Autumn has come at last to Capriglia-by-the-Sea, complete with mists and mellow fruitfulness.

I always thought this house was beautiful -- even more so in real life than it seemed in the pictures we first saw back in Colorado so long ago -- but coming back to the house after our Venice-Portugal trip, I was surprised to find that I was feeling not merely admiration for it, but affection. I am getting attached.

It's the goofy stuff that does this. 

The picture of a chicken on the living room wall.

The duck cup that was the only tea cup in the house before we went to IKEA to buy more and that I still sometimes drink out of.  

The farmer wearing a tie and his startled cow on the towel holder in the guest bathroom. 

The fact that you have to go up three steps to get to the bidet and toilet in there (and that, while seated, out the window you have a lovely view from above of anyone in the hammock and also of the shoreline.)  

The picture of the guy diving into water that hangs right above the bidet. 

The way you could (if you were desperate) walk out of the guest bedroom window directly onto the roof of the cantina and from there straight out onto the path up to the driveway. 

The way things keep appearing and disappearing -- yesterday it was a kumquat tree next to the cantina. 

The way the little lizards sometimes still join us for meals. 

It is easier to be charmed by these things, of course, now that I almost always know which light switch is connected to which light, I can light the burners on the stove first try every time, and we figured out how to turn on the heat.

Coming home in the dark from our travels, driving down the coastal plain with the sea on one side and the mountains on the other, we were glad and even excited when we saw the lights of Capriglia twinkling up above on the hillside. "That's our village," we said happily to each other in the car. And coming around the second-to-last hairpin turn, when the pub is suddenly on our right, we looked to see if it was crowded, if anyone was out on the terrace or if they were all inside in the warm yellow glow spilling out through the windows into the night.

We can see the ships out at sea from up here. Especially after dark, they appear as sparks of light surrounded by empty blackness and I wonder if the sailors, too, feel cozy inside their little home and warm and safe together, like we do up here? If I were on one of those boats, would I be able to see the tiny handful of twinkling lights that is Capriglia and think, "That's our village"?