At the close of 2021 and the dawn of 2022, we decided it was high time for us to escape our four walls. True to our tradition of heading North and West in the summer and South and East in the winter, we more or less randomly picked the Georgia Golden Isles to migrate to. Just like the birds.
I am writing this piece in the middle of a winter storm, with freezing rain, wind and temps below 30F and it’s exactly the kind of weather we ran away from right before the new year clocked in.
I am not sure where I came up with “Georgia isles”, truly. I was dreaming of going back to Kiawah island, in South Carolina - something I have been meaning to go back to for a while. But there were not a lot of AirBnB options open for the New Year and not a lot of places to eat too-too near-by. So, I went more South with my searches and the maps landed me in Georgia.
It was our first time in the islands of Georgia and we had zero expectations. We knew we would want to take in some of the beaches - not to lay out, but to walk and shoot. We knew there had to be some birds to watch and we wanted good, fresh seafood and a reason to sit around on a fish-smelling patio and sip a cold drink.
And those were what the Georgia isles delivered and more ...
There is no way to properly describe the haunting beauty of the Spanish moss draping over hundred-year old live oaks. It’s something that must be experienced to understand. It has a lot to do with the chill, or the skin-crawling feeling given by watching a horror movie and less with the quiet, majestic beauty of a landscape. Nevertheless, it is as mysteriously beautiful as it is scary.
I believe every Georgia coastal town (Savannah included) is flooded by these beauties, but I could be wrong. I have just personally not been in Eastern Georgia where they were absent.
They haunted us everywhere and framed the adventures we were about to have.
The first day, we woke up in our AirBnB condo in St. Simons Island, on a marsh flooded with sunlight. There was not one egret under our balcony, but a whole farm of them. Kingfishers, herons, cranes, ducks and many other water fowl that we could not even identify. My husband said “wow! It feels like we’re in Africa or something.” - a little bit wetter than that, I’d say, but the golden water vegetation, the minimalistic trees and the birds everywhere, the wide-open sky were all there ... We felt transported. Our little house in North Carolina, of which we have been growing way too bored, was eons behind us ...
We had breakfast reservations on Jekyll Island, at Eighty Ocean Kitchen and Bar. We ate outside, under the palm trees and by the pool. We were the only people on the patio. There were people eating inside and we could not understand why: the weather was amazing, maybe 75F, partially cloudy and breezy. Just beautiful. Not to mention: pandemic! Why would you want to be inside?!
You have to pay a toll to go to Jekyll Island, which was news to us, so having done that, we decided to do as much as we could on Jekyll Island before we'd get out again and pursue the adventures on our own island of St. Simons.
After breakfast, we went to Driftwood Beach which was on our “to do” list. Whatever the google tells you that Driftwood Beach is ... is incorrect. If you’re ever in these parts, the $8 toll is 100% worth it just for this beach alone. Just like the name alludes to it: it is a beach full of driftwood. But not just some twigs and branches of driftwood like you see in the decor of many beachy cabins. No, ma’am! It’s a whole forest of driftwood: entire trees just “shipwrecked” on the beach, thrown around, laying on their side, some still standing, dry roots over wet sand, leafless for what it seems like ages, just bracing the ocean; the wind; the hurricanes; life.
You feel small and unimportant in the whole scheme of things. If the elements can throw around trees the size of buildings like these, what can they do to you?! No control ... There is so much freedom in driftwood - not knowing where it will land, in a different place every day, moved by the water ... There is so much about chance and history that they whisper ... Again, so much mystery.
Turkey vulture at Driftwood Beach
After the beach, we drove around Jekyll Island in search of Tupelo Trail. We drove by the Horton House, a historic tabby house built in the 18th century by Major William Horton who was believed to be the first resident of the island. He also was the first person (from what is known) to ever brew beer in Georgia and his “brewery” still stands in ruins on the same land as the house. Learning about the Horton House, we also learned about the rich history of the island which was captured from The Spanish in the early to mid 18th century by British troops stationed at Fort Frederica. In case you are wondering, a tabby house means it was built from a mix of burned oyster shells mixed with sand, water, ash, and other shells.
Once we found our trail, we realized that we just stepped into almost another climate, or even another part of the planet: the landscape surely changed drastically between the open, wet-and-dry, windy beach and the trail: Horton Pond at the mouth of the trail was a quiet little heaven for ducks, turtles and alligators. The trail itself looped around the park through a forest of live oaks draped in Spanish moss and resurrection ferns and littered with palmettos and exotic blooms. We were now thinking we were transported to Hawaii in the middle of the rain forest. It was hot and humid. Sticky humid and almost blistering hot. This was December 31, 2021. Definitely the warmest December I have ever lived.
We stopped by Tortuga Jack’s on the island for some drinks and some snacks before we headed out. Jekyll’s Island overdid itself in beauty and surprises!
We headed towards the St. Simons Lighthouse on - where else but - St. Simons Island. We took the tour of the keeper’s house and visited the museum, but it was simply too hot to climb all the 129 steps to the top of the lighthouse. We resigned ourselves to walk around the park that leads to the St. Simons pier and take in the gorgeous sunset. The last one of 2021. All the worries and “muck” of 2021 seemed to drown into the ocean with that sun ...
As we were watching the sun drowning into the ocean, I called my parents in Romania around their midnight, to wish them welcome into 2022 although we were still 7 hours away from it. I wished them well watching that sunset - it was like speaking with them on the other side of the precipice and the sun’s brightest lava was bridging us - on either side of The Atlantic, in two different years; present and future to us ... present and past to them ...
Later that night we had a delicious seafood dinner at Coastal Kitchen and Bar and we rang the new year in our room because all restaurants and bars closed before midnight. Go figure!
The following day, we woke up to a brand new year! Oh, the possibilities and hopes! The dreams and prayers we were sending out into the world!
Somewhat augurally, we had breakfast at the Echo Restaurant at The King and Prince Resort on St. Simons island. The sound and the birds were echoing premonitions of the new year, twined with those of the one we had just left behind ... but we could not make up the voices. We could only hear the sound ... When we stepped on to the patio at Echo, we were on the beach again. Although there was no beach to be seen! I had never seen the ocean clad in so much thick fog! I have always wondered when watching maritime movies how they make it so foggy on the ocean sometimes because having lived on The Atlantic in my time, I had never seen fog that thick. Well, it was there, on St. Simons Island on the first day of 2022, I can promise you that! The ocean was silenced and seemed far, far away, although we knew it was right there, within a few hundred yards really ... Puppies and children ran all around ... We sat under an umbrella and enjoyed our breakfast. Or rather lunch because they were done serving breakfast ... All the restaurants seemed to have trouble keeping up with what meal they were serving when and with what reservations were made and for what dining room (inside, outside, covered patio?). They were all very good but it took them a minute to find their bearings with every guest.
We walked briefly around the beach after breakfast and around the resort and the streets in St. Simons. Everything felt very much like we were in Charleston, SC or Savannah - Southern coastal history at its best. Live oaks and beautiful, well-manicured palm trees were greeting us at every corner, majestic villas wrapped-up in history and dramas untold. There is a strange mix of Southern and Spanish architecture in these islands, perhaps hailing back from the times when Georgia was deemed as “Debatable Land” - not too sure whether it belonged to Spain or the British Empire. That debate was settled in 1742, when the soldiers of Fort Frederica fought The Spanish under colonel Ogelthorpe and decided once and for all that the land belonged to The Empire ...
After breakfast, we headed towards the Christ Church Frederica, an Episcopal church, one of the oldest in the state, originally established in the 18th century, destroyed during the Civil War and rebuilt right after that. A walk through the cemetery on the grounds reveals the long history of these parts, old families with elaborate plots. Makes you wonder where they all came from, who they were and what secrets they took with them on the other side of this dirt.
The day was once again getting hot. We headed next to Redfern Village, a shopping and restaurant kind of neighborhood, to browse the book offerings at Righton Books and cool off with a latte at Jittery Joe’s while getting some energy back while savoring one of their oatmeal cookies.
Over our New Year’s Eve dinner at Coastal Kitchen the night before, a couple sitting by our table on the patio started chatting with us (the magic of dogs! They had a cute little Australian shepherd terrified of the fireworks who came and spoke with us first) and told us that while we were on the island, we must go to Sea Island (Resort) and listen to the bagpiper at sunset. They promised a once in a lifetime experience. Sea Island is a gated (with a guard) golf club and resort which was built on the grounds of many establishments that existed between the 18th century and the beginning of the 20th century (as explained here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sea_Island,_Georgia). Today, it is on the PGA tour and although it is breathtaking, it smells a bit of dirty money and too much pomp for our taste. Or at least that was my first impression, mostly judging by the self-entitled crowd that roams the place with a self-important swagger, drink in hand and superior grin to boot. Maybe I am wrong.
Even if you can’t get into the exclusive resort, it is worth driving down to Sea Island to see the Avenue of the Oaks - the street that leads to the resort, lined, like loyal soldiers, forever en garde, by old live oaks draped in the now ubiquitous Spanish moss ... The low branches and the hairy moss are quite the spectacle in the breeze of the island ...
Our dinner “friends” told us the “secret passcode” to get in: “Just tell them you’re there to see the bagpiper. They’ll let you right on through.” And they did. We were not too sure where everything was and where the piper might be playing, but a very friendly concierge lady directed us to the back patio which opens up in the driving range, framed by palms and palmetto trees. The bagpiper started playing around 5 PM and he was to play for an hour. He walked up and down the golf cart path in front of the back patio and played sombre tunes. The sunset was around 5.30 PM. We listened in awe to the beautiful sound of this instrument but it was far from the serene experience we were promised. People were talking very loudly on the back porch, shouting out orders, mothers, babysitting their children while the husbands were loading up their golf gear in the overpriced vehicles, were running around trying to keep an eye on the little ones, watching as they were getting ready to hit their first golf ball and hurriedly posting every move to their social media accounts ...
We left the porch and the too-busy-to-take-in driving range area and found a more solitary “crowd”, much quieter, by the infinity pool on the shores of the ocean, still within earshot of the bagpiper. There, we waited for another glorious sunset - the first one of the year 2022. We were silent as we both probably made a mental plan or said our quiet prayers for what the new year might be bringing onto our lives.
On our last morning on St. Simons Island, January 2, 2022, we woke up at high tide, with our condo marsh flooded by the tide water. It no longer looked like Africa. It very much resembled Kiawah Island ... the trees were half-way buried in water and the birds were happy, restless and hunting for fish.
View of our condo from the marshes in the back
I threw on a shirt and some jeans and I had to walk behind our condo and take some last pictures to remember this place by. There was no noise, not a sound, other than of fish occasionally leaping up from the waters, or of water fowl letting each other know they are home.
On the way back, with my husband driving, I kept thinking of all the things we had learned, about The South, its history, about what kind of people live in these parts and were buried in that solemnly quiet graveyard, about all the old year’s remains that we buried in the ocean with that last sunset and about the new slate ahead of us - a new year, with new dreams, hopes, promises ...
My thoughts were drifting in and out of my mind, oscillating between the old and the new; the old I had left behind, the new that was wrapped up in the fog of the unknown new year in front of me. Will it be better? Harder? More rewarding? Or a let down, not worthy of new year’s resolutions or even prayers? An uprooted tree, at the mercy of torrents knows no direction. It just follows the drift until one day, it might just find a friendly shore to rest on ... forever ...
Happy new year, all! Wishing you all safe shores!
