The galley
Eighteen places in the old chandlery front room, under four iron hooks that used to hold rope.
Dinner
Thursday to Sunday, one sitting at seven, three courses, no choice. The board in the hall says what it is by noon. Haddock and halibut from the boats at the back harbour. Scallops from Digby when the price is sane. Lamb from the valley in autumn. In March, a good deal of root vegetable and a certain amount of apology.
Tell the desk at breakfast if there is something you cannot eat and the galley cooks you the same meal without it. We do not serve people who are not staying, because eighteen places and seven rooms is already tight when everybody turns up.
Breakfast
From seven o'clock until half past nine. Oatcakes, eggs, smoked fish on a Sunday, bread from the bakery on Lincoln Street, and coffee brought to the table in a pot. If you are on the early boat there will be something wrapped at the desk from six.
The counter in the hall
Open from four. Beer from three breweries on the South Shore, rum because of where you are, and a short wine list. It closes at eleven, two hours before the counting room, and that gap is deliberate.
Water
Town water, in a jug, on the table. It is good. Nobody here is going to sell you a bottle of water in a town with this much of it.
