We left Skidaway Island on a warm sunny morning and headed out on the I95, the snowbird highway, south along the Georgia coast. As soon as we could, we exited onto the coastal highway. In Eulonia, Himself stopped to get a pulled pork sandwich (Georgia pork = great pork) and I mooched around PeachWorld while he ate.
As well as offering every possible way to consume peaches - peach cobbler in Mason jars, peach syrup, peach bread, dried peaches, smoked peaches, peach jam, you get my drift, the store had a large selection of hot sauces. I walked out with a bottle of Moonshine Madness Bourbon BBQ sauce, some Butt Burner hot sauce and a Deer in the Headlights hot sauce. And half a pound of homemade fudge.
We meandered down along the coast to Darien. The Dualle people first settled this region. Based on a bluff high above the Altamaha river, presumably they fished the river and caught fiddler crabs and swamp rabbits in the wide wetlands on either bank. There wasn't anything on the bluff that told us what they were like or how they lived. Instead, there was a reconstruction of Fort King George, the southernmost outpost of the British Empire on the American coastline, dating from the 1720s.
It was a small mean huddle of buildings, surrounded by a low palisade. There was a look out tower and block house, living quarter ranging from adequate to basic, an outhouse and a forge. A grim place in which to end your days for the 140 soldiers who died here over a five year period. Mostly from swamp fever, but occasionally killed in skirmishes with the Spanish, or the indigenous people who had lost the bluff to the newcomers.
Standing at their graves under a huge live oak tree, I wondered what they must have thought of the prospect of dying here in an alligator-infested swamp at the end of the world, defending King and country and the business interests behind that glorious calling.
After their presence was secured, the British brought in a group of Scots to settle the area and carve a lumber industry out of the cypress forests along the river. A band saw blade in the museum measured at least 30' across. What those forests must have looked like.....
According to the Fort commander, the Scots were very industrious as long as they were kept away from the rum supplies. He must have had it locked up tight, because they built a sawmill, a railway to and from the river. Hell, they changed the course of the river to suit their needs, digging a short cut between two points of a bow. They built a pretty little brick town along the river where their descendants still live today.
We continued down 17S to the coast. It was flat, flat land. Acres of wetland stretched across to a calm Atlantic, with the Golden Islands slung low and blue in the distance. We crossed a long high bridge to Brunswick. The city seemed to be comprised solely of retirement condos. Row upon row upon row of identical concrete villas, interspersed with health centres and pharmacies and the odd golf store. I'm not sure I'd want to end my days there.
The islands are beautiful though. We stayed in the campground at the northern end of Jekyll Island. We hiked down to the water at one end of Driftwood beach.
The beach is iconic and with good reason. It wraps a good two miles around the northern tip of the island. It backs onto pine trees. The ocean is gradually eroding away the land. As the undergrowth and then the soil is washed away, the roots of the trees are gradually emerging from what's left. Eventually each tree is felled. They litter the beach, blacked twisted shadows of themselves. Stumps stick out of the white sand like rotten teeth. Huge trunks are shriveled into contorted shapes by the salt water.
The combination of endless white sand and endless calm water, interspersed with these tree sculptures was visually very haunting. Like wandering through a dystopic installation in some great outdoor galleria.
Further down the road, Sunny Optimism in the Face of Climate Change was busy at work as men and machines carved a new resort out of the sea level woodlands.
After it got dark, we went to eat at the Bistro, a short stroll from the campsite. Apparently, all the Golden Girls of this Golden Isle were having their pre-Christmas meet up there. We were surrounded by a dizzying array of elaborately styled white hair. Quite a few of the ladies had that strange featureless forehead that comes with having the Botox guy on speed dial. The few men in attendance just looked like normal old men. It's ghastly what us women do to ourselves.
As we ate our blackened crab and fried green tomatoes, I eavesdropped like crazy on everyone's Christmas plans. The wine-fueled chatter was deafening in any case. It seemed like everyone was either STAYING or VISITING for Christmas. It was difficult to figure out which had more social clout. VISITING, by a nose I think. VISITING A SON IN ATLANTA definitely so.
The Bistro sold wine for $12 a bottle so things got very shrill after about 40 minutes and everyone's plans got repeated quite a few times for the benefit of those who were hard of hearing or out of touch with their short term memory.
At 8pm some inaudible to me seniors' klaxon must have sounded, because they rose as one to pay their bills, fight over the wine bill, and clamour to wish Richard the waiter the happiest of Christmases. There was a flurry of air-kissing and back-slapping and the restaurant suddenly emptied.
We all took a breath. Richard found a bottle of rum.
'Are you STAYING or VISITING, Richard', I asked.
'I'm from Michigan. I go home in August.'
Later on we wandered back to our campsite through the pine trees. Everyone was tucked up inside on a beautiful night. Someone had forgotten to turn off their Christmas inflatibles and they waved sadly at us as we finished the $12 wine Richard had bagged for us to take home. Then we went to bed too.
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