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Published: September 19th 2009
2532 Country Club Road
Nearest and dearest, or at least some of them, outside my first home Let's start at the very beginning
Possibly a case of too much information, but it turns out my very beginning occurred not in North Carolina but back in good old Memphis, Tennessee. Thanks Auntie Boobie and Unkin Don for sharing that gem with me! Moving on nine months, we arrive back in Jacksonville, North Carolina, where, indeed, I came into this world. My impressions of North Carolina from my childhood are ... zilch! I was just a few months old when my mom and I left, heading back to Memphis before eventually returning to England. I have visited a couple times since then but few memories of those trips remain. Instead, I drive over the state line from South Carolina with the sole expectation of being sticky and sweaty for the next week. You see, I have been warned on several thousand occasions of the excessive humidity in North Carolina. Yes, people mention it is a pretty state, but above all it is humid. So much so, that just walking from the air-conditioned house to the air-conditioned car parked in the driveway leaves one in need of yet another shower. Undeterred - as it happens
I don't sweat that much and am largely unhindered by humidity - I head out of Charleston, back up highway 17 and on into North Carolina: the birthplace of flight and of Jennifer Anne Holly.
Believe in your dreams
Wilmington, North Carolina, is a charming town crouching on the banks of the Cape Fear River, just inland from Wrightsville Beach. The historic district which runs along the river is endearing; in the late summer evenings fairy lights twinkle in the trees, families congregate for the children to play, couples enjoy romantic horse-drawn carriage rides. Fairy lights aside, the biggest personal draw of the town is the basketball court on the opposite bank of the river. Wilmington has evolved as a filming centre on the east coast. Amongst other things, the town is home to the fantastic (in my opinion!) teenage shows
Dawson's Creek and
One Tree Hill. Considering these programmes accompanied me through my teenage years and my twenties (although I think I should have stopped watching years ago!), it will come as no surprise that I was incredibly excited to be there. It was soooooo cool. Way cool, even?! Being a well-trained English lady, though, I
remained reserved and just walked serenely up and down the boardwalk before grabbing dinner at the sublime Oyster Bar.
The next morning I took my time waking up. I had booked a ticket on the 5pm ferry from Cedar Island to Ocracoke, which would get me on my way to the town of Duck, where I had rented an apartment for the week. It was a genial plan, except, having booked the ticket, I realised it would possibly leave me stranded at the other end of Ocracoke waiting for the ferry to Hatteras. And if I managed to get the second ferry it would have been about 9.30pm before I made it to Pea Island which is closed at night. It's a very narrow strip of land which is regularly flooded. So, again, I'd be stranded. All in all, then, a really rubbish plan.
Instead, I drove across country. Which worked out very well indeed! First stop: 2532 Country Club Road, Jacksonville. My first home. The drive was unremarkable - long straight roads rarely are particularly memorable. Pamela did a stellar job of directing me straight to the house. But, in all honesty, it was a very disappointing
experience. I couldn't tell you if it was the correct house, and the whole area appears a little run down. I was happy to give Betty Boy some lunch and be on my way. On my way through ... Verona, Bern, Belgrade. Any chance some Europeans came through this way at one time??! Winding my way across to the coast, I was taken aback by the landscape. Acre upon acre upon acre of corn and soya fields punctuated by the occasional solitary farmhouse. It really was a throwback to the nineteenth century. Except for the large farm machine which wouldn't have existed over a 100 years ago. But we can overlook that for the purposes of painting a pretty, romantic picture??
Farmland eventually gave way to the coastline. Then all of a sudden I was driving out of Alligator and across a two-mile long bridge over to East Lake. A two-mile long bridge, at the beginning of which there is a large sign informing drivers of the following: 'The water you are about to drive over is infested with alligators. If you happen to fall in, swim for your life'. Well, I can't remember the exact words, but the
general sentiment has stuck with me. Fortunately I didn't drive off the bridge. Still, the butterflies continued in my tummy when I saw the barbed wire edging the creeks running along the side of the road on the next island. Was that to stop people fishing? To stop little children paddling? To stop the alligators getting out? Or maybe to stop all three? America is a very dangerous place. From bears and lightening storms to tornadoes and hurricanes to alligators. Makes me wonder what potentially life-threatening natural phenomena New England has in store for me? Gulp.
Quite possibly heaven on earth
Arriving onto the North Shores of the Outer Banks via Manteo was, well, another disappointment. Your first glimpse of this wonderful place is tarnished by mile after mile of outlet malls, tacky restaurants and crazy golf courses. What is it with crazy golf here? It seems to be a national past-time. Anyway, moving on. The tack finally petered out, and my mood to take turn for the better as I turned off the highway and onto the road to Duck. The beach, just there, the other side of the houses. Yeah!!! Duck has been saved from
the advance of commercialism, somewhat retaining the feel of the small fishing village it was just a few decades ago. Okay, so it's a nice upmarket sort of fishing village. With relatively little fishing going on. Rather lots of fit, tanned people running and cycling, walking along the beach, sunbathing, surfing. My first thought, 'I think I'm going to like it here'.
As it happens, like isn't a strong enough word. I love this place! It is stunning. The beaches all along the Outer Banks are exquisite. July and August are undoubtedly hideously busy, but by mid-September you can walk for miles without seeing a sole. Other than taking surfing classes (mixed success on that front), saying hi to my neighbours, polite conversation at the grocery store and a very random interlude with a woman on the beach whose father served with the US army in World War II and got an Englishwoman pregnant thus she has a half-sister in England (er , why do people feel the need to share?!), I've been able to indulge the side of me that enjoys quiet and absolute solitude. Just sat here on the balcony, watching the ocean, drinking a beer, letting
the breeze wash over me has been nothing less than heavenly. Sometimes the simple things in life really are the best.
A rose by any another name would sound as sweet?
I have been repeatedly amused by the street names I have seen flash by whilst traversing the country this summer. From 4312 Street in Montana to Pig Trot Lane and Cow Mountain Road in Colorado, it's been interesting to say the least. Driving down the Outer Banks yesterday to visit North America's tallest lighthouse at Cape Hatteras, I was charmed not by the small towns which dot this chain of islands, for they offer little of interest, but by the nautically-themed road names: Beachcomber Lane, Jolly Roger Road, Blackbeard Road, See Breeze, Ocean Wave, and so on. 'Tuna Terrace', however, caught me off guard. I appreciate difference in taste, but
Tuna Terrace? Please. What next, Salmon Street, Lobster Lane, Cod Crescent? Surely some things should be left unsaid?
Most surreal, though, was entering the peculiarly entitled town of Kill Devil Hills, just down from where I am staying. Disturbing, in fact, is a better word. For as I'm pootling along, singing along to the radio,
I drive pass Carolyn Drive. How weird is that? Carolyn being my mother's name. I almost crash the car when, three blocks later, I pass Holly Street (Holly is my surname). Another two blocks and I stop at the intersection with Martin Street (Marten was my father's name). I look to the right. On the corner, Smith Dentist Practice (Smith was my mother's maiden name). And it doesn't stop there. Over the next two days I find Twiford Street (my mother was born in the village of Twyford) and Lillian Street (my maternal grandmother's name is Lilian). Whilst the vast majority of streets having nothing to do with me or my family (for example, Helga Street, Jejac Drive, Lost Colony Street, Princess Ann Street), I nonetheless take this as a sign that I am meant to stay here forever. What d'you reckon?!
To be continued
And so the weather forecaster may have gotten it right for once, summer does seem to be over. Today has been the first truly overcast day I have seen since leaving England in May. To an Englishwoman, three and a half months of sunshine seems almost impossible. But, I promise, it does
happen! As one season ends and another begins, I continue my journey northwards to the country's capital and further into the mountains of New England...
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AMags
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Memories
The photo of the family outside the house, with my mum holding you, brought back floods of memories. Your father would have been so proud of you, the woman you've become and all you've accomplished, as evidenced by all the friends you have around the world. I'm proud to be your auntie. lots of love.