As I write this, I'm sitting on the front porch of a charming bed and breakfast in a lovely nautical village called Port Townsend, Washington. My neighbors, who called just a little while ago to ask me a question (when I saw their cell phone number come up of course I feared the worst, but really they just needed the phone number of my computer support guy), are even considering retiring here. And I can see why. It's a storybook village with endlessly interesting shops and art galleries and a fine selection of stunning Victorian homes perched on bluffs overlooking Puget Sound. Not bad. Only there's something missing.

Guess what that is? Do I have to spell it out? My horses. Dang, you'd think I'd be over it by now. I live, breath and work horses. I think about them day and night. On the bus ride from the ferry stop to town I looked out the window and tried spotting the hooved ones, but it's all about boats in this part of the country.

So tomorrow we'll go sailing and eat and sleep and shop, but I won't ride or clean a stall or brush a horse. For once, I'll come in for dinner smelling like the sea instead of the barn. It's good to get away, but by Friday I'll be ready for that sweet perfume again: a mixture of pyrethrin and sweat and horse dirt.