EIGHT DAYS, SIX STOPS, 1600+ MILES
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Two goals dominated our decision to drive home from Vero Beach, Florida after three glorious months hibernating amidst swaying palm trees: Mr. Wonderful wanted to watch every single Masters moment while settled in the cozy comfort of his blue leather recliner and I, the driver, wanted to limit my time behind the wheel to four hours a day, avoiding I-95 as much as possible.
Besides two tanned senior citizens and several bags of red Twizzlers, our silver Subaru Outback held two sets of golf clubs (plus 10 putters “just in case”), several large stuffed suitcases and lumpy duffles, my knitting bag, his guitar, three bulky totes crammed with books, two sets of sheets and towels — our must-haves for a three month rental. We travel heavy.
With blue skies overhead and 82 degrees on the thermometer, we drove out the gates of the Island Club and headed north. First stop: Amelia Island, a barrier island lapped by the Atlantic and only scant miles from Jacksonville. (Amelia is also the only spot in America where eight different flags have flown, including the French, Spanish, British and Mexican flags. Lots of history here besides 13 miles of beach.)
Photos that had caught my eye on the web of our beach-front inn blurred the reality of signs in the lobby reading, “Please excuse our appearance during reconstruction….” Our intimate balcony offered a glimpse of the ocean, a mere 300 yards beyond the humongous dumpster directly below.
We donned fleece vests (it was 65 degrees and blustery) to walk a good stretch of the seemingly endless white sand beach, met dear friends for dinner, then typed Kiawah Island into the Subaru navigation map.
(Photo above shows one of Kiawah’s many golf courses.)
The serpentine drive from I-95 to Kiawah through forests of live oaks swagged with Spanish moss is simply spectacular. Located 25 miles southwest of Charleston, the barrier island is primarily a private beach and golf resort. “But people come here specifically to enjoy the natural setting,” our host told us.
We were fortunate to stay two days with special friends, year-round residents of Kiawah, who took us on tour and let us sample their different club restaurants. Despite temperature refusing to climb above 60, Mr. W got in nine holes before the rain started. And later, in the privacy of our sumptuous fourth-floor guest room, we discussed which lottery we would have to win to live here.
As we passed I-95’s first South of the Border billboard (260 miles to Pedro!) the next morning, I noticed the trees were beginning to turn Spring green. A quick overnight in Roanoke Rapids (four hours from Kiawah) left us three hours to Charlottesville, Virginia, home of Monticello and the University of Virginia.
We drove directly to Monticello (2500 acres of gardens and grounds) to tour President Thomas Jefferson’s home. (FYI, 55 degrees.) I spotted his tiny spectacles atop his bedroom dresser, his leather boots near his bed, and bought Monticello seeds and jams in the not-to-be-missed gift shop.
(Photo above is Jefferson’s tomb.)
Throughout our tours of house and gardens, we were surprised by the contradictions of our third President. He owned 600+ slaves yet believed “all men are created equal.” He is revered for his inventions and intelligence, and lived in post-Presidential splendor at Monticello, yet died a pauper.
Later that afternoon we strolled through UVA, created by Thomas Jefferson. We walked “the lawn,” finding our way around this beautiful campus by asking directions from the most polite college students anywhere. (“Yes, ma’am, just follow this sidewalk up the hill and the Rotunda is there on your left.”)
The following morning I noticed that our once-pristine Subaru had morphed into a mobile trash heap, strewn with empty candy wrappers, Dorito bags and water bottles. But our spirits remained high as we drove along the Highway of Hallowed Grounds that stretches from Charlottesville to Gettysburg, while also noticing weeping willows and yellow forsythia coming to full bloom.
Our first morning in Gettysburg the temperature was 34 degrees. Mr. Wonderful asked, “Will I have to get out of the car for the battlefield tour?” Our licensed and savvy guide drove, I sat in the front passenger seat, and Mr. W was propped up and squeezed into a minuscule section of the back seat where we were able to shove enough luggage aside to make room. “My back!” he moaned at each stop.
We were wowed by the Cyclorama, a 360-degree painting by the French artist Paul Philippoteaux depicting Pickett's Charge, the climactic Confederate attack on Union forces during the Battle of Gettysburg on July 3, 1863. We stood where Lincoln delivered his famous words, and atop Little and Big Roundtop where we saw monuments dedicated to Maine soldiers. That night we devoured “Battlefield Burgers” at the Blue Grey Bar & Grill and turned the heat way up in our hotel on Lincoln Square.
Final stop: Central Valley, New York, where my sister lives. Purple crocuses brightened her stark lawns but the best surprise was finding my two brothers were also there for an “us four” sibling reunion — so rare because we live many states apart. Sipping Bloody Marys by the fire, we played fierce games of Rummikub and discussed our ailments (“I’ve got arthritis.” “Well I’ve got stenosis!” “I just ache”). And we laughed.
When Mr. W and I arrived back in the Wells woods, it was 40 degrees and raining, a different vista and clime from tropical Vero eight days ago. The trees are bare and my tulips are mere inch-high stalks nervously poking their heads through the dirt. No snow, though.
As our tans fade and Mr. W watches Tiger stride to the first tee in Augusta, I’m left with several thoughts. Thank God for GPS. And for no flat tires, no vociferous arguments (“Turn right here!” “I was planning to!!!!”), and for rediscovering the joy of Maine, the way life should be.
