumn gourds, the winter snow scene was a spectacle of elegant majesty, surpassing anything we could have envisioned.

Bundled up with coats and scarves, hats and gloves, we made the walk to the Marginal Way, unsure how far we’d get before the weather and wind turned us back. Even in the winter hour, there was the living smell of ocean – favored scent of youth and vacations – the scent that pricked at the heart and the appetite – the secret of life crashing down in the regular, rhythmic intervals of waves.

Walking the Marginal Way, and the path that would always mean so much to us, there was calm and healing, even in the cold, and we found ourselves unbothered by the bit of wind that occasionally swirled. Entranced by the sea – this might be how sailors were lured to tempting dangers – we traversed the entire Marginal Way, having no issue with the slippery slopes and occasional winter breeze.

In fact, this was one of the calmer and quieter walks along the Marginal Way – usually the wind and the surf and the crowds are all battling to be heard over each other. On this late morning, all was mostly still and silent – a contemplative glimpse of the Beautiful Place By the Sea, and I was grateful.

Seeing our favorite spots bedecked by snow and ice was as magnificent as expected – winter lending its own sort of magic to the environs we’ve only ever experienced in warmer months.

Most of Perkins Cove was closed on this particular weekend, but it didn’t matter – we weren’t there for shopping or dining – we were there for the winter, and it did not disappoint. We walked back into town as snow started to fall again – big, fluffy, beautiful flakes – the stuff of charmed tales that ended with a cup of hot chocolate.

That evening, we had dinner at Walker’s and called an early night – it was so cozy and comfortable at the Scotch Hill Inn that we simply enjoyed the time together. Meanwhile, the snow continued to fall…