Cumberland Island

Perhaps it was the sun filtering through the live oaks. The dappled, dancing shadows on the dusty, sandy roads. Perhaps it was the stillness of noon, barely a sound in the thick woods. Perhaps it was the smell of a fire, burning the last remnants of winter's scorn. Perhaps and most significantly, it was the puttering sound of a small tractor that made me think of home. All the memories of my childhood ricochet around me. On this remote island, amongst the ruins of a sophisticated, wealthy world, I paused, prodding myself to look deeply into my imagination. Did a little girl live in that huge house? Did she pretend she was a wild and free Indian princess riding bareback to the sea? As I walked through the ruins, the wild horses wandered in to take fresh water collected in a pool on the south side of the ruins beneath a small flowering tree. .My reverie was interrupted by a gaggle of women on a guided tour. Time to go deeper in the hammock toward the cemetery, slave quaters, barns and the 1 and 1/2 mile beach trail. My imagination switches, I now feel like Lawrence of Arabia, crossing the dunes in blazing sunlight. We marched through perfect white sand dunes for almost a mile. The sea, from the dunes, was exhilarating, magical, glorious. We both made a mad dash to cool our hot feet in the cool surf. We did not see another soul until we returned to Greyfield Inn for a glass of sweet tea, sitting on the veranda, relaxing on the porch swing.
After a five mile bike ride, a four mile walk and a picnic by the sea, this seemed like the perfect ending to a manificent day on Cumberland Island.