The arrival today at 09:02 of the Vernal Equinox—the beginning of astronomical spring and the end of astronomical winter in the Northern Hemisphere—marked the accelerated descent toward our departure from Hilton Head Island less than ten days hence. This swift approach was further distinguished by an uncommonly cool, dry, and breezy climate, perfectly suited to a thin wool sweater, a silken scarf, and white woolen socks—a moderate shield against the elements, whether predictable or unexpectedly contrary to the euphoria of the irradiant day.

So it ever is that when the moment of packing one’s bags looms, the amplitude of the present expands, each detail rendered with newfound urgency and clarity. I awoke this morning to a magnificent day beneath an azure sky. Rising happily from my lair at precisely eight o’clock—a Puritan and acceptable hour, by my estimate—I followed my usual ablutions before settling at table before a unique composition: steel-cut oats, two stewed prunes, natural peanut butter, honey, and walnuts. Nourished, I embarked upon my customary cycle along the shaded corridor parallel to S Sea Pines Drive, covering a distance of 7.26 kilometers. Everything about the morning—the air, the temperature, the wind, the sun—was ideal, as was the buoyant energy of the passersby, many of whom were families with young children, sometimes perilously inattentive to their course.

Not moments after returning to the cottage and stationing my sturdy Atlas tricycle in its customary place at the head of the drive, I prepared for my early afternoon outing—the mandatory visit to Zips Car Wash on William Hilton Parkway. It is, as ever, a metaphorical catharsis of the soul, the reinvigoration of mechanical precision in the name of cleanliness. “Cleanliness,” observed Jacob Burckhardt (Swiss historian of art and culture, 1818–1897), “is indispensable to our modern notion of social perfection.” And so, in concert with my incremental immobility, this trifling pretext to traverse the picturesque roadways of Hilton Head Island grants me that fleeting notion of perfection. It also supplements my otherwise inconsequential contributions to the lazy passage of the day.

Naturally, I content myself with observing all that transpires, exchanging brief pleasantries with Jay, the car wash superintendent, and the gatehouse keepers of Sea Pines Plantation. The traffic grows heavier by the day as the professional golf season approaches. While I savor these daily encounters beneath the towering sea pines, my thoughts drift homeward—to my beloved Appleton Side Road, the avenue of pastoral sublimity that winds beside the river, where, soon enough, I shall reside once more.