WorldWide
Gone with the wind (page 3)
THAT EVENING, after shaking the sand
from our shoes, we dine on crab cakes
and fresh fish at a restaurant overlooking
Albemarle Sound, near the Oasis, enjoy a
good night’s rest in the most comfortable
bed I’ve ever slept in and rise ready
for a second experiment in flight. We
arrive bright and early at Kitty Hawk
Kiteboarding, on the shore of the sound, where instructors Craig Young and Will
Brooks demonstrate how to control the
incredibly aerodynamic kites, which are
powerful enough to pull a grown man in
a three-wheeler around the parking lot.
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Southern comforts
ONE EVENING, we cross the causeway from Nags Head, North Carolina, to
Roanoke Island to take in the Waterside Theatre’s production of The Lost Colony,
which recounts the tale of a small band of pioneers who arrived on the island
in 1587. Sponsored by Sir Walter Raleigh, from whom the capital of North
Carolina capital takes its name, the colony was the first attempt by England to
establish a settlement in the New World. Left to their own devices, however, the
colonists were never heard from again. Within a year, they had abandoned their
settlement for reasons unknown, and to this day, their fate remains a mystery.
The play has been running at the same waterfront location for 70 years and
is an impressive production, with a cast of 84 and a dazzling number of costume
changes. It offers a dramatic telling of the earliest history of North Carolina.
Thus inspired, we drive on to Raleigh for a taste of the state’s urban pleasures.
We check into the privately owned and luxurious Umstead Hotel and Spa, which
opened last year and lies outside the city limits but is less than 15 minutes by
car from the downtown area. Its grounds include a small lake, and it borders the
hiking trails and oak forests of William B. Umstead State Park. Its restaurant,
Herons, features modern American cuisine with a Southern flair based on ingredients
delivered by local farms.
During our stay, we visit the North Carolina Museum of
Art, which houses works from ancient Egypt to contemporary
American art. We spend an inspiring afternoon wandering
through the galleries. Most memorable is Michael Richards’
sculpture of a gilded airman with an array of tiny airplanes
penetrating his body. The work commemorates the Tuskegee
airmen, African-American pilots in the Second World War
whose contributions to the war effort have been largely overlooked.
What’s so poignant about the sculpture, though, is
the fact that Richards’ studio was on the ninety-second floor
of the World Trade Center and he perished in the 9/11 attacks.
Missing from the museum, however, is any local art. And
the Umstead Hotel and Spa steps up to fill that gap. Its
common areas and restaurant are graced with stunning
original works by local artists that, in combination with the
locally produced foods, is an impressive statement of the
cultural vitality and taste of North Carolina society. I see
works on the hotel walls that deliver great bursts of pleasure at every viewing.
Each outing means a lingering departure.
Raleigh itself is a small city of 350,000, with plenty of parks and fading
reminders of its rich Southern heritage. North Carolina was the last of the
Confederate states to secede from the Union, in 1861. The State Capitol, in downtown
Raleigh, dates from 1840 and is a fine example of the Greek Revival style
of architecture.
The city is growing and prosperous. The best places to savour its Southern
sensibilities are its restaurants and food markets. We sample a generous lunch
that includes grits, biscuits and gravy at Big Ed’s, a legendary downtown country-
food restaurant. And we spend a leisurely Saturday morning stall-hopping
at the state farmers’ market. From collard greens to boiled peanuts, okra, figs,
fresh crab from the coast, melons by the bushel and home-baked pecan pies,
the market is a sensory experience not to be missed.
— R.B.
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Once we have the basics down, we don
life jackets with harnesses attached, hop
into their boat and skim out into the sound.
Claire jumps into the water, and Brooks
clips himself to the back of her life jacket,
then clips her to the kite. He shows her
how to fit her feet into a board that’s a
cross between a surfboard and a water ski
and steps onto it behind her. Then he gets
the kite up, and off they go.
It takes the balance of an acrobat and the
skill of a pilot to turn the kite into a windpowered
engine that can speed two people
on a board across the water. The kite is so
responsive to the slightest touch, it’s like
hitchhiking on an eagle.
Claire, nimble and charmed by Brooks’
mastery of technique, keeps at it until she gets her ride. Molly and I spend more time
in the water than on top of it. But Brooks
manages to get both of us up for a run.
Once we’ve had enough, Claire persuades
him to let her solo. Zipping along, skimming
the waves, tied to that big kite, she
resembles a little bird, fledged and ready to
leap from the nest.
ON OUR FINAL DAY, we devote ourselves
to the beach. Highway 12 threads its way
along the length of the Outer Banks. In
communities on the banks, the beachfronts
are lined with summer homes and
condos. Outside of the villages, however,
pull-offs dot the route, offering public
access to undeveloped oceanfront beaches.
We stop at two on the Atlantic Ocean,
setting out our towels in the dunes, bodysurfing
in the warm rollers breaking on the sand and watching fishermen surfcasting
for bluefish, sea mullet and
Spanish mackerel. Other families are scattered
along the shoreline, enjoying the
afternoon. An hour in the blistering sun,
and we repair to a roadside bar for a drink.
Refreshed, we stop at another beach for a
second dip in the ocean.
In late afternoon, we pull into Frisco
for our final adventure here. We make our
way to Equine Adventures, which operates
out of a ranch-style home surrounded by corrals shaded by a forest of towering
loblolly pine. Owner Sylvia Mattingly saddles
three geldings, named Pistol, Frisco
and Zeus, for a sunset ride down the beach.
Our mounts are as gentle as the lateafternoon
breeze, and we follow Mattingly,
single file, down a trail through the forest
of the North Carolina Coastal Reserve. The
fragrance of the cedars and the lengthening
shadows of gnarly old live oaks greet
our passage. A slow rise and the distant
thunder of the surf announce our approach
to the beach. At the top of the hill, the blue
Atlantic spreads out before us. Molly and
I canter down and then set off at a gallop
along the incoming surf. The heat of the
day is easing, and we are tracing the salty
rim of the continent. Far behind, Claire,
who has spent the past couple of days playfully
mocking our timidity and reluctance
to risk life and limb hang-gliding and kiteboarding,
is having trouble with Pistol.
She hasn’t much experience with horses
and is a touch fearful. Although he’s a
good-natured horse, he can sense her
unease and is stopping when he wishes,
ambling when she wants speed and generally
ignoring her commands.
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