Vacation Rick

The Point House on Sullivan's Island--A Lost Seaside Hotel of the Early 19th Century

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Mon, 30 Mar 2026 03:48:00 +0000

Long before the grand piazzas of the Moultrie House Hotel glittered along the shoreline, Sullivan’s Island had a quieter, humbler resort culture centered around a now‑vanished landmark: the Point House. Operating in the early decades of the 1800s, the Point House was one of the island’s first dedicated seaside hotels—a place where Charlestonians escaped the heat, sought the tonic of salt air, and watched the great ships of the Atlantic glide toward the harbor.

Though overshadowed by later, more opulent establishments, the Point House played a formative role in the island’s early identity as a summer refuge. Its destruction in the Great Hurricane of 1854 erased it from the landscape, but not from the island’s layered memory.

The hotel stood near the harbor-facing point of Sullivan’s Island, the easternmost end where the Atlantic meets the channel leading into Charleston. This position gave the hotel unbroken views of incoming vessels, constant sea breezes sweeping across its piazzas, and immediate proximity to Fort Moultrie, whose guns and parade grounds were part of the daily soundscape. The name “Point House” was not poetic invention. It was literal. It was the house at the point.

The Point House was typical of early 19th‑century coastal boarding houses. It was a two‑story wooden structure raised slightly above the sand with broad piazzas facing the water and simple guest rooms, often shared by families. A communal dining room served local fish, rice dishes, and garden vegetables. There was a bathing house or simple changing shed near the surf.

It lacked the grandeur of later antebellum resorts, but it had something else: proximity to the raw edge of the sea. Guests described the constant wind, the salt spray drifting across the porch railings, and the nightly spectacle of lantern-lit ships entering the harbor.

The Point House catered primarily to Charleston families escaping summer fevers, military officers and visiting dignitaries from Fort Moultrie, and travelers arriving by ferry from Charleston’s wharves. Sea‑bathing was the great attraction. Visitors rose early to walk down to the surf, where enslaved attendants often assisted bathers in the water—a common practice in the era. Evenings brought music, card games, and long conversations on the piazza as the harbor lights flickered across the waves.

On September 7, 1854, one of the most violent storms of the 19th century struck Sullivan’s Island head‑on. The storm surge swept across the island, flattening structures from the Point to Breach Inlet. The Point House was completely destroyed. Charleston newspapers from the week following the storm reported that not a trace of the building remained—only scattered timbers and the memory of a place that had served generations of summer visitors. A letter from Edward Barnwell, dated September 11, 1854, describes the destruction of cottages near the Moultrie House and confirms the widespread damage to early structures on the island. It was never rebuilt. By the time the island recovered, the newer and larger Moultrie House Hotel had become the island’s dominant resort.

Today, nothing marks the site of the Point House. The shoreline has shifted, storms have reshaped the dunes, and the island’s early wooden structures have long since vanished. However, the Point House represents an important chapter in Sullivan’s Island’s evolution—a reminder that before the Civil War, before the grand hotels, before the modern beach cottages, there was a simple wooden house at the edge of the sea where Charlestonians first learned to love the island’s windswept beauty.

Here’s a cinematic arrival scene set in 1828, the way Edgar Allan Poe could have seen it.

The ferry bumped gently against the island’s landing, the ropes thrown and caught with practiced ease. The passengers stepped down one by one, blinking into the brightness of the afternoon. The air smelled of salt and sun‑warmed pluff mud, and the wind carried the distant, rhythmic boom of surf striking the shoreline.

A sandy road stretched ahead, winding past a scatter of summer cottages and the low, angular walls of Fort Moultrie. Beyond the fort, the horizon shimmered with heat, and somewhere past that mirage lay the Point House—the old boarding hotel perched at the island’s farthest edge.

Their trunks followed in a rattling cart as they walked, the breeze tugging at hats and hems. The fort’s flag snapped overhead, its shadow sliding across the parade ground where a handful of soldiers drilled in the sun. One of them paused to watch the newcomers pass, curiosity flickering across his face before he returned to his formation.

Past the fort, the road narrowed to a sandy footpath. The sound of the ocean grew louder, fuller—not the gentle hush of a beach, but the deep, rolling sound of the Atlantic meeting the harbor mouth. The dunes rose and fell like wind‑carved hills, their grasses bending in long, synchronized waves. Then, the Point House appeared.

It stood alone on the open sand, a long, weathered structure lifted on stout wooden pilings. Its wide piazza faced the sea, the shutters thrown open to catch the wind. The building seemed to breathe with the island—creaking softly, its railings gleaming with salt.

A few guests lingered on the porch; their silhouettes framed against the bright water. A woman in a pale dress held her bonnet to her hair as the wind swept across the piazza. A pair of children chased each other between the rocking chairs.

As the newcomers approached, the surf thundered against the Point, sending a fine mist drifting across the sand. The hotel’s sign, Point House painted in fading letters, swung gently from its iron bracket.

A man stepped out to greet them, his coat flapping behind him like a sail. “Welcome to the Point,” he said, raising his voice above the wind. “You’ll find the sea a bit lively today, but she’s in a good mood.” Behind him, the Atlantic stretched wide and glittering, ships gliding toward the harbor entrance. The whole world felt open, wind‑swept, alive.

As they climbed the steps to the piazza, the boards warm beneath their feet, a sense of arrival settled over them—not just at a hotel, but at a threshold. A place where the land narrowed, the sea widened, and the air itself seemed to whisper that something was about to begin.

Sullivan's Island in the 1850s--The Moultrie House Hotel: Charleston’s Lost Seaside Palace

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Wed, 25 Mar 2026 23:50:00 +0000

Long before Sullivan’s Island became a quiet beach community of pastel cottages and summer porches, it was a place of contrasts. It was both a military outpost and fashionable retreat, windswept wilderness and social playground. In the 1850s, the island stood at a crossroads between old coastal traditions and the rising tide of antebellum leisure culture. Today, little remains of that world. Nonetheless, with a bit of imagination and a few surviving accounts, we can step back onto the island and see it as it once was.

In the mid‑19th century, Sullivan’s Island was still largely untamed. Sand dunes rolled along the shoreline. Sea oats bent in the wind. The Atlantic crashed in long, rhythmic lines against a beach that stretched unbroken for miles. There were no paved roads, no rows of houses, no bustling commercial district. Instead, visitors found a handful of summer cottages in the village of Moultrieville, a scattering of military buildings around Fort Moultrie, and the great Moultrie House Hotel, a wooden palace rising above the dunes. It was a place where the horizon felt close enough to touch.

Even in its most peaceful years, Sullivan’s Island was shaped by the presence of Fort Moultrie, the historic stronghold guarding Charleston Harbor. Visitors to the Moultrie House Hotel could often hear the distant thud of cannon practice or see soldiers marching along the beach road. The mingling of military discipline and seaside leisure gave the island a unique character—half resort, half fortress.

Charleston families flocked to Sullivan’s Island each summer to escape the heat and the threat of mosquito‑borne illness. The island’s constant breeze made it feel safer, cleaner, and infinitely more refreshing than the city’s narrow streets.

By the 1850s, the island had become a seasonal social hub, a place for balls, promenades, and seaside dinners. A retreat where families mingled, flirtations blossomed, and reputations were quietly made or unmade. The Moultrie House Hotel stood at the center of this world, offering luxury, entertainment, and a vantage point over the Atlantic that felt almost otherworldly.

The Moultrie House Hotel was located directly on the beachfront just west of Fort Moultrie, on the southern end of Sullivan’s Island. It was close enough that someone standing on the fort’s ramparts could look down the shoreline and see the hotel’s long piazzas facing the Atlantic. It rose above the sand like a great ship run aground. It was two hundred and fifty feet of sun‑bleached boards and broad piazzas lifted on stout pilings. Its verandas stretched the entire length of the façade like open arms welcoming the summer elite of Charleston.

Guests arrived at the hotel by way of the Moultrieville Rail and Plank Company, a short horse-drawn railway which ran from the ferry landing at the Cove. After disembarking, passengers boarded the horse-drawn rail cars and were carried directly to the hotel's front door. Ladies in gauzy muslins stepped down beneath parasols, their skirts stirring in the salt breeze, while porters hurried forward to gather trunks and hatboxes. The air smelled of sea grass, warm pine, and the faint mineral tang of the ocean.

Inside, the hotel breathed luxury of the distinctly Southern kind with high ceilings, polished floors, and rooms arranged to catch every possible breeze. The great ballroom occupied the eastern wing, its folding doors thrown wide so that music could spill out toward the dunes. On summer evenings, the glow of chandeliers shimmered through tall multipaned windows, and the melodic line of a quadrille drifted across the sand.

During the day, guests wandered the wide piazzas, shaded from the sun yet open to the endless horizon. Gentlemen in linen coats leaned against the railings, watching the surf break in long, even lines. Children darted between the posts, their laughter mingling with the rhythmic creak of the hotel’s windmill pumping fresh water from the cisterns. Farther down the beach, the ladies’ bath house stood discreetly apart, its wooden slats bleached by salt and sun.

By late afternoon, the entire establishment seemed to settle into a kind of golden idleness. The heat softened, the sea turned a deeper blue, and the hotel’s long façade glowed as if lit from within. Servants moved quietly through the halls preparing for supper, while guests gathered on the piazza to watch the sun sink behind the distant spires of Charleston. In that hour, with the breeze lifting the curtains and the scent of the ocean drifting through every open door, the Moultrie House felt less like a hotel and more like a world unto itself—an elegant refuge suspended between sea and sky, untouched by the daily concerns on the mainland.

The Moultrie House offered "no deficiency of amusements," said Dr. Irving, adding that among its many amenities were four billiard tables and three bowling saloons. There were horses for riding, boats for fishing and "none but the choicest liquors." It offered an inspiring view of the Harbor and Bay of Charleston while the Atlantic Ocean surf spilled onto its wide beach, not many feet from the Hotel.

“Anyone who was anyone” stayed there. It quickly gained national attention as a premier Southern resort. The Moultrie House Hotel’s reputation was so favorable that people came from the entire eastern seaboard. "I never saw anything like it before," wrote William Gilmore Simms.

In 1861, as Sullivan's Island turned from resort to a Confederate military post, the hotel served as housing for Confederate officers, which made it a ready target for Union bombardments. Union officer Abner Doubleday, a captain and second in command at Fort Sumter and author of Reminiscences of Forts Sumter and Moultrie in 1860-61, described firing on the Moultrie House Hotel during the first bombardment. He recounted, “Just before the attack was made upon us…I aimed two forty-two pounder balls at the upper story. The crashing of the shot, which went through the whole length of the building among the clapboards and interior partitions, must have been something fearful to those who were within."

Following the war, attempts were made to re-establish the Moultrie House Hotel to its former grandeur. However, times had changed. Gone are the great ante-bellum days of wealthy plantation owners seeking elegant surroundings in which to spend the summer season.

Today, there are no hotels on Sullivan's Island. The island is home to a close-knit community of a little over 2,000 residents, who enjoy a small-town charm and relaxed lifestyle. It is well known for its soft, white sandy beaches where families enjoy picnics and swimming, while the calm waters are perfect for relaxation. Visitors can still explore historical sites like Fort Moultrie and enjoy local dining options ranging from barbecue to gourmet cuisine at its award-winning restaurants, Poe's Tavern being a local favorite. It is an ideal destination for both relaxation and adventure.

The Nation's Longest Operating Liquor Store and an Entertaining Side Story: The Day the Parrot Outsmarted the Pirates

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Mon, 09 Mar 2026 03:10:00 +0000

What most visitors don’t realize—while they’re lining up pastel façades in their camera lenses or setting up easels beneath the shade of palmettos—is that Rainbow Row has witnessed more than its share of mischief. One of the most beloved stories, still whispered by old‑timers in the French Quarter, involves a pirate, a parrot, and the very liquor shop that claims the title of the oldest in the nation.

According to local lore, sometime in the early 1700s, a member of Stede Bonnet’s crew—an overconfident fellow named Red Tom Mallory—stumbled out of the waterfront taverns in search of more rum. He was loud, unsteady, and accompanied by a parrot with a vocabulary so colorful it could make a sailor blush. The bird, named Captain Pickles, was said to have been trained to mimic Bonnet’s voice with uncanny accuracy.

Red Tom swaggered into the liquor shop demanding a private cask “on the authority of Captain Bonnet himself.” The shopkeeper, unimpressed and entirely sober, refused. But Captain Pickles, perched on Tom’s shoulder, suddenly squawked in a perfect imitation of Bonnet’s clipped Barbadian accent: “Give the man the rum, you scurvy‑minded barnacle!”

The shopkeeper froze. The voice was unmistakable. Bonnet had been in Charleston only days earlier, and no one wanted to risk crossing a pirate captain with a reputation for unpredictable moods. So, the cask was handed over.

Red Tom strutted out triumphantly—only to be immediately intercepted by the city watch. They had been tracking him since he’d knocked over a fishmonger’s stall earlier that morning. As the watchmen hauled him away, Captain Pickles flapped to a nearby balcony and began loudly repeating the phrase: “Give the man the rum, you scurvy‑minded barnacle!”

The parrot’s performance drew such a crowd that the watchmen lost their grip on Red Tom, who slipped away into the maze of alleys behind East Bay Street. Captain Pickles, however, remained on his balcony perch, where he was adopted by the family living there. For years afterward, the bird would shout pirate insults at unsuspecting passersby, startling tourists, merchants, and even a few dignitaries.

Some say the parrot lived to a venerable age, long enough to greet the first wave of artists who began painting Rainbow Row in the early 20th century. Others insist the whole tale is nonsense. But if you ask the right Charlestonian—preferably one who’s had a drink or two—they’ll tell you that on quiet mornings, when the tide is low and the breeze comes off the Cooper River just so, you can still hear a faint voice echoing between the pastel walls: “Give the man the rum!”

The Tavern at Rainbow Row dates as far back as 1686, according to documents and maps discovered in Scotland and the Netherlands. Quite possibly, Captain William Carse and the crew of the Magdalen from Edinburgh purchased liquor here in August of 1743 after unloading their cargo of salt, sailcloth, and, among other items, ninety‑six mashies (golf clubs) and four hundred thirty‑two featheries (golf balls) consigned to David Deas, a Scottish emigrant who had become a successful Charleston merchant.

Through its three centuries of business, The Tavern has endured the test of time—sometimes unstoppable, sometimes hard‑pressed. It survived the Revolutionary War and the incessant pummeling from Federal cannons during the Civil War, not to mention numerous historic fires and the catastrophic earthquake of 1886 that brought down hundreds of Charleston’s buildings.

Thomas Coates apparently purchased or constructed this group of commercial buildings by 1806. It served as the meeting place of Charleston's Jacobin Club in the 1790s, a group largely made up of French immigrants who wholeheartedly embraced the spirit of the French Revolution. This group of commercial buildings was also known as Coates's Row.

The Tavern, 120 East Bay Street, has been known by more than a few names, including The Tavern on the Bluffs, Harris’s Tavern, the French Coffee House, and Mrs. Coates’s Tavern by the Bay. In 1903, it became a “Whiskey Store” during an era when it was illegal to buy a drink, even if it was served in a teacup. Disguised as a barbershop through Prohibition, it sold liquor from a back room. A latched door at the rear of the shop led to an underground tunnel that once moved moonshine to speakeasies—then known as “blind tigers.”

The Blind Tiger Pub building on Broad Street has such an underground tunnel, which can also be entered through a latched door at the back of the building. Those wanting a drink would have had to sneak one in one of the tunnel’s many dark nooks. Whether the two tunnels connected is open to question. At this point, I must insert a bit of caution: like many stories from Charleston’s past, you must measure its factuality with a grain of Carolina Gold. Following Repeal, the Tavern returned to legal status. It has been the nation’s oldest spirits store in continuous operation. Now that bit of information is as bona fide as its Bluffton Whiskey.

The original building is divided into three separate addresses. By law, spirits must be sold separately from wine and beer. The middle section, which sells wine and beer, is the most fascinating of the three. Its brick front exterior at 118 East Bay Street features an arched double door flanked by two arched windows, and, directly above it, a double‑window second‑floor extension—added by Coates in the early 1840s—all painted in dark green. Inside, the current owners have preserved the shop’s legacy by restoring its interior, showcasing original hardwood floors and brick walls alongside antique furnishings from around the world—a bookshelf from the Library of Congress and an artisan’s worktable from France. In one of the adjoining rooms is the mysterious latched door leading to the underground.

The third section of the building is unused—once a gallery. Future plans include opening the wall where the beer taps are currently located and converting the unused section into a drinking space with a garden patio outside.

The Tavern specializes in local and rare spirits, including a five‑grain bourbon made with a Carolina rice variety (Seashore Black Rye) once thought to be extinct, and Carolina Gold; a black tea liqueur produced by the only large‑scale tea plantation in the U.S. (the Charleston Tea Plantation); and a vodka distilled from rye grown on South Carolina’s Edisto Island. To acquaint visitors with the unfamiliar, the shop also offers weekly tastings.

The Tavern at Rainbow Row has been featured on Southern Charm, Moonshiners, History’s Most Haunted, and Atlas Obscura. With a multifaceted history and a singular focus, The Tavern has stayed true to its reason for being and has never stopped distributing booze. Now that makes for one happy sailor.

120 E Bay St, next door to the Old Exchange and Provost Dungeon.

A Lowcountry Legend from Runnymede Plantation—and the History that Shaped it

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Sun, 08 Feb 2026 18:27:00 +0000

Runnymede Plantation 1917

In the Lowcountry, history is never just something you read in books. It breathes. It clings to the air like humidity, settles into the marsh grass, and whispers beneath the live oaks. Some stories rise from that landscape with such insistence that they become part of the region’s cultural marrow. The tale of what happened at Runnymede Plantation one September afternoon is one of them.

The year has slipped from memory, but the season has not. It was late summer, the kind of day when the Ashley River glints like hammered pewter and the cicada's drone with a last burst of bravado. Two brothers from Charleston—teenagers on the verge of leaving for school in another state—had come to Runnymede for a final outing before their departure. The plantation had long been a place of adventure for them, a patchwork of riverbank, marsh, and forest where boys could roam freely and imagine themselves explorers.

Runnymede Plantation today

Runnymede’s landscape, like much of the Lowcountry, is a living archive of natural and human history. Alligators patrol the rice‑field canals. Egrets lift from the reeds in sudden white flashes. And tucked deep within the woods are remnants of a past that is neither forgotten nor fully at rest. It was there, in the quiet shade of the forest, that the brothers stumbled upon an old slave burial ground.

To the untrained eye, the graves might have seemed simple—mounds of earth, weathered by time. But atop each one lay a careful arrangement of personal belongings: plates, cups, tools, a favorite chair, a bottle of medicine with a spoon resting beside it. These were not random objects. They were part of a tradition carried to the Lowcountry by Africans, rooted in West African cosmology. The practice—placing the deceased’s possessions atop the grave—reflected a belief that the boundary between the living and the dead was permeable. Objects used in life could accompany the spirit into the next world. To disturb them was to disturb the dead themselves.

By the nineteenth century, this tradition had become deeply woven into Gullah‑Geechee culture. Even those who did not personally believe in the spiritual consequences respected the custom. It was an act of reverence, a recognition of humanity in a world that had denied it. The brothers knew the stories. Everyone in the Lowcountry did. But youth have a way of mistaking knowledge for immunity.

Seeing the objects laid out on the graves, the boys decided to play what they considered a harmless prank. They lifted a drinking glass from one of the mounds—laughing, perhaps, at the idea of “superstition”—and carried it home to Charleston as a souvenir. Their parents did not share their amusement.

They weren’t believers in curses, but they understood the weight of what had been done. The issue was not fear of spirits. It was respect—respect for the people buried at Runnymede, for the descendants who still lived nearby, and for the cultural traditions that had survived enslavement, war, and time itself. The parents contacted the plantation owners immediately. The glass was returned to the burial ground and placed exactly where it had been. But word had already spread among the community at Runnymede. And the consensus was quiet, solemn, and unwavering. It was too late.

The next morning, the brothers boarded the jet for school. They never arrived. The details of the tragedy have blurred with retelling—some say an accident, others a sudden illness—but the outcome was the same. When news reached Runnymede, no one expressed shock. No one questioned how such misfortune could have happened. Among those who held fast to the old beliefs, the explanation was simple. The spirits had been disturbed.

Whether one believes in supernatural retribution or not, the tale endures because it speaks to something deeper than folklore. It is a reminder of the cultural traditions carried by Africans—traditions that survived against all odds and still shape the Lowcountry’s identity. It is also a story about reverence: for the past, and for the communities whose histories are too often overlooked.

Runnymede Plantation, like so many places in the South, holds layers of memory. Some are beautiful. Some are painful. All deserve respect. And sometimes, the land itself seems to insist on it.

Note: This story is a mix of some fiction and historical facts. However, it is associated with an actual event.

Runnymede Plantation is not open to the public. It is used for special events and weddings.

The only Luxury Hotel on the Historic French Quarter Waterfront--The Cooper Hotel Opens in March

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Wed, 07 Jan 2026 00:13:00 +0000

Stand at the edge of Waterfront Park’s long pier, where the swings drift lazily over the water and the salt air carries the faintest trace of pluff mud, and look north toward the shoreline. Rising above the harbor, six stories of glass and contemporary architecture now join Charleston’s steeple‑studded skyline. This is the city’s newest mega‑complex, a modern counterpart to Charleston Place with one striking distinction: it will soon host the only luxury hotel on the historic French Quarter waterfront.

For decades, the view here was dominated by Carnival’s Ecstasy and Sunshine, their towering silhouettes anchored the horizon whenever they were in port. But the era of cruise‑ship giants has slipped quietly into memory. As the Carnival Cruise Line faded into the city’s past, The Cooper Hotel has stepped confidently into its future.

It’s easy to forget that Charleston’s historic district wasn’t always the polished jewel it is today. Before the 1980s, King Street was lined with empty storefronts, and the city’s architectural heritage felt more forgotten than celebrated. Then came Joe Riley’s bold vision: the construction of Charleston Place, a catalyst that reignited the city’s cultural flame and restored Charleston to its rightful place as a world‑class travel destination.

The Cooper complex is slated as “the first extraordinary step in the reimagining of Charleston’s storied waterfront.” Its diverse amenities are world‑class and, like Charleston Place, will be open to residents, visitors, and global travelers eager to experience the charm and hospitality of Charleston’s commercially and recreationally welcoming spirit.

Image from thecooper.com

Inside, the Cooper will feature boutique retail, a 12,000‑square‑foot spa and fitness center, and nearly 20,000 square feet of event space. Dining concepts include its signature restaurant, The Crossing, serving culinary creations by Executive Chef Nick Dugan, and a casual eatery, Current Burger, offering elevated comfort foods such as juicy smash burgers and hand‑spun milkshakes. Up top, guests will find cinematic views: the graceful sweep of the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge to the left, the pineapple fountain glimmering to the right, and the harbor unfolding in between. Finally, beside The Cooper Marina, a café called Cooper Coffee & Wine will round out the offerings.

Image from thecooper.com

The hotel’s 191 accommodations—sun‑drenched rooms and suites with sweeping water views—promise a serene, coastal‑luxury retreat. But the crown jewel may be the outdoor infinity‑edge pool, a shimmering ribbon of blue suspended above the harbor. Already touted as one of the most impressive pool experiences in the Southeast, it features its own bar, Bar Marti, offering the kind of atmosphere that invites you to lose track of time.

Image from thecooper.com

Beyond the hotel, the Cooper’s waterfront green space will seamlessly extend Joe Riley Waterfront Park, continuing the pathway more than 400 feet to Fleet Landing Restaurant & Bar. A new dock and marina will welcome boaters, while hotel guests will have access to three private vessels—including a yacht for intimate dinners and events, and a water taxi to Daniel Island. Guests at BHC‑affiliated properties, such as Charleston Place, will also enjoy these privileges.

Image from thecooper.com

Soon, the quiet stretch of Concord Street between Cumberland and Vendue Range will transform into a vibrant corridor of five‑star luxury when the Cooper Hotel opens in the spring of 2026. It promises to reshape the French Quarter waterfront in a way that feels both forward‑looking and unmistakably Charleston.

And if you’re already imagining yourself there, you’re not alone. I can picture it now: the rooftop bar glowing at golden hour, the harbor shifting from honey to indigo, a signature cocktail in hand. And yes, booking a room just to slip into that infinity‑edge pool might be the most irresistible indulgence of all.

Accommodations

176 Concord Street, Charleston, SC

“Across the Causeway of Time: The Hidden History of the Pitt Street Bridge”

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Tue, 30 Dec 2025 23:37:00 +0000

The Pitt Street Bridge is a popular Charleston destination for enjoying a pleasant stroll with a scenic view of the harbor and the Sullivan’s Island marshlands. It is also an ideal place to cast your fishing line or slide your kayak into the surrounding estuary waters. However, beginning January 5, a section of the bridge’s causeway will be closed for a week so crews can drill into its substructure to examine and assess its stability. During the inspection, 600 feet will remain open for you to enjoy. As you walk its wooden causeway, soaking in the view, it’s worth pausing to consider the long and surprising history that unfolded across these waters.

Today, Charleston’s barrier islands stretching north from the harbor are lined with beautiful, expansive vacation homes. Their sparkling shorelines welcome throngs of visitors and local beachgoers spreading blankets and chairs across the sand. With that familiar scene in mind, it may be difficult to imagine one of these pristine islands once dominated not by quiet neighborhoods but by a Ferris wheel turning above the dunes, a merry‑go‑round spinning in the sand, and a Coney Island–style roller coaster called The Steeple Chase thundering across the landscape. Yet the islands have undergone dramatic transformations long before becoming the serene retreats we know today.

To understand how unlikely such amusements once were, it helps to look back to the earliest days of settlement. In the colonial era, a simple plank bridge built on barrels connected what is now Mount Pleasant to Sullivan’s Island at Cove Inlet. When Edgar Allan Poe arrived on Sullivan’s Island in 1827 aboard the Waltham and served as a company clerk at Fort Moultrie, he described the island in vivid, if unflattering, terms. In The Gold Bug, he wrote, “The island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than sea sand, and is about three miles long…” His portrayal—bleak, windswept, and sparsely inhabited—reflects both the island’s raw state and Poe’s own dark literary sensibilities.

Yet not everyone saw Sullivan’s Island through such a somber lens. Around the same time, Charleston architect Robert Mills offered a far more inviting depiction. Writing in 1826, he described the island as “the summer retreat for pleasure and health” for Charlestonians, noting the steady flow of boats ferrying visitors across the harbor and the growing village of Moultrieville with its wooden houses and breezy shoreline. He praised the firm, wide beach at low tide, where “the delighted visitant may inhale the pure and bracing sea breeze, which wafts health and vigor to the system.”

The old floating footbridge stretching across from mainland Mount Pleasant was once the only access to Sullivan’s Island—and the stepping‑stone to the uninhabited six‑mile stretch of sand beyond Breach Inlet known as Long Island. On the 17th of February, under the command of Lt. George Dixon, the Hunley’s crew of eight crossed that same footbridge at Cove Inlet near Fort Moultrie. From there, they hiked 2½ miles north to Breach Inlet and waited for nightfall, following a route that would later become central to the island’s transformation.

As the islands slowly drew more attention, the Town of Moultrieville granted land to Robert Chisolm for the construction of a hotel. Around Station 22, the New Brighton Hotel rose in the mid‑1880s—later renamed the Atlantic Beach Hotel—and included three beach cottages alongside the main structure. This modest development marked the beginning of a new era of leisure along the coast.

That shift accelerated in 1897, when the stretch of sand beyond Breach Inlet—once visited only by the Atlantic surf—began to attract real interest. Dr. J. S. Lawrence established a public amusement and beach resort on the island. With no cottages or hotels yet built, visitors gathered at the Pavilion, where a 50‑cent meal awaited them. The amusements were ambitious: a Ferris wheel, a merry‑go‑round, and a roller‑coaster‑style ride called The Steeple Chase, featuring five mechanical horses racing along a U‑shaped track. The Ferris wheel itself had traveled a storied path—from the Chicago World’s Fair in 1892 to the Cotton Congress in Atlanta and then to Coney Island—before arriving in South Carolina. The resort’s popularity earned it the nickname “Playground of the South,” and with that, the Isle of Palms was born.

Infrastructure soon followed. In 1898, the old planked bridge was replaced by a trolley bridge known as the Cove Inlet Bridge, or the Pitt Street Bridge. Before electricity, the earliest trolleys were horse‑drawn and ran on wooden rails that often shifted in the sand beds, but even this imperfect system marked a significant improvement in access.

At the same time, Charleston embraced new technology. The electric streetcar arrived in the city, and in July of that year the Seashore Road opened. The local paper reported on July 26, “A great event for the city, the Seashore Road formally opened yesterday…” as ferries such as the Commodore Perry, the Sappho, and the Pocosin carried eager passengers across the harbor to Mount Pleasant.

Once ashore, travelers boarded trolley cars that carried them through Mount Pleasant, across the Pitt Street Bridge, and onward toward Breach Inlet before continuing to the Isle of Palms. Development followed quickly: Nicholas Sottile built the island’s first home in 1898 at 807 Ocean Boulevard. The Seashore Hotel opened in 1906 with fifty rooms, and the Hotel Marion by the Sea followed in 1912.

Not all progress was without loss. On January 9, 1925, tragedy struck the Atlantic Beach Hotel on Sullivan’s Island when it, along with one of its cottages, burned to the ground. Rumor held that a bootlegger searching for hidden whiskey lit a match in the bushes beside the hotel, sparking the blaze. No hotel would ever rise on the island again.

Transportation continued to evolve. In the 1920s, the Pitt Street Bridge was widened for vehicular traffic, and a drawbridge was added. By 1926, the trolley trestle over Breach Inlet had been converted into a bridge for automobiles, and trolley service to Sullivan’s Island ended the following year.

Until then, Mount Pleasant and the islands had relied entirely on ferries to connect with Charleston. That changed in 1929 with the construction of the Grace Memorial Bridge, a cantilever span across the Cooper River that finally linked the islands to the city by automobile. The Pitt Street Bridge closed to traffic when its drawbridge was relocated, and in 1945 the Ben Sawyer Bridge was completed. Its rotating center span allowed boats to pass along the Intracoastal Waterway, marking the final step in the islands’ evolution from isolated stretches of sand to accessible coastal communities.

The Joggling Board: A Lowcountry Legend Born of Necessity, Folklore, and Charleston Charm

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Tue, 23 Dec 2025 00:42:00 +0000

If you’ve spent any time wandering the piazzas of Charleston, South Carolina, you’ve likely noticed a curious piece of furniture: a long, springy plank—painted a deep Charleston green—resting on two arched rockers. Locals call it a joggling board, and it’s as much a part of Lowcountry identity as sweetgrass baskets, live oaks, and the scent of pluff mud drifting in on the tide.

But the joggling board isn’t just a decorative porch oddity. Its story stretches back more than two centuries, crossing oceans, plantations, and generations of Southern folklore.

The most widely accepted origin story begins in 1803 at Acton Plantation in Sumter County, just outside the Charleston region. The plantation house burned down in 1911. Mary (or Mrs. Benjamin) Huger moved in to help her brother, Cleland Kinlock, manage the house after the death of his wife. According to historical accounts, Mary suffered from painful rheumatism that kept her from enjoying carriage rides—her favorite pastime. In a letter to her family in East Lothian, Scotland, she lamented her limited mobility. Her Scottish relatives responded with an unusual solution: a model and plans for a flexible exercise bench designed to allow gentle bouncing and movement.

East Lothian, Gilmerton House

A carpenter at Acton Plantation built the first American joggling board based on those plans. The result was a long, pliant board—typically 12 to 16 feet—mounted on two wooden stands. The gentle “joggling” motion was believed to soothe stiff joints and provide low-impact exercise.

What began as a medical aid soon became a cultural fixture. By the mid-19th century, joggling boards had migrated from inland plantations to the piazzas of Charleston homes. Their distinctive look—long, narrow, and painted Charleston green—made them instantly recognizable. The color itself is a local signature: a near-black shade of green believed to withstand the Lowcountry sun and blend elegantly with historic architecture. One place to see a joggling board in Charleston is at the Edmondston-Alston House.

Edmondston House

Charlestonians embraced the joggling board not only for its gentle rocking motion but also for its social possibilities. The board’s flexibility allows two people seated at opposite ends to bounce toward one another—a feature that inspired one of the most enduring pieces of joggling board folklore.

Charleston legend holds that a joggling board is a “courting bench.” If two people sit at opposite ends, the board naturally dips and sways, drawing them closer together. Many Lowcountry families claim that “a home with a joggling board will never be without suitors,” and some even credit the bench with sparking marriages across generations.

Whether or not the board truly possesses matchmaking magic, it has become a symbol of hospitality, romance, and Southern charm.

Though joggling boards fell out of fashion in the early 20th century, Charleston artisans and preservationists helped revive the tradition. Companies like The Joggle Factory and the Old Charleston Joggling Board Company continue to handcraft boards using the same principles—flexible Southern pine, graceful rockers, and that iconic Charleston green paint.

Today, joggling boards appear on porches, in gardens, at wedding venues, and even on college campuses. They’ve become a beloved emblem of Lowcountry culture—functional, whimsical, and steeped in history.

Lingering at Poogan’s Porch: A Charleston Landmark Restaurant

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Wed, 17 Dec 2025 17:41:00 +0000

Poogan, the dog, was more than just a resident of the porch—he was its heart and soul. A scruffy, amiable mutt with a penchant for lounging in the sun and greeting every visitor with a wagging tail, Poogan became a beloved fixture long before the porch earned its name. Locals and travelers alike would pause to share a moment with him, drawn by his gentle presence and the quiet comfort he offered. His spirit lingers still, woven into the very boards of the porch, a reminder that some memories are best kept alive by those who simply choose to stay. The restaurant is also said to be haunted by Poogan.

There are places that feel like thresholds—not just onto porches, but into memory. Poogan’s Porch, nestled on busy Queen Street, is one of them. The wrought iron gate, cool beneath the palm, the sign swinging gently in the breeze. It all felt like a nod from the past.

Queen Street hummed, alive with pedestrians and chatter, but the porch held its own silence. It was a pause in the rhythm, a breath between beats. The scent of biscuits and rosemary butter curled through the air, drawing him toward the white tablecloths and black chairs. Crossing the threshold feels like you entering not just a restaurant, but a memory someone else had carefully preserved.

The waitress greeted him with a smile—practiced, perhaps, but still warm. “Welcome to Poogan’s. First time?”

“First time, yes. Maybe not in spirit.”

She laughed, jotting down his order for sweet tea and pimento cheese fritters. He settled into the chair, notebook resting on the table. He didn’t open it. He wanted to feel before he wrote.

The porch creaked underfoot as other diners shifted, laughter rising from a nearby table where shrimp and grits were being devoured with abandon. Magnolia leaves overhead filtered the sunlight into shifting mosaics across the tablecloth.

She arrived with the rush of someone caught in art—windblown hair, eyes bright from the sun. “Sorry I’m late. Queen Street swallowed me whole.”

He smiled. “This porch forgives lateness. It’s haunted by people who never wanted to leave.”

She settled in. “Then let’s join them.”

They ordered: she-crab soup for her, fried chicken for him. The waitress called them darlin’ as she walked away, and they both smiled at the cadence of it.

The food arrived, steaming and fragrant, and with it came the unraveling of words.

“You always chase places like this,” she said. “What are you hoping to find?”

“Proof,” he replied, cutting into the chicken. “That the past can be tasted. That memory has flavor.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then maybe the silence between bites is enough.”

They drifted into talk of shared moments—the kind that linger like shadows—and of beginnings, fragile as biscuits that crumble at the touch. The porch seemed to listen, its boards absorbing their voices, its air holding their confessions.

“You know,” she said, “I think this place is haunted.”

“By what?”

“By conversations like ours. By people who sat here, spoke truths, and never wanted them to end.”

He raised his glass. “Then let’s linger. Let’s haunt it a little ourselves.”

The meal stretched into afternoon. Sweet tea was refilled, plates cleared, but the conversation refused to end. The porch became less a restaurant and more a stage. A place where memory and presence braided together.

When they finally rose to leave, he glanced back at the sign. Poogan’s Porch. It no longer felt like a name. It felt like an invitation to return, to keep haunting, to keep tasting the past until it became the present again.

72 Queen Street, Charleston

Brunch Monday - Sunday, 9:00am - 3:00pm

Dinner Monday - Sunday, 4:30pm - 9:30pm

843-829-4332

Reservations

Menus

Victor's Seafood and Steak--Magnificent Marlins and Crisp Cocktails

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Sat, 13 Dec 2025 21:37:00 +0000

John Carroll Doyle was truly a creative individual. A self-taught painter and photographer, he is internationally recognized for his energetic, light‑filled paintings of subjects as diverse as blues musicians, blue marlins, and blue hydrangeas. He produced iconic pieces that celebrated memories and stories of Southern culture, especially those of his beloved birthplace, Charleston. You can view his work at 125 Church Street, where the gallery now displays his original oils, photography, and over 100 high‑quality canvas reproductions. However, Doyle’s art is showcased throughout Charleston, and Victor’s Seafood and Steak is one of those honored places.

Victor’s Seafood and Steak was once known as the Victor Social Club. The Social Club was part of a multi‑establishment concept by Holy City Hospitality known as the Hutson Alley Project. Hutson Alley can be entered from both John Street and Hutson Street. It features a beautifully adorned brick‑lined, patterned cement walkway, evenly spaced palm trees, and black light posts, while green, leafy vines cover the building’s aged red‑brick walls. Each establishment had its own glass‑door entrance, marked by a rustic sliding steel door left over from the building’s storied past. Originally, there were hints of another registered name, The Blue Marlin Bar. Instead of adopting the name, the blue marlin motif was woven into the character of the Victor Social Club, now renamed Victor’s Seafood and Steak after taking over Michaels on the Alley.

Victor’s Seafood and Steak sits next to Vincent Chicco’s and shares the alley with Coast. The restaurant’s centerpiece bar dominates a richly decorated two‑story interior, awash in shades of white and black, radiating pure elegance. A life‑size John Doyle painting of a blue marlin hovering over a boat towers above the bar. The establishment offers signature cocktails—including barrel‑aged selections—alongside beer, wine, and walls lined with fish paintings, each paired with intimate seating for two. The refined dining room features plush booths, antique wares, and wildlife scenes.

We took seats at the bar, where two well‑spoken, mannerly young men dressed in black and wearing spectator shoes patiently awaited our orders. After a few questions about the unusual drink names on the menu and their helpful answers, I chose a potent cocktail called Midnight in Paris—a mix of Still Vanilla, lavender simple syrup, and lemon. There was no skimping on the alcohol. My companion for the night selected the Espresso Martini, topped with three brandy‑soaked cherries threaded on a silver hairpin stick. She described her drink as smooth, with a rich froth that recalled a fine Bailey’s Irish Cream.

We can only comment on the bar area of Victor’s Seafood and Steak, formerly Victor Social Club. We came solely for a few cocktails and the spacious ambience dominated by Doyle’s magnificent marlin painting. It was a superb experience with exquisite, sophisticated cocktails. Our interaction with the bartenders was very pleasant and entertaining. They shared stories and offered knowledgeable input on what to try. The restaurant will certainly be a future visit.

Bowens Island, Folly Creek, and My Margaritaville

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Mon, 24 Nov 2025 19:02:00 +0000

Charleston has no shortage of places that capture the spirit of the Lowcountry, but Bowens Island and Folly Creek hold a special place in my heart. They’re not just destinations—they’re experiences, each with its own rhythm, flavor, and reminder of what it means to slow down and savor life.

Bowens Island Restaurant is one of those spots you’ll never forget. Perched at the edge of the marsh, it’s rustic, weathered, and unapologetically authentic. Don’t expect white tablecloths or polished décor—expect oyster shells piled high, picnic tables, and sunsets that paint the sky in colors no artist could replicate. If you go, order the fried shrimp or the oyster roast. The shrimp are crisp and perfectly seasoned, and the oysters—steamed over open flames—taste like the marsh itself, briny and rich. Pair it with a cold beer, and you’ll understand why locals keep coming back.

Just beyond Bowens Island lies Folly Creek, which I’ve come to think of as my own Margaritaville, minus the booze in the blender and brand-new tattoo. It’s where I take my kayak when I need to reset. If you’re planning a paddle, go in the morning when the tide is rising. The water is calm, the marsh birds are active, and the sun casts a golden glow across the grasses. You’ll likely spot dolphins playing in the creek—they surface with effortless grace, reminding you to find joy in simple moments.

On my last trip, I was lucky enough to see both dolphins and a great blue heron. The dolphins reminded me of playfulness, of living unburdened by the past. The heron, lifting slowly from the reeds, reminded me of renewal—patient, deliberate, rising steadily into the sky. Together, they became metaphors for my own healing journey.

Life doesn’t always unfold the way we expect. Relationships end, tides shift, and sometimes we’re left searching for balance. But places like Bowens Island and Folly Creek remind me that endings aren’t failures—they’re transitions. The tide goes out, but it always comes back in.

So, if you’re visiting Charleston, make time for Bowens Island. Order the oysters, linger over the view, and let the marsh remind you of the beauty in simplicity. And if you have a kayak, take it to Folly Creek. Paddle with the tide, watch for dolphins, and keep an eye out for the heron. You might just find, as I did, that the water has a way of carrying you forward—not with regret, but with gratitude and hope.

Where the Tide Turns Between the IOP and Sullivan's Island—A True Story

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Mon, 17 Nov 2025 19:44:00 +0000

There’s a place on Sullivan’s Island where the water narrows and the current quickens. It is a place where the Atlantic meets the Intracoastal, where tides collide and the sea decides who stays and who drifts away. It’s a place that doesn’t ask questions but somehow answers them anyway. The place is Breach Inlet.

I went there this morning, hoping for stillness. I brought a book I didn’t open and a Yeti of sweet tea I barely touched. The sky was a perfect blue, the kind that makes you forget anything could ever go wrong. But the inlet—it knows better. It’s seen too much to be fooled by the weather.

The sands here are never still. I have watched their transformation through the years. They shift with each tide, reshaping the shoreline like a restless artist never satisfied with the last sketch. One day there’s a crescent of beach wide enough to walk barefoot for hours; the next, it’s swallowed whole, replaced by a churning ribbon of water. Locals say the inlet has a memory, that it remembers storms and shipwrecks, and that it never forgets.

Out in the current, a pod of dolphins surfaced, their sleek backs catching the morning light. They moved with the tide, weaving through the eddies like dancers in a slow, ancient ballet. I watched them for a long time, their presence both playful and profound, as if they too were drawn to the mystery of this place.

And then there’s the new house on the point—glass and stucco, all clean lines and quiet luxury. It stands where the old house used to lean, weather-beaten and wise. The new place is beautiful, no doubt, but it hasn’t earned its stories yet. It hasn’t heard the wind howl through hurricane shutters or watched the moon rise over a sea turned silver. It’s still learning the language of the inlet.

On the drive over, just past Patriots Point, I saw something that stopped me cold. A woman walking hand in hand with a man. Her hair caught the light in a familiar way that took me by surprise. It was someone I once knew—someone I once hoped to know better. She didn’t see me. I didn’t stop. But the moment stayed. It appeared the ocean breeze was not blowing in my favor.

I sat in my car for a long time after that, watching the water shimmer like nothing had changed. But something had—not in the world—in me. There’s a quiet kind of sadness that comes when you realize a door you’d left open has quietly closed. No slam. No drama. Just the soft click of finality.

I walked the shoreline barefoot, letting the tide wash over my feet. The inlet curved ahead like a question mark, and I followed it—not looking for answers, just letting the water carry my thoughts. Some places feel like endings, even when they’re beautiful. And some people stay with you, even when they’re gone. I won’t write about that epiphany again—not directly. But she’ll be there: in the spaces between sentences, in the hush between tides, in the way the marsh holds its breath before the wind returns.

Breach Inlet doesn’t truly belong to anyone. It’s a threshold, a breath caught between tides. It is a place where the land exhales and the sea inhales, where endings blur into beginnings. If you sit with it long enough, in stillness and silence, it might whisper something you didn’t know you needed to hear. The current there has a mind of its own, often carrying you in directions you never intended. And when resistance feels futile, sometimes the only choice—the wisest one—is simply to let go and float.

Echoes Beneath the Vaulted Ceiling: The Story of Charleston’s Union Station

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Wed, 05 Nov 2025 16:38:00 +0000

Fire is like a two-edged sword: it giveth and it taketh. It is both hospitable and hostile. It reclaims what has been taken and reshapes what has already been formed. It is a merciless entity, absent of malice. It does only what it is destined to do, bound by the laws of nature.

Fire has played a notable role in the evolution of Charleston’s cityscape—in the years 1698, 1740, 1778, 1812, and 1947. Like that two-edged sword, it has cleared the way for a more durable metropolitan landscape, but in doing so, it has consumed some of the city’s most celebrated architectural masterpieces.

In the heart of Charleston’s historic peninsula, where East Bay Street meets Columbus, once stood a monument to movement, ambition, and architectural grace: Union Station, a grand passenger terminal that served as the city’s rail gateway from 1907 to 1947. Though long vanished from the skyline, its memory lingers in the Lowcountry’s collective imagination—an echo of steam whistles, polished shoes on tiled floors, and lantern light flickering beneath vaulted ceilings.

Union Station was born of necessity and vision. In 1902, the South Carolina General Assembly chartered the Charleston Union Station Company, a joint venture by three major railroads—Atlantic Coast Line, Southern Railway, and Seaboard Air Line. Their goal: to consolidate passenger services into a single, elegant terminal worthy of Charleston’s stature.

Construction began in 1905, and by November 1907, the station opened its doors. With its classical architecture, arched windows, and ornate murals, Union Station was more than a transit point—it was a civic landmark. Travelers arriving from Savannah, Richmond, or Washington stepped into a space that felt both grand and intimate, where the rhythms of rail travel met the rituals of Southern hospitality.

Illustration of Union Station

Though few photographs survive, contemporary accounts describe a station of impressive scale and detail. The checkerboard tile floors, hanging lanterns, and decorative columns created a sense of ceremony. Ceiling murals were a defining feature of the station’s interior, contributing to its classical and civic grandeur. These murals likely included scenes of ships, harbors, and historical vignettes, consistent with Charleston’s identity as a port city and its colonial and Revolutionary War legacy. The murals were described as elaborate and atmospheric, helping elevate the station from a mere transit hub to a place of cultural and architectural significance.

The station was a stage for everyday drama: soldiers departing for war, families reuniting, porters wheeling trunks beneath the gaze of stationmasters in brass-buttoned coats. It was a place where time paused between arrivals and departures, and where Charleston’s social tapestry—black and white, rich and poor—briefly converged.

On a cold morning in January 1947, Union Station was destroyed by fire. The Charleston Fire Department responded quickly, but the station’s wooden framing and open interior spaces allowed the flames to spread rapidly. Despite efforts to contain the blaze, the entire structure was engulfed and ultimately destroyed in hours. Archival records from the Charleston County Public Library’s Fire Department collection document the event as one of the city’s most significant structural losses of the mid-20th century. No definitive cause for the blaze was ever confirmed in public records. The building's destruction marked the end of an era.

Following the fire, rail services were rerouted. The Charleston Union Station Company, which had operated the facility, gradually dissolved its operations. A collection of 183 scanned documents, including letters and newspaper clippings from 1947 to 1954, is preserved in the Southern Railway Historical Association archives, offering firsthand accounts of the fire’s impact.

Charleston never rebuilt a central passenger terminal of comparable grandeur. Instead, rail travel gradually shifted northward. Amtrak eventually established its presence in North Charleston, and by the 21st century, the original site of Union Station had faded into obscurity—its footprint absorbed by urban development, its memory preserved only in archives and anecdotes.

Union Station was more than a building—it was a portal. It connected Charleston to the wider world and offered a glimpse of modernity wrapped in classical beauty. Its destruction left a void not just in infrastructure, but in the city’s architectural soul.

Today, as Charleston balances preservation with progress, Union Station reminds us of what once was: a place where movement met meaning, and where the hum of locomotives underscored the quiet heroism of everyday life.

The Whispering Alphabet of Runnymede Plantation

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Tue, 28 Oct 2025 18:43:00 +0000

The moon hung low over the Ashley River, its pale reflection trembling across the black water like a secret trying not to be spoken. Beneath its glow, Runnymede Plantation stood like a monument to memory itself—its chimney a solitary sentinel rose into the sky, its oaks draped in Spanish moss that swayed like mourning veils in the humid breeze. An impressive avenue of live oaks led to the haunting estate, their limbs arching overhead like cathedral vaults. A second avenue, consisting of a skyline hedge of Southern Magnolias, bordered the garden in fragrant silence, their waxy blossoms glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Elias Carrington had come alone. In his hands he carried the parchment containing the verses written by Poe as he strolled the garden. The edges were brittle, the ink faded in places, but the rhythm of the lines still pulsed with eerie vitality. Local lore held that Poe had been a frequent visitor, slipping away from Fort Moultrie during his brief military posting in Charleston to wander the plantation’s shadowed paths, drawn to Runnymede’s spectral beauty and the strange Alphabet Walk that twisted through its gardens like a living cipher.

He was seen once, they said, beneath the Cypress tree at twilight, murmuring lines to himself and scribbling furiously in a leather-bound journal. The gardener’s daughter swore she saw him bury something beneath the tree—a scroll, perhaps, or a letter sealed with wax and marked with a raven.

Nothing prepared Elias for the visceral unease that crept into his bones as he stepped onto the Alphabet Walk. The trees loomed like sentinels of an ancient code; each one marked with a brass plaque bearing a single letter. A for Ash, B for Birch, C for Cypress… and so on, winding deep into the garden’s heart.

He paused beneath the twisted limbs of a Hackberry tree marked with an H. The plaque was tarnished, but beneath the grime he saw a faint engraving: “Heed the hush.” He turned. The wind had stopped. The garden was silent. Then came the whisper. It wasn’t a voice, not exactly. More like a memory brushing past his ear. A line of verse, half-formed and aching to be remembered:

"In twilight’s hush where shadows creep,

And ancient oaks their secrets keep,

I wandered lost through paths of lore,

Where time had locked a hidden door."

Elias scribbled it down in his notebook, heart pounding. He had found the first clue.

The Alphabet Walk twisted unexpectedly, leading him to a grove where the trees grew closer together, their branches interlaced like the strands of a wicker chair. Here, the letters grew stranger—Q for Quince, X for Xylosma, Z for Zelkova. Poe had walked this path. It was said Poe had whispered his poem into the bark of these trees, each line a cipher, each stanza a map.

"U urges fate to turn its face,

V veils the vow of love’s embrace,

W wakes the wind to cry,

X marks the spot where secrets lie."

At the base of the Zelkova, Elias found a stone half-buried in moss. It bore a carving: a raven in flight, its wings outstretched over a scroll. Beneath it, a single word etched in Latin: “Veritas.” The final lines of Poe’s poem read:

"But truth is not for hearts untried—

It waits where sea and soul collide.

Seek not the gold, nor glory’s flame,

But speak the word that none dare name."

Elias stood in the hush of the garden, the wind returning with a sigh through the magnolias. He felt the weight of time pressing against him—not just the plantation’s haunted past, but the burden of secrets kept too long. Somewhere, beneath the sand and salt of Sullivan’s Island, a scroll waited. And on it, the name of a treasure lost to time.

But tonight, the garden had given him its first whisper. And the Alphabet Walk, it seemed, was only beginning to speak.

The Haunting Ashley River Plantation Just a Buggy Ride from Magnolia Plantation

The Shell and the Shadow on Sullivan's Island

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Mon, 27 Oct 2025 14:12:00 +0000

The morning sun had just begun to stretch its golden streamers across the Atlantic, casting long shadows over the damp sand. The tide was low, and the beach lay quiet, save for the rhythmic hush of waves folding into themselves. A young woman wandered barefoot along the shoreline, her family still asleep in the cottage tucked behind the dunes. She moved slowly, stooping now and then to collect seashells—small, imperfect things that caught the light in curious ways.

She paused to examine one: a pale pink spiral with a smooth, iridescent interior and a jagged, barnacled edge. Turning it in her palm, she felt the contrast between its polished heart and weathered skin. That was when she noticed him.

A man stood several yards away, fully clothed in dark attire that seemed out of place against the brightness of the beach. He faced the ocean, unmoving, as if listening to something beneath the waves. His silhouette was stark—long coat, long hair, and a stillness that felt deliberate.

She looked back down at the shell, hoping to avoid eye contact. But when she glanced up again, he had moved closer. Not alarmingly so, but enough to make her pulse quicken. She pretended to study the shell more intently, but then he spoke.

“Would you like to know more about that one?” His voice was soft, almost melodic, and it caught her off guard.

She looked up timidly. His eyes were dark—so dark they seemed to absorb the light around them—and his hair fell in loose waves past his shoulders. Despite her initial unease, something in his presence calmed her. He spoke again, and the tension in her chest began to dissolve.

He described the shell in poetic detail: its pink hue, the way its interior shimmered like mother-of-pearl, the roughness of its outer ridges shaped by years of tumbling in the surf. He spoke of its origins, its journey, its silent history. She listened, entranced, as if the shell were a relic from another world and he its interpreter.

She bent to pick up another shell, eager to hear more. But when she rose, he was gone. She scanned the beach. No footprints. No movement. Only the dunes stood behind her, silent and still. Perhaps he had wandered back over them. Perhaps he had never been there at all. Clutching her small trove of shells, she walked back to the cottage, the encounter lingering in her thoughts like a half-remembered dream.

That evening, her family dined at Poe's Tavern—a cozy place with creaky floors and the scent of salt and old wood. As they waited for dessert, she wandered toward the fireplace, drawn by a painting that hung above it. The image was dark, brooding: a man in black, his eyes deep and penetrating, his expression unreadable. Her breath caught. It was him.

She stared, heart thudding, then turned to the nearest server. “Excuse me,” she said, pointing to the painting. “Do you know who that is?”

The server glanced up, then smiled politely. “Oh yes, dear. That’s Edgar Allan Poe.”

The young woman blinked. “Poe?”

“Yes. He spent time in Charleston, you know. Some say he still does.”

The server chuckled and walked away, but the young woman remained rooted to the spot, staring into the painted eyes that had once watched the waves beside her.

___Story based on article Stranger on the Beach: One Vacationer Encounters a Famous Sullivan’s Island Specter

The Ghost Light of the James F. Dean Theatre

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Sun, 26 Oct 2025 04:09:00 +0000

The James F. Dean Theatre had its quirks—creaking steps, misaligned doors, a draft that whispered down the back stairs. It was the kind of place where shadows lingered a little too long, and the hush between scenes felt thick with memory. On show nights, the old brick walls seemed to breathe with anticipation, as if the building itself leaned in to listen.

Outside, the newly installed marquee brightly lit the front entrance. Inside, the rejuvenated community theater glowed with promise. Prop lighting radiantly illuminated the beautifully prepared set—an assemblage of weathered timber fashioned into a rustic old fishing pier, overshadowed by moss-laden trees and unforgotten recollections.

It was during Catfish Moon, a play about friendship and forgiveness, that the theater revealed one of its quirkiest secrets. I was offered an invitation to work backstage with the prop manager. We sat tucked behind the wings at a table full of props—fishing poles, tackle boxes, dried swamp grass, and a single lamp to light our corner.

As the play unfolded—three old friends on a dock, casting lines into memory—the lamp inexplicably flickered on and off. Not just once. Not just twice. It pulsed like a heartbeat, on and off, throughout the play’s run. Sometimes it glowed steadily during a monologue, then blinked out as if punctuating a line. We checked the cord. We checked the bulb. We even switched it off. Still, for no reason, it would turn on and off. While we sat at the table, I’d say, “I wonder if the light is going to turn off,” and as soon as I said it, it did.

The actors never noticed. The audience didn’t see. But backstage, we watched in silence, the hairs on our arms rising with each flicker. Between cues, we whispered theories. Faulty wiring. A short in the circuit.

On closing night, just before the final scene—when the characters reconcile under a moonlit sky—the lamp flared bright, then dimmed to a soft glow. It stayed lit until the final bow. Then, as the applause faded, it blinked once and went dark.

We left the light on the table after strike. It remained a mystery, and this story, unexplainably true.

Some say every theater has its ghost. Maybe James F. Dean's just wanted to see Catfish Moon one last time.

James F. Dean Theatre now showing Murder on the Orient Express.

The Strange Story of John Street--Home to the Charleston Music Hall

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Thu, 23 Oct 2025 07:23:00 +0000

I tried to figure out where John Street in Charleston got its name, and wow—it's not straightforward. From what I could dig up, it might trace back to Hector Berenger de Beaufain, a French Huguenot who played a big role in Charleston’s early days. He was the Collector of Customs and helped shape the city’s infrastructure, including founding the Charleston Library Society. He was noted for his benevolence towards all people. His contributions and legacy are honored in the name of the street, which reflects the historical significance of the area.

But here’s the weird part: how does John come out of Hector Berenger de Beaufain? That connection feels like a stretch. Was “John” a nickname? A middle name lost to history? Or maybe someone else entirely got the honor and the Beaufain link is just a coincidence?

There’s a Beaufain Street, which makes perfect sense. But John? I don’t get it. It feels like there’s a missing chapter—some twist in the naming story that didn’t make it into the records. Maybe it was political, or maybe someone just liked the name John better. Who knows? I’m sure there’s more to it, but for now, it’s one of those Charleston mysteries that refuses to give up its secrets.

John Street stretches from Elizabeth to King, its sidewalks echoing the footsteps of centuries. Among its oldest residents stands the Charleston Music Hall, a building whose bones remember steam and soot long before it knew song.

It began in 1850, not as a theater, but as a train station—The Tower Depot, a Gothic Revival marvel designed by Charleston architect Edward C. Jones. He gave it the silhouette of a medieval castle, complete with turrets, pointed arch niches, and simulated arrow slots, as if yeomen might still be quartered in the tower, ready to defend it from assault. Yet beneath the romantic flourishes lay Renaissance symmetry and industrial purpose. The entrance was wide enough to admit a train. And it did.

The depot was part of a sprawling complex known as Camden Depot, stretching from Line to Hutson Street between King and Meeting. Freight depots, warehouses, and repair shops buzzed with the rhythm of the South Carolina Railroad. But the Tower Depot’s tenure was brief. By 1853, the passenger station had closed, its grand ambitions derailed.

After the Civil War, the building changed hands. On February 6, 1878, the Charleston Bagging Manufacturing Company took ownership. Then came the earthquake of 1886. The three-story tower collapsed, and most of the structure was torn down. What remained was used for storage—silent, utilitarian, forgotten.

The Bagging Company folded during the Great Depression. The building passed to the Chicco family and sat vacant for sixty years, its windows dark, its doors sealed against time. Yet the architecture endured. The turrets, the sunken panels, the heavy doors—they waited.

In 1994, the Bennett-Hofford Company stepped in. Restoration began, not just of brick and mortar, but of purpose. By 1995, the Charleston Music Hall reopened, reborn as a venue for performance and memory. The renovation honored its Gothic soul while adapting it for modern acoustics, flexible seating, and the pulse of live art.

Today, the Music Hall is a cultural anchor in downtown Charleston. Indie bands, classical ensembles, comedians, and filmmakers all find a stage beneath its vaulted ceilings. David Byrne and Joan Baez have performed here. In 2003, bluegrass legend Ricky Scaggs recorded a Grammy-winning live album within its walls.

Restaurant alley next to Music Hall and Rue de Jean

Surrounded by hotels and restaurants, the hall hums with life. But if you listen closely, beneath the applause and laughter, you might still hear the echo of a train whistle—or the creak of a turret door swinging open to the past.

Charleston Music Hall Event Schedule

A Charleston Luxury Boutique Hotel with a Ghost Adventure--20 South Battery

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Wed, 15 Oct 2025 00:46:00 +0000

20 South Battery sits in one of the most visited areas of Charleston. Hundreds of picture-taking tourists stroll past its black wrought-iron fences and broad porches daily. Caravans of horse-drawn carriages filled with visitors pause in front of it every day, while animated guides mesmerize them with stories that explain the mystique and grandeur oozing from its windows and doors. Cataclysms of the destructive kind have befallen it. Owners have showered it with renovations. Its place of abidance is its name: 20 South Battery.

As you view the house today, standing on the fringes of White Point Gardens, it is difficult to imagine that when first built, it had a front-row view of Charleston Harbor. The year was 1843. The builder was broker Samuel N. Stevens. The main home and carriage house reflected the prosperity prevalent in South Carolina during that era.

During the Civil War, the house survived the longest bombardment of a civilian population in the history of warfare. Though severely battered, the structure remained intact. Colonel Lathers of the Union Army purchased the property in 1870. He hired John Henry Devereaux, a well-known Charleston architect, to renovate the house in the New York fashion of the time. A mansard roof was added, which housed a library. A new ballroom was also constructed. William Cohen Bryant, one of the most famous American poets ever, stayed there in 1872.

Then...

The Simonds family purchased and lived in the house until 1912. In the 1920s, the rear outbuilding was converted into a “motor court” by the Pringle family, and the once-private residence became a more recognizable place of hospitality. Its newly rentable rooms, for the most part, catered to a patronage of rowdy, carousing sailors of the United States Navy—and, during the 1960s, to college students.

Then...

Famous Charlestonian Drayton Hastie and his wife purchased 20 South Battery in the 1980s and restored it as a Charleston Historic District hotel. The main house became the Hasties’ private residence, and they opened the rooms in the carriage house to guests. The well-known Battery Carriage House Inn came to host a clientele of more than just paying guests. Over the ensuing years, the inn would become known as the most haunted hotel in downtown Charleston.

Reportedly, it’s home to several ghosts. While the owners have never seen the otherworldly inhabitants themselves, guests and employees have had some odd encounters. Curiosity seekers brought all kinds of equipment—light meters, heat sensors, and cameras—hoping to catch a glimpse of something out of the ordinary.

Room 3 is known for a couple’s cellphone waking them with a loud, inexplicable noise, despite being powered off. They also witnessed glowing shapes floating about the room during their stay. Room 8 is considered the most ominous. One visitor was awakened by a disturbance and confronted by a headless torso. He reached out to touch the lumbering spirit, only to recoil when it let out an animalistic growl—odd, considering it had no head, and thus no mouth.

Illustration

Room 10 is occupied by the Gentleman Ghost, known for graciously sharing his room with any and all comers. He is described as a grayish shadow, of average height and build, who glides about the room with a certain stylish flair. He’s even been known to recline in bed with patrons—minus any hanky-panky.

Hurricane Hugo struck on September 21, 1989, producing the highest storm tides ever recorded on the East Coast and causing catastrophic damage to homes along the water—20 South Battery included. Yet the house endured, continuing to be a favorite haunting stop for walking tours and horse-drawn carriages. The stories persisted, and its haunted reputation only grew.

Now...

Dr. Jack Schaeffer purchased the inn in 2018 with passion and a clear intent to restore and maintain its historical integrity. The property has undergone extensive preservation efforts—a labor of love that revitalized it to its former grandeur. On September 10, 2020, Dr. Schaeffer and his staff unveiled the 20 South Battery Hotel to their first guests.

The luxury boutique hotel houses unique and rare antiques from around the world and across various time periods, some dating back to the 1500s. The Grand Ballroom features gold leaf trim surrounding a metal-tile ceiling with a skylight and crystal chandeliers. The Grand Parlor showcases bright red antique furniture that contrasts strikingly with the white walls. A spiral staircase ascends all four stories of the home. One of the oldest pieces in the house is the decorative handrail. The original Italian mosaic tile flooring was restored piece by piece. Crown molding and marble fireplaces are unique to each space. Metal-tile ceilings, ornate chandeliers, and antique sconces are also common elements throughout the home.

The Concierge Level in the mansion features the Lathers, Pringles, and Simonds Suites. The Stevens Suite is located on the ground floor and faces White Point Gardens. The Devereux Suite occupies the former cistern and wine cellar. The Blacklock-Ravenel King Room is located on the first floor. The Battery Carriage House offers suites on the first floor and rooms on the second. Originally built as a private residence for $4,500, the property was listed by Handsome Properties in 2017 for $4,250,000. It is worth far more today.

Dr. Jack Schaeffer has clearly embraced the stories that have become part of his beautiful hotel. He seems to know them well, as seen in the following video by CountOn2.

Just how the apparitions feel about their upgraded surroundings, you will have to reserve one of the rooms and ask them. The headless torso may be speechless for obvious reasons.

Enjoy the Ghostbuster Package-Prepare for a Ghostly Adventure at 20 South Battery and Charleston! Built in 1843, 20 South Battery has seen its share of reported friendly ghost encounters. This experience is for you if "You ain't afraid of no ghost!"

PACKAGE INCLUDES: Ghosts of Charleston" Souvenir Book; written by Julian Buxton at Buxton Books. 20 South Battery's own Rooms 8 and 10 are spoken about in this book!

2 Tickets to a Walking Ghost Tour with their friends at Buxton Books.

The Cascade Mountains and the Iron Goat Trail in Stevens Pass near Seattle--A Great Hike

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Sun, 05 Oct 2025 23:32:00 +0000

Just outside Seattle rises the iconic Mount Rainier, dominating the city’s panorama. To its south stands Mount St. Helens. These two peaks are part of the Cascade Range and the Ring of Fire, which stretches from British Columbia to California. The range earned its name from European explorers, inspired by its many waterfalls. Together, volcanic activity and abundant forests make the Cascades a dramatic landscape of fire and ice—an ideal setting for challenging hiking trails.

One such trail is the Iron Goat Trail, located in Stevens Pass near Gold Bar. Its name comes from the Great Northern Railway’s corporate symbol: a mountain goat standing on a rock. Built along the former railway grade, the Iron Goat Trail officially opened to hikers on October 2, 1993. There are three trailheads: the Scenic, the Martin Creek, and the Wellington. We chose the Martin Creek. The Martin Creek Trailhead consists of an Upper Grade Trail and a Lower Grade Trail totaling 6 miles, both with a gentle 2.2 percent incline. The trail marks the site of one of America’s most tragic train disasters—the 1910 Wellington Disaster.

In the early 1900s, the Great Northern Railway constructed a system of tunnels and massive concrete snow sheds through the mountains of Stevens Pass, connecting the route to Seattle. In the winter of 1910, Washington State’s Cascade Mountain Range was struck by an unusually long blizzard. Previous clear-cutting and forest fires had stripped the slopes above the tracks, creating ideal conditions for an avalanche.

On March 1, 1910, following the nine-day blizzard, rain and an electrical storm besieged the Seattle Express No. 25 and the Fast Mail No. 27 trains, which had been forced to stop en route to Seattle. The winds, thunder, and lightning threatened the stability of the varied layers of snow on the mountainside. Either thunder or lightning triggered a break in the integrity of the heavy top slab of snow; as the weaker layers below gave way, the enormous slab began to slide down the slope, carrying everything in its path. The avalanche hurled both trains 150 feet down into the Tye River Valley, where the cars were buried in snow and debris. Ninety-six people died—thirty-five passengers and sixty-one railroad employees.

The Iron Goat Trail commemorates the construction of the railway and memorializes the disaster that occurred on its mountainside. Retaining walls, culverts, bridges, and waterbars were built, along with spur trails connecting the upper and lower paths, making this history accessible to intrepid hikers and their cameras. You can walk alongside the aging, massive two-mile-long concrete walls where thick-timbered snow sheds once covered the tracks, shielding trains from falling rocks and debris. Connecting these sections of wall, long tunnels were blasted through the mountain to allow trains to pass. You can stand at the tunnel openings, feel the exiting cool air, peer into the darkness, and wonder what remains inside. For your safety, however, entering the tunnels is strongly discouraged—bears and pumas inhabit the mountains.

The scenery along the Iron Goat Trail is stunning, the history intriguing, and the hike challenging—especially the spur near the Windy Mountain Tunnel, where the trail narrows and steep drop-offs demand caution. As you walk, stay alert: remnants of the avalanche, old buildings, and fragments of train cars lie hidden among the rocks and underbrush that has grown since 1910. A parking area with facilities and a museum marks the beginning of your journey. Enjoy the rugged beauty of Stevens Pass and the majestic Cascades near Seattle.

Iron Goat Trail - Martin Creek Trailhead

Directions:

Take Highway 2 toward Stevens Pass, to milepost 55. Turn left onto the Old Cascade Highway. At the junction with FR 6710, take a sharp left onto FR 6710. In 1.4 miles reach the trailhead.

Point Sur Lightstation--A Mystical Sentinel Located High on a Big Sur Rock

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Fri, 03 Oct 2025 18:40:00 +0000

Lighthouses are mystical sentinels, charged with a singular purpose: to guide passing ships through treacherous waters into safe harbors. They stand in solitude, often perched on remote cliffs amid hostile environments. They emanate a haunting splendor and evoke fascination through the many stories told by the men and women who lived the keeper’s life.

The beautiful California coastline is dominated by towering cliffs and rocky shores. Navigating the Pacific Ocean’s treacherous surf along its jagged shoreline was a formidable challenge for mariners. Point Sur Lightstation in Big Sur is one of those mystical sentinels, commissioned to guide the state's merchant traffic safely to their destination.

Point Sur Lightstation is literally located on a solitary 361-foot volcanic rock connected to the Big Sur coast by a short strip of sandy land and rocks. Money was allocated for Point Sur in 1886 to build the light station. Three years later, on August 1, 1889, the light station keys were turned over to the first keeper. He and three assistants staffed the lighthouse and fog signal 24 hours a day.

The four keepers and their families lived an isolated life. The trail to Monterey was long and often treacherous, so trips were rare. The U.S. Lighthouse Service provided a horse and wagon to get mail and supplies from Pfeiffer's Resort. Each family was allotted a garden area for fresh vegetables. Bulk supplies such as coal, firewood, animal feed, and some food came on a lighthouse tender' about every four months. One function of these long, broad ships was to service remote light stations inaccessible by land.

Like most remote lightstations, Point Sur was very self-sufficient. As the years passed, life became increasingly less isolated at Point Sur, specially following the completion of Highway 1 in 1937. Two years later, the U.S. Coast Guard assumed responsibility for all aids-to-navigation. Lighthouse Service employees were absorbed into the new program and allowed to become either members of the U.S. Coast Guard or remain civil service employees.

In the 1960s, the U.S. Coast Guard began automating lightstations in an effort to make more efficient use of their personnel. In 1974, the last keeper left Point Sur. Today a U.S. Coast Guard crew services the lighthouse regularly.

The Point Sur Lightstation originally contained a first-order Fresnel lens. Light from Point Sur's Fresnel lens was visible for 23 nautical miles. The lens was in use until the 1970s when it was replaced by a modern aero beacon mounted on the roof of the fog signal room. The lens remained in the lighthouse tower until 1978, when it was disassembled and transported to the Allen Knight Maritime Museum of Monterey for display. The aero beacon was later moved into the lighthouse tower. The aero beacon was eventually replaced by an LED light presently mounted on the outside rail of the lighthouse and flashes every 15 seconds.

The tour operates on a first-come, first-served basis. Admission is $20 for adults. Visitors enter through a gate on Highway 1, opened by one of the tour guides. The view of the massive, distant rock crowned by the light station is spectacular. After passing through the gate, you drive down a long road flanked by a beach on one side and rocky terrain on the other, arriving at the base of the rock where you park your car. The guide begins the tour here and, following opening remarks, leads the group up the winding road that ascends the rock, stopping at select locations to discuss its construction and share stories of its formidable history.

On the ocean side of the rock, the road splits—one branch leading to the lightstation complex atop the summit, the other crossing a bridge to the lighthouse perched on the edge. The lighthouse was our first stop. As we stood beneath the towering beacon near its entrance, overlooking the ocean crashing far below against rocks teeming with barking seals, the guide described the light keeper’s duties and the operation of the Fresnel lens. We entered and ascended the circular staircase to the lantern room, where we gathered for more historical insight, then stepped onto the lantern deck outside for a sweeping 360-degree view from the top. After descending and exiting, we entered an adjoining building that housed a museum.

We then followed the guide up a long stairway to the summit, where we found a large barn, a building filled with carpenter tools and a blacksmith shop, a water tower, a garden area, and two houses—one for the keeper and his family, and the other, larger house for his three assistants and their families. We toured the keeper’s residence but did not enter the assistants’ quarters. The guide informed us that the assistants’ house was haunted, and that every Halloween it is decorated and opened to the public for a good scare. The lightstation is also one of the best places to view the whale migrations, which include the giant blue whale at 110 feet. After paying the $20 in the gift shop, we descended the long road back to our cars.

The tour’s history is intriguing, and the panoramic views from both the lighthouse and the summit complex are spectacular. The ascent up the 361-foot rock is challenging—best suited for the sure-footed and hearty—but well worth the effort. The guides are personable and informative. The tour lasts three hours and is packed with rich detail. The light station embodies everything one might expect from a California lighthouse. The gray, cement-blocked lighthouse structure exudes a mystical presence, and the surrounding complex carries a haunting allure.

Points of interest:

Notable shipwreck - Ventura 1875. Notable wreck - the dirigible U.S.S. Macon crashed and sank.

Admission:

Adults - $20, Ages 6-17 - $10, Ages 5 and under free.

Moonlight Tours - $30

Halloween Tour - October 18 and October 25, 2025 at 5:30pm

Tour Schedule:

Saturday and Sunday - 10am

Wednesday - 1pm

Information:

(831) 625-4419

Summerville, August 31, 1886--A Haunting Tale Amidst an Earth-Shattering Cataclysm

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Mon, 25 Aug 2025 00:55:00 +0000

The day’s oppressive humidity lingered, even at this late hour. Lost in thought, I found myself reflecting on the troubling peculiarities that had unfolded. There was a strange quiet—not among the people I’d encountered, but in the behavior of the animals. The usual chatter of local birds had vanished. In fact, I couldn’t recall seeing a single bird all day. The carriage horses had been unusually skittish, and even the dog at the train depot seemed unnerved.

A sharp blast from the train whistle jolted me from my reverie, signaling the final call for departure. A cloud of hot steam billowed into the air as the locomotive lurched forward, then gradually eased away from the platform. The final leg of my journey had begun.

I checked my pocket watch: 8:50 p.m. Charleston lay ahead, with an expected arrival around 10:30. I had been looking forward to my stay at the elegant Charleston Hotel on Meeting Street with eager anticipation.

As a writer and publisher, I enjoyed certain privileges when it came to reading material. In my possession was a cherished collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s works. Settling into my seat as we pulled away from Branchville, I recalled that Poe had once been stationed on Sullivan’s Island, a barrier island near Charleston. I planned to visit several places tied to his legacy—Fort Moultrie, and the war-scarred plantations along the oak-lined Ashley River Road. Runnymede, in particular, had been a favorite haunt of his.

I peered out the window and stared at the passing trees. Moonlight filtered through their branches, casting a soft, dancing glow onto the low-growing bushes. The visual effect was as shadowy as the writings I was about to immerse myself into. The rhythmic clickety-clack of the heavy steel wheels rolling over the tracks informed me that the train had reached full throttle. Around me, some passengers had drifted into sleep, while others quietly read—much too late for conversation. I flipped open the cover of the dossier resting on my lap and began reading The Gold-Bug. For an unknown length of time, I slipped into the reality that was Poe.

Suddenly, a thunderous explosion rocked the train, jolting me from my seat. For a brief, surreal moment, I felt weightless—levitating above the cushion—before crashing down with a spine-jarring thud. The violent motion repeated again and again, each impact more disorienting than the last.

Piercing screams erupted from the compartment as passengers were tossed about, helpless against the chaos. An ungodly hissing sound accompanied the relentless jolts—up and down, back and forth—like a beast thrashing in its death throes. Through the window, I glimpsed a geyser of water erupting from the earth, shooting skyward. The train’s forward momentum sputtered violently. I sensed the engineer was desperately trying to slow us, but the effort seemed futile. Prayers filled the air, whispered and shouted alike.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the upheaval ceased.

Miraculously, the train remained on the tracks. Dazed passengers began to assess their condition. Aside from bruises and shaken nerves, it appeared no one was seriously injured. Another sudden jolt startled the already traumatized group—but this time, it was the familiar lurch of a train decelerating. We crept to a halt.

I retrieved my pocket watch, its glass shattered, the hands frozen at 9:50 p.m. Around me, pages from Poe’s dossier lay scattered like fallen leaves. I gathered them up and stepped off the train.

An eerie orange glow bathed the night sky. Fires burned in the distance, and uprooted trees lay strewn across the landscape like discarded matchsticks. Ahead of the smoking engine, flares cast flickering light over the scene. We had stopped just short of what appeared to be a depot.

Straightening my disheveled clothing, I made my way to the front of the locomotive. The engineer was deep in conversation with a man I didn’t recognize. Steadying my nerves, I approached and introduced myself. I asked what had happened—and where, exactly, we were.

The man turned to me and offered his name, “Frank Doar, the stationmaster.” As we walked toward the depot, he began to recount a most unusual story.

Frank began his account with a steady voice, though the memory clearly weighed on him.

“It was 9:45 p.m. The inbound train had just passed Jedburg. I was sitting in my chair at the depot, drifting in and out of sleep, when I was startled by the sudden appearance of an elderly Black man on the platform. He seemed to materialize out of nowhere—filthy, drenched in sweat, breathless, and visibly agitated.

He told me, in a rush of words, that he’d run several miles up the rail line from a section where the tracks were severely bent. He urged me to release warning flares immediately to alert the incoming train of the danger ahead.

Now, I know everyone who works this line, and I thought I knew everyone in the community—but I’d never seen this man before. The moonlight caught the sweat on his head, giving it a strange halo-like glow. Under normal circumstances, I might have been wary of such a demand. But something about him—his urgency, his eyes—made me trust him. Without hesitation, I deployed the torpedoes.

As I finished placing the last device, I turned to speak to him again. But he was gone. Vanished. As if he’d dissolved into the night air.”

Frank paused, then pulled out his pocket watch.

“The whole encounter—his arrival, the warning, the emergency preparations—had taken only five minutes. It was exactly 9:50 p.m. Just then, an eerie hissing sound swept through the town, followed by a deafening explosion. The ground shook violently. I heard walls and chimneys collapsing, trees groaning as they were ripped from the earth. A massive earthquake had struck Summerville.”

His story left me spellbound.

Passengers had begun to disembark, gathering at the station in search of answers and a way to continue their journey. Whispers of Frank’s account passed from one traveler to another, each person trying to make sense of the mysterious warning.

Soon, a message arrived. Farther up the line, between Summerville and Ten Mile Hill near Woodstock Station, the quake had twisted the tracks into a serpentine curve. A train that had departed Summerville for Charleston derailed during the earthquake. The engineer was critically injured. A crew member had been killed.

The flares Frank deployed had saved our train from the same fate.

Yet one question lingered: how had the old man known? He had vanished without a trace. No one ever saw him again. No one ever got the chance to thank him.

As for Frank Doar, though he was the one who placed the flares and prevented disaster, he refused to take credit. He believed, with quiet conviction, that the old man was an angel.

At least, that was the story Frank told.

Visit Summerville

Somewhere in Time--A Stay at Summerville's Pine Forest Inn

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Thu, 14 Aug 2025 03:35:00 +0000

Shrouded in a final blast of steam, the Summerville Short eased into the station—a small, elaborately decorated Victorian-style structure. Stepping onto the depot platform, I glanced at my pocket watch. The bright Lowcountry sun reflected off its glassy face. It was 2:05 p.m.

"Right on time," I whispered.

A plume of black smoke billowed from the locomotive's smokebox and was quickly whisked away by the warm, early afternoon breeze.

Horse-drawn carriages awaited arriving passengers. I surveyed the depot area for my reserved transportation and spotted a group of coachmen. One among them held up a piece of paper with my name on it. I approached the smartly dressed gentleman and identified myself.

"Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Summerville," he said.

His words were tainted with a quaint accent, quite different from what I was used to back in Ohio. He handed me a newspaper dated April 9, 1902. I stepped aboard the carriage. With a gentle tug on the reins by my experienced driver, the carriage eased forward.

The downtown district was crowded with people. Rumors that President Roosevelt and his entourage were in the Summerville area abounded—a bit of information I had overheard while on the train.

To the left of our advancing carriage was a fenced-in square, landscaped with rows of live oaks and a diamond-shaped walkway where children were at play.

On the opposite side of the square stood a row of wooden buildings, dominated by a nearly completed triple-arched façade bearing the designation Arcade Theater. To our right, a few gentlemen standing in front of a pharmacy hospitably tipped their hats as we passed.

Turning the corner at an intersection, I asked, "What is the name of this road?"

The coachman replied, "Main Street."

I followed with an additional question. "The tall building on the right with the bell tower—what purpose does it serve?"

"Town Hall, sir."

Leaving the town square behind, we passed a white directional sign covered with wooden pointers bearing the names of various inns and hotels located throughout Old Summerville. Then came several large homes bordered by white picket fences, each richly adorned with a profusion of magenta-colored flowers noticeably common to the area.

We entered a thick stand of tall pines intermingled with aged, moss-covered live oaks. Clusters of wisteria dangled freely from some of the branches. I inhaled a full breath of air—it was distinctly laced with the refreshing scent of pine.

Winding through the shaded canopy, it wasn't long before we came upon a broad, brick-paved drive flanked by huge white urns containing plantings of the same flowers growing throughout the town. We passed under a columned gateway surrounded by beautiful gardens—more wisteria and azaleas.

At the end of the driveway, rising four stories high into the needled branches of the tall pines, was the castellated center rotunda of the Pine Forest Inn—my accommodation for the next couple of days.

My carriage pulled up to the Inn's steps. Five horse riders sauntered past. I stepped off, paid the gentleman, and ascended the flight of stairs.

The front piazza was impressive. Wider in the middle, it extended out on each side of the rotunda the full length of the building and ended in a hexagonal shape at the corners. Patrons were scattered about the piazza on chairs, enjoying the southern exposure and their afternoon tea—likely made from tea leaves grown locally at the renowned Pinehurst Tea Plantation of Dr. Charles Shepard. I had read about it in a magazine on the train. A tour of the Pinehurst Tea Garden was scheduled for tomorrow.

Upon entering the impressive building, two smiling ladies curtsied as I passed. I acknowledged their genteel gesture with a smile and a tip of my hat.

The front entrance hall ran the full length of the rotunda. It was majestic. Arched walls set upon pillars divided the rotunda foyer from other sections. A grand staircase led to the upper floors, where thick wooden handrails wrapped around the open galleries. As I walked it, I estimated it to be forty-seven feet from front to back.

Large, oak-mantled fireplaces with marble hearths and exotic plants were placed strategically throughout the spacious lobby. Rocking chairs were scattered about. At the rear entrance, another long piazza served a huge three-sided courtyard.

I checked in at the desk. A double-chinned, spectacle-wearing hotel clerk greeted me with a smile and a Southern, “Good afternoon.” I informed him of my two-day reservation. After signing the necessary papers, he rattled off some of the amenities.

“There is an Amusement Hall with a bowling alley and billiard tables, two lawn tennis courts, croquet grounds, an 18-hole golf course, a swimming pool, and a livery with sixty horses.”

I touched the brim of my hat and nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” he replied, then added, “Would you like some help with your bag, sir?”

I declined the offer. He then directed my attention to a tray at the end of the counter holding crystal glasses and a matching pitcher filled with an iced, amber-colored mixture.

“Help yourself to a glass of freshly brewed Summerville sweet tea, sir.”

I poured a glass and took a sip. “Interestingly tasty,” I corroborated.

I turned and boarded the electric elevator that serviced the three upper floors—each with its own lobby and its share of the 150 suites and singles. As we slowly ascended, I engaged the elevator operator in some small talk. He willingly and gladly complied, offering a few quick tips about Summerville.

I was assigned a single on the second floor at five dollars a night.

I entered the room. Large windows bathed the interior in warm sunlight and provided an excellent view of the grounds below. Steam radiators lined the exterior walls. A painting of Drayton Hall hung above an elaborately carved mantle.

I placed my suitcase next to the open fireplace and set the empty crystal glass on a marble-topped table beside the room’s large cherry poster bed. The comfortably appointed room also included a private bath and an electric bell connected to the general office for personal service.

I emptied my suitcase and freshened up a bit before setting out to further familiarize myself with the Inn’s appointments.

After another short ride on the elevator, I returned to the main lobby. I curiously peeked into the adjacent dining room. Paneled in Southern curly pine, the complementary woodwork was elegant. Divided into three sections by wooden arches and comfortably filled with beautiful table settings, it seated 250 people. An American flag hung from the chandeliered ceiling.

It was near 3:35 p.m., according to a nearby grandfather clock. The brunch crowd had already dispersed to other suitable areas. The dining room staff was busy making preparations for the evening meal.

Other common rooms included a large main-floor parlor; ladies’ private parlors with toilet rooms; reception rooms; a library; reading room; sun parlor with exotic plants; wine and smoking rooms; and a Rocking Chair Room. Similar to the dining room, all were paneled with Southern curly pine.

Women sitting in the sun parlor engaged in chit-chat centered around their families and social events. Some rocked baby carriages with their feet while doing needlework. They all wore fancy hats and long, lacy dresses—the ankle reveal was socially frowned upon.

Gathered in the wine and smoking room, men in suits debated the latest news and talked about their golf game.

The Rocking Chair Room fascinated me the most. I could never resist the invitation of a rocking chair. I would venture to say there were about a hundred chairs—thirty, by my estimation, presently occupied. It was the right occasion for some self-indulgence. The seconds quietly ticked away with each back-and-forth motion. The seconds ticked into minutes. I pulled out my pocket watch. It was 4:45 p.m.

My restful thoughts turned to dinner. I contemplated the pleasure of indulging in the highly acclaimed, blue-ribbon cuisine the Inn was famous for. The first-class chefs were advertised as preparing their culinary delights with ingredients gathered from local gardens, along with meat and seafood delivered fresh by train from Charleston and New York markets.

After dinner, perhaps I would share a glass of wine with Florence Nightingale Graham in the wine room, shoot some billiards with Dr. Shepard, or discuss literature with Edna St. Vincent Millay in the library. Tomorrow, attend a fox hunt on Ingleside with Teddy Roosevelt.

After all, this was the illustrious Pine Forest Inn of Summerville—where the imagination had no boundaries.

Visit Summerville SC | AT THE HEART OF IT ALL

Pine Trace Natural Area Ribbon Cutting Ceremony--Join in on the Fun

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Wed, 30 Jul 2025 14:18:00 +0000

Nestled in the heart of South Carolina’s Lowcountry, Summerville is a town that seamlessly blends southern charm with progressive community development. Known for its blooming azaleas and historic streets, it's now blossoming in new ways—through a series of thoughtfully designed parks that offer residents and visitors more opportunities to connect with nature, play, and unwind. Summerville is redefining outdoor living one park at a time.

The 306-acre hardwood mixed forest at 303 Chandler Creek Road off of Miles Jamison was purchased in 2011. On March 15, 2021, County Council approved of a master plan for the property. In 2023, The Town of Summerville Design Review Board approved of the plans for Pine Trace Natural Area to be located on the property, and on March 9 of that year, Dorchester County Parks held a groundbreaking event to begin construction. I have followed its progress since with great interest for the past two years in anticipation of finally playing its featured 18-hole disc golf course. Finally, the ribbon cutting ceremony for the park will be on Thursday, August 14 at 9:30 am, and you are invited--admission is free.

Along with its challenging disc golf course, Pine Trace features an extensive 10-mile trail system, 6-acre fishing pond, observation deck and fishing pier, SUP and kayak launch, picnic shelters, large playground, and dog parks. Facilities include a Guard House at its entrance, spacious Welcome Center, kayak rental and concession stand, and restrooms. Everything will be free--frozen treats, kayak rentals, and golf disc rentals.

Pine Trace Natural Area is another fantastic outdoor recreational space offered by Dorchester County Parks and Recreation and the Town of Summerville. Whether you’re a longtime Lowcountry local or just passing through, it is a fresh breath of adventure and community. Don’t miss the ribbon cutting—come celebrate nature, recreation, and the spirit of Summerville.

Visit Summerville

The Summerville Light--A New Argument as to the Reason for the Mysterious Lights

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Fri, 18 Jul 2025 23:44:00 +0000

Former Sheep Island Road

This article is for all residents of Summerville who remember and experienced the famous Summerville Light of Sheep Island Road—locally dubbed Light Road. Over the years, I’ve written articles about this ghostly phenomenon, and it remains the most popular and beloved ghost story in Summerville’s history. I received over 16,000 responses from readers who recounted their personal experiences with the Light, and a few who were skeptics—though they were overwhelmingly in the minority.

Legend has it the Light is the glow of a lantern guiding the ghost of a woman searching for her decapitated husband along a stretch of railroad tracks that once ran near Sheep Island Road.

Several theories have been proposed as scientific explanations for the Light and its unsettling physical effects—terrorizing motorists by violently shaking their cars or inexplicably cutting power to their vehicles. These theories range from swamp gas and ball lightning to headlights reflecting off distant road signs.

On Monday morning, July 14, the United States Geological Survey confirmed reports of an earthquake in the Summerville area. Data from the USGS indicated that a quake measuring between 2.2 and 2.4 in magnitude occurred just before 10 a.m., about a mile east-northeast of Summerville’s town center near Berlin G. Meyers Parkway in Dorchester County. It originated at a depth of roughly 3 to 5 miles, though officials are still working to narrow down the exact measurements based on data from several instruments. This is not an uncommon occurrence.

At this point, you may be wondering what Monday’s earthquake has to do with the Summerville Light. Surprisingly, it may have a connection to another famous Summerville event that occurred in 1886: the Great Charleston Earthquake. One seismologist has offered these natural events as a scientific explanation for the floating orb—a phenomenon known as earthquake lights. Susan Hough of the United States Geological Survey published her theory late last month in Seismological Research Letters.

An article in the Smithsonian Magazine explained it this way, "Earthquake lights are mysterious phenomena that have been observed around the world, but scientists still don’t have a clear idea of what causes them. Some have proposed that seismic activity deforms minerals in the Earth, creating an electrical charge that can lead air molecules to glow. Another theory is that they’re related to the release of gases like radon or methane, which can ignite when they're exposed to a spark of static electricity. Hough believes the railroad tracks, in particular, are the key to Summerville’s ghosts."

Hough said in an interview with Post and Courier, "Historically, when rail companies replaced tracks, they didn’t always haul the old track away. So, you’ve got heaps of steel out there. Sparks might be part of the story. That could explain why so many ghost stories—even beyond Summerville—involve lights over railways. When you start looking around, it turns out there's any number of ghosts wandering around railroad tracks with lanterns looking for severed heads. There’s kind of an epidemic of them."

There you have it—mystery solved. Or is it? What say you, Summerville residents of the Summerville Light era?

An Illustration

The unstoppable freight train called progress changed the landscape around the same I-26 real estate, quite possibly closing the chapter on the era of the Summerville Light. The Nexton I-26 connector was constructed. The overpass that once led to the dark, overgrown, wooded hollow is no longer there. Only remnants of the once-haunted stretch of Sheep Island Road remain.

As you enter the Nexton Parkway exit off I-26 heading north, glance quickly to your right. You may catch a glimpse of the remaining tattered pavement. It briefly touches Sigma Drive before crossing Nexton Parkway, extending northward—parallel to the new Del Webb Community—then fading into obscurity.

It is gone, but not forgotten, as a growing Southern town 23 miles outside of Charleston reimagines itself, closing one chapter to open another.

Smithsonian Magazine article

Visit Summerville

Fresh Seafood and More on Charleston's Scenic Waterfront--Fleet Landing Restaurant and Bar

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Sun, 01 Jun 2025 19:18:00 +0000

For years a solitary eating establishment located along the Cooper River waterfront of Charleston, it has been fortuitously swept up into a bigger vision called The Cooper, Charleston's first luxury waterfront hotel, which will feature 191 rooms, infinity pool, spa, and event spaces slated to open in October. The hotel property will connect Joe Riley Waterfront Park with a water's edge scenic walkway leading to the Fleet Landing Restaurant and Bar located at its north flank.

Fleet Landing Restaurant is housed in a 6,000 square foot, hurricane proof, 1940s retired naval building. It juts out over the marsh on a reinforced pier and boasts oversized windows that offer an unobstructed view of the Charleston Harbor. Built in 1942 by the US Navy as a debarkation point for sailors, the building lay vacant after World War II until it was acquired by the South Carolina Port Authority in the 1960s and used for storage. The structure fell into disrepair. Despite its condition, it caught the attention of Tradd Newton who predicted, "One day, I'm going to put something in that building," and he did. Newton, with the guiding vision of Charleston architect Reggie Gibson and his wife/business partner Weesie, fulfilled that dream.

Food and Wine Magazine described Fleet Landing Restaurant's interior as "maritime chic." When you step through its doors, your initial impression is unmistakable. The interior is without a doubt very spacious with community tables and a long, running bar on one side. One wall is covered with orange life preservers and another with a glass door display of assorted wines. Beyond its large windows, there is plenty of outdoor dining on picnic style tables with orange umbrellas where you can soak in the harbor atmosphere.

Fleet Landing Restaurant is by and large a seafood destination, and one of the most popular. However, dinner entrees do include a Filet Mignon, Boneless Ribeye Steak and Chicken Piccata, while the lunch menu included an 8 oz Angus Burger, Grilled Chicken Sandwich, and a Fried Green Tomato "BLT". The seafood offerings are plentiful and diverse. It also has a Gluten Free Menu, both lunch and dinner. All menus offer a wide variety of selections.

We were there for lunch. We did not have a reservation, and the wait was about twenty minutes for outdoor seating, which we requested. For a drink, I am partial to pomegranate, so I selected the Pomegranate Mojito made with Don Q Passionfruit Rum and Pomegranate Juice for $13--a pleasing refresher. From the lunch menu, I chose the Fried Flounder Sandwich with pepper jack cheese, lettuce, tomato, and Cajun tartar sauce for $16--fish was fresh with a pleasant coating. Our server was helpful and efficient, visited our table often, and did it all with a cheerful smile.

Fleet Landing Restaurant and Bar is a quality seafood destination with a fantastic location, if you do not mind the pluff mud aroma at low tide, but that is all part of the waterfront experience. It lives up to its motto of having something for everyone. It is suggested you set up a reservation, especially for dinner sittings and beyond into the evening.

HOURS OF OPERATION:

Lunch: Seven Days a Week 11am-3:30pm

Dinner: Seven Days a Week 5pm-10pm

186 Concord Street, Charleston, SC

Phone: (843) 722-8100

Kersey House in Summerville--A historic Gathering Place for Dining and Everything Else

noreply@blogger.com (Vacation Rick) — Sat, 26 Apr 2025 14:29:00 +0000

Seems as though French inspired cuisine is becoming a thing in Summerville these days. Two of the many eating establishments recently making their debut in the town feature French classics like Croque Monsieur, Short Rib Bourguignon, and Beef Tartare. One of them is owned and operated by South Carolina resident Nico Romo, who is one of only 66 French master chefs in the country. The name of his magnifique entreprise is Kersey House. Why does a French restaurant have an English name, you may wonder? The original owners of the grand dame of Summerville no doubt would not want it any other way, and Nico agreed. Tributes to the Kersey family are found throughout the stunning estate's rooms.

Kersey House is located in the heart of "the heart of it all." It was built in the early 1900s, shortly after the construction of Summerville's famed railroad station just across the tracks. As you approach the historic property, the pristine white exterior of the house shimmers in the sunlight. Its signature double wrap-around southern porches beckon you to step up as the restaurants unassuming sign directly above states you have arrived at the right place.

Inside, the venue boasts 12-inch baseboards. The four grand parlor rooms feature restored original heart pine floors and beautiful fireplaces; each painted with a color of its own. The main dining space boasts a soaring ceiling adorned with impressive crystal chandeliers, large windows, cheerful yellow walls, and a full bar with plenty of seating. Beyond its rear door, the venue features a sweeping outdoor space, offering quiet al fresco dining. A large courtyard with red stamped concrete pads creates a distinctive contrast to the property's greenery, presenting an intimate, picturesque setting for any occasion. Last but not least, there is a spacious ballroom to dance the night away.

Kersey House promises to offer a comforting and inviting atmosphere where guests can enjoy exceptional meals, genuine hospitality, unforgettable dining experience. With a focus on high-quality ingredients and classic, approachable dishes, the menu is crafted to celebrate the art of simple, elegant dining. As they would say, la prevue sera dans le pudding.

Our reservation was for 6 pm. We were greeted with a smile upon entry and directed to a table in the front room by a window. There was a comfortable space between tables. With plenty of seating available in the beautifully appointed main dining, I wondered why we were not seated there. Turns out, seating arrangement has to do with balancing out server opportunity. They did offer to move us, but we chose to stay. As the evening progressed, I was not overly thrilled with our location, being close to the entrance and check in. There was a lot of activity of people coming and going. It was a nice space, just not ideal.

We perused the menu. Drinks were first. From the cocktail list, I chose the Sweet Magnolia, as did my companion. It was a mix of Firefly vodka, lemon, cinnamon simple, and hibiscus tea for $13. I am partial to Firefly products, so it was an easy choice. The cocktail was a satisfying and refreshing blend. On the menu, I chose from Les Soupes the French Onion with caramelized onion, baguette crouton, and gruyere for $12, and from Les Sandwiches, the Kersey Signature Burger with remoulade, American cheese, romaine, tomato, and pickles with the colorful Dijon salad for $15. My companion chose from Les Petits Plats a La Baguette with parsley butter, espelette honey $6, and from Les Sandwiches, Chicken Cordon Bleu with Dijon honey mayo, lettuce, tomato, pickle, and brioche for $15. Pardon my French, the French Onion Soup was superbe, and the Kersey Signature Burger was excellente, one of the best burgers I've had, neatly stacked. My companion souscrit.

Kersey House passed the test for high-quality ingredients and classic, approachable dishes, crafted to celebrate the art of simple, elegant dining. As to a comforting and inviting atmosphere, the room we were seated in was beautifully appointed and comfortable, just not ideal due to the traffic--maybe a decorative partition could be considered. The main dining room is a palatial and classy space with plenty of natural atmosphere. As to genuine hospitality, the staff was accommodating, and our server was friendly, courteous, and attentive to our requests. Used dishes were removed and water glasses filled as needed.

Nico Romo's Kersey House is without a doubt a historic gathering place for fine dining. The menu offers plenty of tasteful choices at reasonable prices. However, it is more than a restaurant, it is an everything else space. It is a grand addition to the many eating establishments making Summerville their home. Check it out if you haven't already.

Mon - Sat 11 am - 9 pm

Sun 11 am - 3 pm (Brunch)

3 pm - 9 pm (Dinner)

Happy Hour - Monday-Friday 4-6 pm

Lunch Special - Monday-Friday 11 am - 3 pm

117 W Luke Ave, Summerville

843-983-1813