I ferried to Amherst Island through a fog thick as milkweed. Then navigated (dreamily) the island's eastern perimeter - past stone wall and old cemetery, beyond wood and wetland, and arrived finally at this absurdly beautiful 98-acre parcel nearly attached, like an arrow, a javelin, to the south shore. The locals (aka sheep) hustled over to the fence in their April creams, all rubber lips and violet tongues, teeth blunt as the spine of books. From the other side of the road, where I parked, rose the insistent tumble of an unspoiled coast worn both sharp and soft, limestone pebbled by flat turquoise surf, fossils mixed in; a line of heaving cumulus rising and falling like a ribcage; broken willow, tangles of bittersweet. The land - not quite flat, more a becalmed undulating sea - stretches north to the horizon, far enough that the curve of the earth feels visible, like a raised eyebrow. Anything is possible here: a home facing the water, all steel and glass and immense old-growth timbers, or perhaps a gathering of tiny cabins, or a working farm, a gaggle of rare ducks at the old watering hole, even a series of walking trails, birding paths, nature walks. The only certainties are the immense sky, the endless lake, and how well you'll sleep.