After breakfast this morning at Lowcountry Produce & Market, we punctuated our afternoon idleness with a leisurely meander through the neighbourhood. Though substantial, breakfast did not immediately induce drowsiness. However upon returning home to the drawing room, we lingered long enough to peruse the news and collect our thoughts before gathering ourselves for more productive pursuits. This endeavor first required a wardrobe transition —from the “formal” casual pants and cardigan worn at breakfast to the more agreeable “comfortables” of sweatpants, a long-sleeved silk shirt, and a nylon undergarment, well-suited for tricycling. The relentless pursuit of comfort is imperative.

The forecast for the week promises sunshine, with temperatures largely below 65°F — a mild nod to the Canadian experience of cold air, though within more forgiving limits. This afternoon, despite temperatures dipping below 55°F, the air was surprisingly tolerable, aided by the absence of wind. A silk scarf made all the difference; keeping the neck warm is essential. Committed to keeping my exercise within the bounds of Lands End, I was in no rush to escape onto the pathway along South Sea Pines Drive which runs northward parallel to the Atlantic. Eventually I passed through the gates to nearby Bluff Villa, circled the area, and rejoined the sidewalk to South Beach Racquet Club before turning back.

It was there, on my homeward path, that I encountered an elderly woman approaching from the opposite direction. She beckoned to me and asked, “May I ask you a question?” Thus began an animated discussion on the art of tricycling. I advised her on the proper technique — steering with the handlebars rather than shifting body weight as one would on a bicycle. She confided that she had long considered switching to a tricycle, having once cycled from South Beach to Coligny Park and beyond. When I inquired about her age, she revealed she was 80. She looked remarkably well for it, a fact she laughingly attributed to being Canadian. Naturally, I shared that I was, too.

Her name was Barb, from Windsor, Ontario. This led us into a brief political exchange, a topic she agreed is best avoided among our American hosts. I affirmed the wisdom of such discretion, remarking that as visitors, it is neither proper nor prudent to opine on delicate national matters — especially given the latest absurdity surrounding Trump’s brazen suggestion of expropriating Canada. Regardless, I consider it an egregious breach of decorum to trespass beyond the bounds of diplomatic discourse.

Eventually, I resumed my route, satisfied with the small accomplishment of the outing. The day had unfolded seamlessly, its simple ingredients — food, exercise, socializing and quiet domesticity — falling neatly into place. A few casual exchanges with a friend in Canada added to the mix, our conversation drifting through the usual trivialities. Beyond that the day had been one of inordinate yet perfectly soothing platitudes.