Dinner begins with a moment of clarity — a toast to the hosts, to the cooks, to the long-distance travelers, to the weather — and descends into a blur of passing platters and intense, attentive silence. Lena salad — our old faithful friend, its mix of crisp onion and smooth avocado a tribute to another summer gone by — almost molten against the crisp skin of the rich porchetta. Grilled halloumi with Avery’s olive-pepper tapenade, divine with its savory char, becomes fast friends with simple roasted fingerlings. Freshly freed lobster meat finds its way into a cool scoop of tangy ceviche. It’s frankly all a little too much.

As Saturday gives way to Sunday, we hobble down to the rocks, build a fire and let it die. Most years, there could still be a quick dance party in Club That, a converted shed with a bed and a red light bulb where we sleep (“You sleep in that,” said Lena long ago, pointing at it across the yard). This year no can do because it’s been taken over by spiders.