Journeys in Georgia

4:30 am.  The alarm clock bell shrieked piercingly like a siren through my addled brain.  I leapt out of bed in a blind panic, our bedroom suddenly filled with the crass screeches of four alarms sounding from various positions around the room.

We were leaving New York for a week and heading south to Georgia, first to the coastal city of Savannah, then on to St Simon’s Island.

JFK was tediously busy, with endless queues of travellers snaking through the airport.  We went through the standard rigmarole at customs, with Henry despairing of his wife who always insists on packing bottles of water, hand sanitiser and bags of food and medicines.  Carry-on bags were ransacked, contents emptied into what the airport staff termed bins, what we call trays.  I think we used about 12 bins in total.  There was a brief battle during which Rory refused to go through the scanner – he feared it was going to consume him, but we got there in the end.

 

Savannah

The plane to Georgia was tiny and packed with passengers.  We boarded, blinked and before we knew it we were touching down in warm, balmy Savannah.  Brion – the first of several Uber drivers we used in Savannah, was born and bred in the city and told us exactly how to spend our three days there.

Our home in Savannah was an Airbnb – a clapboard house built in 1882 and awarded a Historic Preservation Award.  We had booked the Airbnb just days earlier.

 

 

We had originally booked another place, but days before our trip received an unhelpful email from Airbnb with no explanation or apology, informing us that our booking had been cancelled.   Anyway, the one we ended up with was excellent, set on two floors and beautifully spacious.  The large kitchen opened out onto a secluded yard shaded by an orange tree.

 

 

The kitchen was sparsely equipped in some ways (there were only three mugs and no kettle – obviously – I now understand that only Brits require kettles) but lavishly in others (a shiny faucet by the range, a sparkling silver tea set and a giant fridge bursting with fruit and soda).

 

 

The style of this little house was right up our alley – heavily distressed doors, an exotic claw foot bath tub downstairs and shower upstairs with a head the size of an industrial sized frying pan.  I was drawn to the log pile in the fireplace upstairs, which on closer inspection proved, disappointingly, to be disks of wood that had been stuck to a board.  It was no surprise to find that both beds were dressed with those comforter things I have come to know and dislike.  I can’t stand the man-made fiber of these dubious bedspreads (what’s wrong with duvets?) and I suspect that they rarely make it into a washing machine.

We were staying near Forsyth Park, the largest park in Savannah’s historic district.  It all looked so lush and leafy.

 

 

For months, our vistas in chilly upstate New York have consisted of mile after mile of bare naked trees.  It was a true tonic, then, to clap our eyes on expanses of verdant grass and great billowing bushes of azaleas.

 

 

Imposing oak trees with gnarled trunks were everywhere, weighed down by swathes of Spanish moss.

 

 

The boys felt quite skittish in these balmy temperatures.  Barnaby befriended a hippy who was sitting on a rug.  She lives in a teepee in the woods a few miles outside the city and comes to Forsyth Park daily, where she makes and sells jewellery.  Barn was taken with the idea of a shark’s tooth and selected one for his new friend to wire up to a length of hemp.

 

 

We were very taken with Savannah.  I am generally allergic to cities, but I couldn’t get enough of this one.

The history of Savannah begins in 1733, when British General James Oglethorpe and the 120 passengers of the good ship Anne landed on the banks of the Savannah River. Oglethorpe named the 13th and final American colony Georgia after King George II. Savannah became its first city.

The aim of Georgia was to help some of England’s working poor, to increase trade and strengthen the colonies. The colony was also viewed as a useful buffer zone for South Carolina, protecting it from the advance of the Spanish in Florida.

I loved the story of how Oglethorpe became friends with Tomochichi, the chief of the Native American Indian tribe, the Yamacraw.  The two pledged mutual goodwill, with the Indian chief allowing the new arrivals to settle on the banks of the Savannah River. The parties went on to coexist happily and the town flourished without the problems that blighted many of the early colonies.

Oglethorpe laid Savannah out in a grid pattern that allowed for wide open streets interspersed with shady public squares and parks. Savannah originally had 24 squares; today 22 squares are in existence.  We marched around many of these squares on our first day and marvelled at the majestic architecture and canopies of trees.

 

The historic district of Savannah is completely captivating.  Stunningly attractive and tranquil, actually tranquil.  We could have taken a trolley (i.e. bus) tour but chose to see the sights on foot as the city is eminently walkable.

 

 
We nipped into the Savannah College of Art and Design to view a few exhibits, and I have to admit, take advantage of the restrooms, wadder fountain and central air – we were finding it odd being suddenly thrust into summer.

 

 

On day two, we pottered through a series of attractive residential streets, which had an air of faded grandeur about them and were rather reminiscent of France.

 

 

We stumbled upon a quirky junk shop called Eppy Epstein’s which was full of retro treasures.  Had we not been returning home on an aeroplane, I could have happily taken a few of Eppy’s items home with me.

 

 

Several hours were spent at the Savannah Children’s Museum which was not so much a museum as a giant play area.  It was all outside, heaven for the boys who spent hours playing and exploring, making towers with monster bricks, playing massive Connect Four and diving down slides.

 

 
That afternoon, we made our way to the Savannah History Museum, where an enigmatic young whippersnapper gave a reenactment on the very site of the 1779 Battle of Savannah, the second bloodiest battle of the American Revolution.  During the siege, a joint Franco-American assault against the British failed and the British went on to retain control of Savannah until 1782.

 

 

Barnaby could not have been more delighted to be part of this imaginary battle and made his way to the front of our party, brandishing his wooden musket with glee.  Rory was less enthralled, becoming more red faced and cross as the heat of the day took hold.

 

 

Barnaby had been sorry to miss an ice cream social at school that day (we had taken the boys out of school and nursery for a couple of days) so we promised the boys ice cream.  It did mean rather a long slog to get to Broughton Street  – reportedly the only place to buy ice cream in the city – and the famed Leopold’s – which has been doling out ice cream in Savannah for nearly 100 years – was rammed.

 

We found an alternative, though, which went down well.

 

 

Brion the Uber driver had said that we absolutely couldn’t miss River Street, the cobbled street that runs along the length of the Savannah River.  Powered by ice cream, we sped on foot through downtown Savannah…

 

 

…to the area that underwent a million dollar urban renewal project in the 1970s.  To be honest, River Street was a bit of disappointment – perhaps that’s because Henry and I are getting old, but the stretch of touristy shops and restaurants didn’t compare to the picturesque beauty of the historic district.

 

 

On the morning of our third day in Savannah it rained solidly and it wasn’t until the afternoon that we were able to venture outside.  Another Uber transported us to Old Fort Jackson, Georgia’s oldest standing brick fortification, and reportedly a must see National Historic Landmark located on the banks of the Savannah River.

 

 

It was a dreary, grey, British type of afternoon and we weren’t blown over by Old Fort Jackson, but the boys enjoyed examining the cannons and, more than anything, grubbing around in a muddy puddle.

 

And just like that, it was time to kiss goodbye to lovely Savannah and head off on our next adventure.

 

 

St Simon’s Island

For the second leg of our southern adventure we needed an automobile.  I had my heart set on a pick up truck, having developed a taste for these whopping machines when we were given one as a courtesy car last year.  I had pre-booked a medium sized truck online, but when Henry went to the Thrifty desk on Easter Saturday morning he was offered a Ford F150, a massive beast of a thing.  I was overjoyed.  This was beyond my wildest dreams.  Here it is in all its glory, positively dwarfing Henry.

 

 

We hit the I95, the motorway that runs for almost 2,000 miles from Miami in Florida, all the way to New Brunswick in Canada.  We felt right at home in our pick up truck.  Everyone seemed to be driving one, many towing gargantuan motor homes behind them.  Other, even more monstrous motor homes the size of coaches thundered along the highway, alongside immense lorries.

 

 

In just an hour and a half we had reached St Simon’s Island, one of four Barrier Islands off the Georgia coast known as the Golden Isles.

At 11 o’clock we pitched up at Queen’s Court, which we had booked for three nights.  First impressions were disappointing.  The pictures on the website gave the sense of a trendy boutique hotel by the sea.  But no.  This looked suspiciously like a roadside motel and was nowhere near the water.  The receptionist, sporting clouds of white hair that cascaded over her shoulders and onto the desk, said that we were far too early to check in and told us to disappear until 3 o’clock.

So we locked up our truck and pottered down to Pier Village – the downtown social hub of the island.  Row after row of pick up trucks lined the main street and the village was awash with an eclectic mix of characters, including cowboys, couples in his ‘n’ hers outfits and a pig called Albert on a leash.

 

 

The boys were delighted with lunch at Iguanas Seafood Restaurant
particularly as it was an all-American joint and had a complimentary ice cream bar offering soft serve Mr Whippy style ice cream with toppings ranging from crushed Oreo cookies and gummy bears to lurid jellybeans and suspect looking Hershey’s sauces.  Iguanas was one of a number of eateries located along the main drag, all of which served exclusively American food.  I know that we are in America, but don’t American diners sometimes want a break from fried chicken and burgers?

The sun vanished after lunch, leaving a somewhat grey, leaden sky in its wake.

 

 

The long stretch of beach was largely empty that day – just one couple reclined on beach chairs in the blustery wind in front of a stretch of grand villas.  Might they be English? I wondered.  Surely only the English would sit under grey skies with such dogged determination?

 

 

Walking along the pier while the boys played mini golf later that afternoon, I met a remarkably relaxed pelican,  admiring the view across the water to St Simon’s Lighthouse.

 

 

We returned to Queen’s Court late that afternoon to check in.  The sun was emerging from behind the clouds, casting a more hopeful light on our accommodations, which I had earlier feared would be dubious.

 

We had been assigned a fairly spacious type of suite, two double bedrooms, a bathroom and a sitting room, which also included a dining table and chairs.  Everything was sparkling and I was pleased to note crisp white linen on the beds.  No sign of any grubby comforters.  There was a fully fitted kitchen with a vast fridge (of course), large oven, microwave and masses of cupboards.

Unusually, however, the kitchen also happened to be in our bedroom.

The kitchen cupboards were bare, but there was a note pinned to one door.

 

 

Perfect.  I was planning to whip up pasta for the boys’ supper and steak and chips for Henry and me later on.  I nipped down to the office to request cooking equipment and utensils from an orange beard seated behind the reception desk.  He looked at me blankly.  Clearly no guests had ever asked to cook on the premises.  I have since learned of a study conducted by Harvard Business Review over two decades, which found that found that 90% of Americans don’t like to cook, so this makes sense.

Orange beard disappeared into a box room, emerging with two frying pans thick with dust and a corkscrew.  This is all I’ve got, he shrugged.  And so for the next few days, that’s what we managed with, along with a small pizza tin donated by the pizza joint across the road.   We went out a couple of times and picnicked for lunch, so in the end the pizza tin and frying pans did us quite well.

Henry and I were intrigued to unearth a tin of Copenhagen Snuff from under the sofa during our stay.  Quite why anyone would want to snort ground tobacco and risk gum disease and tooth loss was beyond us.

 

 

Easter Sunday

While the boys slumbered peacefully in their beds, I snuck out at 6:15 on Easter Sunday morning to attend a sunrise service on St Simon’s Pier.

 

 

It was an impressive operation – rows of chairs and a sound system had been set up along the pier and proceedings kicked off with a flamboyant baptist minister called Garry booming PER-RAISE the LORD and AYMEN!  There were prayers, readings and a sermon and the most moving rendition of Rutter’s For the Beauty of the Earth – delivered by a woman with a hauntingly beautiful voice – it took me back to my school days.

 

 

Back at base, we breakfasted on an unhealthy repast of Honey Nut Cheerios and Cadbury’s Mini Eggs, the eggs kindly donated by an old university friend who recently came to visit from London.

Down in Pier Village, we collected the necessary from Two Brothers Bike Shop.

 

 

Before long we were powering along a network of bicycle trails on a scorching hot Easter Sunday morning.  We passed numerous churches, pristine golf courses and wonderfully authentic American houses with pick up trucks parked out front.

 

 

The Easter Bunny had deposited some chocolate eggs in our rucksack, so we enjoyed these mid-morning in a secluded spot where palm trees gave way to swathes of salt marshes.

 

 
It was well worth the long ride up to the north of the island to Fort Frederica – the ruins of a military bastion that was once a clear sign of British power in the region.  Georgia’s founder, General James Oglethorpe, established Fort Frederica to defend the young colony against attack from the Spanish in Florida.

 

 

We enjoyed a peaceful picnic by the water, before running into a couple dressed in 19th century garb.  The husband was a blacksmith and vegetable grower, the wife was roasting a chicken over a fire and making candles from beeswax.  Barnaby and Rory were fascinated by this journey back in time.

 

 

On our journey back on the bikes that afternoon, I was captivated by the way in which the pristine golf courses and private resorts suddenly gave way to a huge and humble trailer park.  I peered, fascinated, at this other world, which was such a stark contrast from the luxury located right outside its gates.

 

 

I was delighted to see that East Beach, where we flopped for a couple of hours, enjoys Trash Free Beach status.  A humpback whale, stuffed with trash greeted us as we parked the bikes.

We kept coming across references to Dawgs on our travels around Georgia and wondered who they were.  They appeared to have a large and loyal following.  I have since learned that they are the Georgia Bulldogs, the University of Georgia’s American football team.

 

 

Jekyll Island 

One of our final Georgian journeys was to Jekyll Island, the smallest of Georgia’s Barrier Islands and just a half hour drive from St Simon’s Island.  We needed no encouragement to hop in the pick up – this vehicle already felt like a much loved member of the family.

 

 

It was a suspiciously murky day as we set off, a thick mist hanging oppressively above us.  Miraculously though, as we drove over the Sidney Lanier Bridge to Jekyll Island, the clouds lifted, giving way to clear blue skies.

 

 

Our first stop was Driftwood Beach.  This hauntingly beautiful, deserted stretch of beach was peppered with large, bleached trees and gnarled branches.  This is apparently due to coastal erosion of the north end of the island and the resulting detritus being deposited on the south end.

It was an extraordinary sight, as if the driftwood had been dumped directly from the sky.

 

 

 

 
It is always a treat to discover places where others are not.  I’m sure that in high season the place is overrun by camera wielding tourists, but that morning, Driftwood Beach was deserted.

 

We spent the rest of the day at a very different beach a few miles away: Great Dunes Park.

 

 

Suddenly we were in summer holiday mode in early April and it felt like heaven.  The boys swam.  There was no way I was putting my pasty bod into a swimming costume and the water was decidedly fresh, so I left them to it.  We picnicked, played and walked along the beach.  It was wonderful.

 

 

After a morning’s crabbing of St Simon’s Pier, we hit the beach for our last couple of hours and met a delightful family on the beach.

 

 

They had recently relocated from Atlanta and their son Corbyn (interesting name?) struck up an instant friendship with our boys.  Staci, the mom, told me that her husband had caught a shark the previous day and that ‘gators up to 10 foot long had recently been frequenting the beach.  Gulp.

We emerged unscathed, however and it was with heavy hearts that we packed up the pick up and headed for Savannah Airport.

Three cheers for southern charm.  The south is a whole world away from New York.  The pace of life is slower, the people more relaxed.  I lost count of the number of times we were asked Where y’all from?  and the occasions my questions were met with a cheery and definitive Yes Ma’am! 

Georgia you were wonderful.  One day I hope we’ll be back.