Scanning Glacier Bay for humpback whales and sea lions
Travel writing is no way to earn a living. (That’s why I also write about everything else under the sun.) But it’s a darn good way to see the world in a way you might not otherwise see it. Why? Well, mainly because serious travel journalists don’t typically sign up for “Norway in a Nutshell” tours or consider seeing Glacier Bay by sailing past icebergs on a gigantic cruise ship.
Travel writing takes a certain amount of courage. Not the writing part. But the being part. If you want to write something people want to read, you’ve got to be willing to put yourself out there and do wild and crazy things, strike up conversations with complete strangers, and remain perfectly placid when a random Frenchman sticks his finger in your stinky cheese.
Of course, you don’t have to be a travel writer to do any of this. If you want to see the world with new eyes, just act like a travel writer. Skip the “See Europe in 12 Days” tours and forget the drive-by sightings of grizzly bears in Yellowstone. Instead, immerse yourself. Rent an Italian villa for a week and drink wine with every meal, and instead of peeking at that grizzly through a telescope, take a hike up Mount Washburn. The key is to get dirty. Here’s how to get started….
The picturesque Rue St. Antoine in the old quarter of Cannes
1) Explore the back streets. Yes, so it seems obvious. Get off the main tourist strips. But if it’s so obvious, how come no one is doing it? If you really want to get to know a place, leave the madding crowd and hit the back streets. A case in point: when I was in Cannes, France, last fall the Boulevard de la Croisette—the hip (and expensive) shopping street lined with boutiques and department stores—was jam packed with tourists. It’s not like I could afford to buy anything in a place like Alexandra where all the movie stars and “ladies who lunch” shop anyway. So I just started wandering down the side streets. Not only did I find myself taking in views of the entire city and long stretches of the French Riviera from the Musée de la Castre on a high hill overlooking the Mediterranean, but I also found some delightful (and less expensive) shops and restaurants patronized by locals along curving back alleys. When my friend, Dorothy, and I sat down for lunch at a tiny outdoor cafe in Le Suqet behind the more heavily traveled Rue Georges Clemenceau, we not only spent our meal enjoying the sounds of French-speaking natives all around us but had the delight of drawing the attention of locals walking to work, one of whom stopped to show us how to eat our artisanal cheese plate, poking our cheese with one rotund finger and advising us to start with the mild chevre before moving onto a French version of Stilton. And did I mention our French waiter, who got a kick out of Dorothy’s accidental thank you’s in Spanish, also gave us complimentary shots of what he gleefully termed “fruit juice” at the end of our meal? And that was on top of the house wine at only $2 a glass.
Unexpected drama climbing the Kotor Fortress
2) Don’t make any plans. That was how Dorothy and I took on the lovely medieval city of Kotor, Montenegro, on the Adriatic Sea. The result? A fantastic and unplanned hike up the side of a fjord to explore the city’s centuries-old fortress, restored with money from American citizens. We stumbled upon the trail when walking down back streets in the old city, looked up the steep steps curling up the mountainside, shrugged, and said, “what the heck?” An hour or so later, we were enjoying the most magnificent view of our entire trek through southern Europe. Not as good as Norway, of course, but still pretty damn good. 3) Or make a ridiculous plan, and see if it works. Sometimes, however, more fun than winging it is trying to navigate your way through another country (or two or three) via the Internet. That’s what I did when my former husband and I decided to visit Northern Europe two years ago. Trying to figure out how to get us from Sandefjord, Norway, to Kiel, Germany, in a way that would be far more interesting than a flight to Hamburg, I planned the most absurd 24-hour journey from Point A to Point B ever. My husband was convinced it could never work. It began with a short train trip from the Sandefjord airport to city center, a long walk to the wrong ferry terminal, followed by a wild taxi ride to the correct one 30 kilometers away in Larvik, and a four-hour journey by ferry across the Black Sea. (Did I mention Color Line offers a fantastic Norwegian buffet of cold fish, cheese, salads, flatbread, and Scandinavian pastries?)
Sandefjord, Norway: Jumping off point for a 24-hour plane, train, and boat ride to Kiel, Germany
Once in Hirtshals, Denmark with the sun setting, we hopped on a train, making countless middle of the night connections, including a startling encounter with college students participating in Carnival (one of whom sat in my husband’s lap and another of whom sat on the table in front of my seat with her scantily covered thighs just inches from my nose) and a four-hour stopover in an outdoor station at Fredericia, where I spent hours dancing on cement to keep warm (And no, no one was there at 3 a.m. to watch.) The next morning we arrived in Kiel, exhausted and amazed that we had made it. “I gotta hand it to you,” my husband said, “I never thought this plan of yours would work.” Truth be told, I never thought it would work either.
Wandering the back streets of Barcelona
4) Talk to the wait staff. They live here, you know, so don’t treat them like background music. Strike up a conversation. You might be surprised at what you’ll experience and what you’ll learn. In Barcelona, I chatted with a bartender who knew no English and a smattering of French. I, on the other hand, knew almost no Spanish and spoke only passable French. Somehow we managed to communicate in a fascinating mixture of three languages. And then there was the cruise ship waiter from Honduras who happily answered all questions on the inner workings of the dining room and staff life on a giant ship. Plus, he offered nightly demonstrations on how to balance forks on wine bottles using toothpicks (and who couldn’t use a new parlor trick every now and then?). Meanwhile the Serbian sommelier offered the inside scoop on what and what not to drink in Montenegro as well as insight on the economics of being in the culinary industry in Eastern Europe in the wake of civil war. A darkly handsome man with a thick and decadent Serbian accent pouring me wine while giving an up close and personal history lesson…I’m sold!
No map, no problem: happily lost in Pompeii
5) Be open and approachable. Wear a smile, and almost everyone will want to be your friend and help you, even if you don’t ask for it. Like the conductor on a train Dorothy and I took from Naples to Pompeii. He could speak no English but knew we had taken the wrong train (even though we ourselves did not know) and began to offer us aid with hand signals and requests for help from other English-speaking passengers…of which there were none. But we smiled and made our best efforts to communicate in our pathetic and miniscule Italian vocabulary (and, by the way, never visit Italy if you don’t speak the language because if anyone there speaks English, they’re not letting on). He eventually enabled us to shift to another train to get us to the ancient ruins of Pompeii instead of Sorrento, saving us what could have been an hour or more of wasted time backtracking in a region of Italy that is none too safe anyway. (Did I mention we were nearly mugged at the train stationin Naples and escaped the situation with some very fast walking?) Thank you, Neopolitan conductor, for saving two semi-clueless Americans from further trouble….
As I sat on the steps outside the Musee d’Orsay, listening to the click and swish of the street performers’ roller skates, it sadly dawned on me that I would once again miss the inside of the museum. No wandering through the majestic corridors or getting lost in the muted colors of Monet, Manet, Degas or Renoir.
Instead, just a few yards away from the museum entrance, I was sitting on grotty steps, watching a pair of street performers, one testing the limits of roller skates and the other whose gig was to mock innocent passersby. My kids were reduced to falling over in giggles every time an unsuspecting tourist was victimized. It was entertaining, but I couldn’t deny the call of the French Impressionists. I was counting down until closing time. Thirty eight minutes left. How had inertia anchored me here, in Paris of all places?
You see, I had never liked Paris. The only reason I came this time was out of a sense of duty. My husband loved Paris, and since he couldn’t join us on this part of the trip, I felt compelled to include Paris in our summer itinerary. It was a nod in his direction, a feeble recognition of what he had done to make this trip possible. After we had traveled together for the past month in Spain and Morocco, he flew home, and the kids and I headed off to get a taste of the rest of Europe, wandering through five weeks of Germany, France, Italy, and Austria. My husband acted as our ‘stateside support ,’ researching hotels, making reservations, and paying the bills, of course.
So it was just the kids and me. And Paris. Which I hated. I hated the rainy weather, the expensive food, and the unfriendly shopkeepers. And I hated the promise of Paris. The romance. The lure of the Eiffel Tower. This was my fourth trip to Paris, and I again swore it would be my last.
My kids with crepes in Paris
The first time I was in Paris, I was in high school. It was the spring break language trip. The weather was chilly, and my experience couldn’t compare to that of my Spanish-studying classmates who were spending a fabulous time on the sultry Iberian Peninsula. Not yet 21 and under the constant scrutiny of chaperones, I and my classmates couldn’t even find much pleasure in the realization that wine was, in fact, cheaper than Coke. And it was more than just the Coke that seemed expensive on a babysitter’s budget. Even though it was the 90s, and the Euro had not yet taken over, I probably only had a few hundred bucks for the week. That could last one meal in a metropolitan city like Paris and wouldn’t get me very far in the much anticipated French boutiques. Even kitschy souvenir shopping, which suite my budget better, was a lackluster experience. The unaccommodating shopkeepers rebutted my attempts at speaking diligently practiced high school French. Either I received a blank stare or a curt, tight-lipped, “Excuse me?” in perfect English.
My second foray among the Parisians was definitely a notch up. It was a 21-day, whirlwind tour of Europe with my mother and sister. I could enjoy the cheap wine, had a bit more money to shop, and relaxed at many mediocre pre-arranged meals. But my memories are vague. It was a quick trip. Eiffel Tower, Monaco Casinos, Coliseum, Venice Canals, the Alps, Schoenborn Palace, Goldenes Dachl, Neuschwanstein Castle. . .just like the movie.
I haven’t thought of my third trip to Paris in years. I guess I’ve blocked it out. That time, I was in my final semester of college, doing my student teaching at an English-speaking school in Germany. A group of us drove to Paris for the weekend. Imagine that. Driving to Paris for the weekend. I do remember being distinctly impressed with the compactness and ease of travel afforded to the Europeans. But I was once again not impressed with Paris. This time, I was too hung up on love. As I stood on the precipice of Place du Trocadero, with a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower at night, I was with a man with whom I was less than in love. As I tried to force a meager enthusiasm for my date, I vowed never to return to Paris without genuine love. I can’t remember the details, but there were probably a few forced kisses. After all, we were in Paris. It was our last date.
My daughter boat pushing in Paris
But this trip was different. Finances and weather weren’t going to put a damper on this journey. I was ready to take on Paris. I was armed with a rain coat, a few umbrellas, and weather proof shoes. I had plenty of cash and credit. Of course, with two kids, I was not remotely interested in sitting through a five-course meal for three hours or shopping in expensive boutiques, but I could comfortably order a meal in a restaurant for the three of us and buy as many Eiffel Tower key rings as we could carry.
The rudeness of Paris didn’t faze me this time either. Paris is just another big city. I don’t think Parisians are particularly more discourteous than those residing in other big cities of the world. Sure, there’s a bit more snobbery in Paris. Though, at this point in my life, after having crossed the globe a few times, I would give a bit more leeway for Parisian snobbery. It is an impressive city. I guess I also have a tougher skin. Curtness doesn’t bother me as much anymore. I myself have become more practiced at stone cold stares. I was an eighth grade school teacher, have been married for thirteen years, and have a ten and an eight year old. Sarcasm, silent stares, and snooty looks are just a few of the nasty tricks that I’ve acquired. I can raise an eyebrow with a snide lip as good as any Parisian.
And finally, love was no longer an issue. I had traded in my glass slippers for Saucony running shoes, with an occasional high-heeled black leather boot slipped on for fun. Stability, fidelity, and the rewards for working at love were now my priorities. It’s not that my life had become devoid of romance, but that it no longer needed the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. A simple Saturday morning when the kids slept past 6:30 and we had a few more minutes together would kindle a romantic trajectory that would last through waffles, soccer, an afternoon birthday party and grilled burgers, until the kids were tucked in for the night. At that point, Eiffel Tower or not, we may or may not find ourselves too tired to go on.
So that’s where I found myself in Paris for the fourth time. My conditions were different, but in my estimation, the city hadn’t changed. Arc de Triomphe, Sacre Coeur, Tour Eiffel, and of course, the Louvre.
We had spent a morning in the Louvre. It was a brief visit. We rented the museum guides, walked around for a few hours, and ended up in the Louvre café. I knew the next five weeks would be full of museums, cathedrals, palaces, and long walks. Spending only four hours in the Louve felt like a travesty to me, but the goal of the trip wasn’t to present a concise history of Eastern and Western civilization gleaned from a museum. Instead, it was merely to launch the kids on a life of travel. Two days or even one full day in the Louvre is certainly not the most effective way to infect them with the travel bug.
We walked out of the museum and found ourselves in the Tuileries Gardens. Little did I know that this path would set the tone for the rest of our summer.
Slinging wet pea stones in their wake, both children raced down the garden path to the man with the toy boat cart. They begged for a boat. Exhausted, I collapsed on a chair by the concrete pool. I knew there was a lot more of Paris to see over the next five days, and I suppressed the nagging guilt I felt about ‘giving up’ for the afternoon.
It was two Euros to rent a boat for an hour. The children were given a pole and a boat with a sail. The French-speaking boat peddler, a strange but satisfyingly friendly cross between a gentle grandfather and a homeless man, was accommodating, letting the children choose their boat, suggesting the fastest boats among his collection, and helping them with their first launch.
At that moment, although I wanted to keep hating Paris, I felt my grip loosening. This distaste had taken years to cultivate. I wouldn’t even deign a meal in a French restaurant back home if I could avoid it. It was simply a principal to me now: a snobbery about being snobby.
But this moment challenged every bit of Paris that I found detestable. It was friendly, accommodating, and an undeniably good deal. I had more than two content children, a reclining chair by the fountain, and a spectacular view in every direction. As I sat there for the afternoon, sometimes lost in my thoughts and much of the time thinking nothing at all, I realized I had never let myself completely go in Paris. I had posed for pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower, bartered for the prerequisite Eiffel Tower key rings, and had hung on to a Sorbonne University t-shirt, buried somewhere in my bottom drawer at home. But I had never released my Type A American intensity to become a part of the scenery.
As I melted into the background of tourists photos, I began to see how unimaginably beautiful the city was. How had I missed this on my visits to Paris? I started to look around, to notice the architecture. I absorbed the dampness of the gardens, imbued with the graceful sculptures and aged trees that have literally seen history unfold. And as I sat there, I even began to dismiss the quirky ways of the Parisians, and appreciate the annoyance of the pandering demanded by tourists.
Of course, it did rain for a few minutes that afternoon, but somehow it didn’t matter. The wind and brief moments of pelting rain made the boating all that much more exciting.
I realized that traveling with children affords a certain amount of freedom. Freedom to sit and watch the street performers instead of wandering through high-ceilinged galleries. Freedom to eat crepes for lunch. Freedom to skip the afternoon at the Louvre with the great masters, and instead, become one of the scenes of the great masters: Boy Pushing Boat at Fountain.
As I sat there, I also realized I had never really thought of the goal of our trip. After all, what goal do you need when you’ll be spending the summer in Europe? Pictures of us for the Christmas card in front of the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Canal, and at the top of the Alps? But maybe it was about more. As I watched tourists take photos of children, my children, push-boating in the fountain, maybe this trip was destined to be one where we didn’t see everything, but we instead became a part of everything.
I never did make it into the Musee d’Orsay that afternoon, but I did make the conscious choice to become a part of every place we visited. No check lists, ‘top ten’ lists, or ‘must see’ sights.
Instead, we visited the same little pizza shop in Rome almost every afternoon and got to know the owner’s name and all about his family. Each kid had their favorite stool and type of pizza.
My son drawing in Venice
We went hiking in the Alps with a German family that my daughter had befriended on the train, spending the next two days sharing meals, Prosseco, and the common struggles of raising kids, balancing work and family, and the German perspective on the dilemma in financial markets.
We fed the pigeons at Notre Dame, scattering our leftover baguette from lunch. We never made it to the top of the bell tower in Notre Dame, but no one complained about missing it. They did complain when we ran out of bread, and then the birds wouldn’t eat the gummy candy they foisted on them.
I did my share of eating too—from croissants to gelato. I even ate brats and drank beer at a playground in Kaiserslautern, and at every other playground I found after that day that served them.
There were poignant moments, too. Things came up that I wouldn’t have necessarily brought up with my kids. At the bus stop for the Appian Way, we talked with a Roman who was fiercely racist, protecting his job and lifestyle from North African immigrants. The children listened quietly, and after we parted from him, we spent many hours talking about racism, prejudice, jobs, and country, as we walked from one catacomb to the next.
In Venice, we passed an afternoon with a researcher who was working on an international project on chickens. She was studying how interbreeding chickens actually made them more resistant to disease, more attractive, and provided a lower mortality rate. The children didn’t miss connecting her research to our Appian Way talks about racism and prejudice.
Of course, I could go on. There were so many moments of connections. But this year, although our Christmas card did contain the requisite posed picture in front of a recognized site, it also showed a snapshot of my daughter sketching by the canals of Venice and my son pushing his boat with a pole, raggedy boat-man in the background. I’m not in the photo of course, but I can see my empty green chair, reclining by the fountain pool, where I was sitting when I became a part of the background of Paris.
In addition to owning and operating a dance studio and productions company, guest blogger Dorothy Stephenson is a writer and also assists with researching and writing for Deborah Huso.
The Cliff House Resort and Spa sitting atop Bald Head Cliff
Maine is a state I always wanted to explore, so I wasted no time saying “yes” when Deborah asked if I’d like to join her on a week-long trip there in May. A 13-hour road trip from Virginia led us to the little, friendly seaside town of Ogunquit and to our new home away from home – The Cliff House Resort and Spa. I’d seen the ocean from the southeastern coast, but never like this. Ocean waves crashed against massive granite boulders with a calming, gray sky looming overhead. After snapping some pictures, grabbing a bite to eat, and squealing “We’re in Maine!!!” Deborah and I hit the sack ready to wake up the next day and experience all this charming resort town had to offer.
As it turned out, the beds were really comfortable – like sleeping on a giant cloud. So we didn’t get our adventurous, explore-everything-in-sight morning going as quickly as we planned. We eventually hit the town and stopped at Bessie’s on Shore Road for lunch. I enjoyed one of the most tender and tasteful steak salads I’d ever had. Of course, Mainers didn’t offer up sweet tea like this southern girl is used to, so I settled for Deborah’s favorite – Dr. Pepper.
After lunch, Deborah and I made our way back to our car, receiving “Hi’s” and “Hello’s” from the friendly locals, and checked out the downtown shopping scene, which consisted of toy stores, jewelry galleries, and even a chocolate shop! We headed back to the Cliff House Resort and… wait for it… SPA, where I enjoyed an 80-minute (yes, I said 80-minute) hot stone massage. I felt like I could melt off the table until… hmmm… my eyes popped open, my brows narrowed in confusion, and then I realized… “The masseuse is walking on my back.” This was definitely unlike any massage I’d experienced before, but she obviously knew her technique because I could feel the tension falling away.
Looking Little Next to the Rocks at the Base of Bald Head Cliff
For dinner – a corner table in an oceanfront, glass-enclosed dining room offering panoramic views of the Atlantic. My eyes shut and my shoulders sank as I tasted the first bite of my lobster bisque, followed by filet mignon, and then a decadent peanut butter and chocolate chip pie for dessert. With full tummies, Deborah and I faced a bit of high winds to stroll down the outside stairways that led to a closer look of the ocean and boulder strewn beachfront. What a great trip! And, at that point, it had only just begun.
My new book, Moon Spotlight Great Smoky Mountains National Park(Avalon Travel, 2011), is now available for purchase. This 90-page compact guide covers the Newfound Gap Road, Cades Cove, Clingmans Dome, and Alum Cave Bluffs Trail. In addition, it offers my recommendations on sights, entertainment, shopping, recreations, food, and transportation. The book also includes maps with sightseeing highlights to help you plan your trip.
If you’d like to order a copy, you can do so through the Avalon Travel website.
We all have our Independence Day traditions. Blue Grass in Virginia’s highest elevation, lowest population county is no exception. The annual 4th of July parade takes all comers. No registration required.
Here's your chance to show off that new hydrostatic mower
Get Fido in on the fun. All it takes is a patriotic bandana.
Antique vehicles welcome so long as you bring candy for the kids.
No parade would be complete without horses...and a knight errant.
Two weekends ago, Dad and I set off for our annual Father’s Day hike, scouring Shenandoah National Park for a trail neither of us had hiked previously. Surprisingly, we found it just south of Big Meadows—the 3.3-mile circuit to Lewis Falls.
Fly Poison flower along the Appalachian Trail
Accessible via some rocky downhill switchbacks just north of the Tanners Ridge overlook north of Milepost 52 on the Skyline Drive, this trail is a good moderate hike though perhaps an ill-advised choice for those with bad knees, as the downhill trekking is pretty rough on the joints.
The trail meanders through fern carpeted woods, across small streams, until finally landing at an observation point above the falls. At 81 feet, Lewis Falls isn’t spectacular, but it’s worth the trek with its delicate veil-like cascades coursing over a granite face.
If you make the full circuit here, which we did, the second half of the hike climbs up toward Big Meadows Lodge, where you can stop and grab a blackberry sundae before heading back down the trail. The hike then follows the Appalachian Trail south of the lodge back to the parking area.
The Appalachian Trail section of the hike is an excellent spot for catching glimpses of wildlife if you’re quiet enough. Two hikers who preceded us down the trail ran into a black bear, and we also came within several feet of a springing fawn.
That's not white cake frosting on the rocks; it's accumulated bird poop.
After being chased by Steller sea lions in Alaska’s Glaciery Bay (check out the Alaska section of this blog for details), I wasn’t particularly enamored of the idea of swimming with California sea lions in Mexico’s Sea of Cortez. But as it turns out, the 400 to 600 sea lions that call this protected gulf home are a good deal friendlier (or perhaps lazier) than their Alaska cousins. Friendly enough to swim with, in fact.
I'll take a helicopter with my yacht.
La Paz based Fun Baja offers day-long excursions into the Sea of Cortez for $110 USD per person. The price includes transfer from your hotel as well as any snorkeling, scuba, or kayaking gear you may need. Fun Baja departs from the marina at Costa Baja, a luxury resort just outside La Paz. The marina also plays host to the yachts of the well-heeled who visit this sea and desert paradise.
Snorkeling in the Sea of Cortez
Among the activities Fun Baja offers is the opportunity to snorkel with sea lions. Good luck getting the creatures to leave their sun-warmed rocks and hop into the water to play, however. Never fear though. Even if you can’t coax a 900-lb. playmate into the water, you can still enjoy swimming among the sea’s incredible array of fish. But slather on the sunscreen first.
Fun Baja also offers scuba diving, kayaking, fishing, and whale watching. The Sea of Cortez is one of only 10 places in the world where juvenile whale sharks congregate, and in winter months, you can see sperm whales (of Moby Dick fame) swimming in this sea that has enjoyed government protection for almost a decade.
Skidding along these turquoise waters with barren desert mountains and rock formations rising on all sides, it’s hard to imagine humans calling such a place home outside the city limits of La Paz, but more than a few Mexican families still make their livings in the Sea of Cortez as traditional fishermen, living on isolated islands with no running water and no electricity. The Mexican government allows them to stay so long as they continue to live in this traditional way, but if the families leave, they lose claim to their island homes forever.
Secluded swim beach off Espiritu de Santos Island
Fun Baja will also anchor off Espiritu Santos Island and ferry passengers to a private white sand beach, where they can enjoy lunch, cocktails, and clear blue-green water rife with fish. Swimming in the sea here is something like a liquid massage as the water changes from warm to cool and back again.
Cabo San Lucas has long been the destination of choice for visitors to Mexico’s Baja California Sur, part of the second longest peninsula in the world. But for those who would prefer to skip the build-up of a much too popular resort destination that is also a fave of the college crowd, La Paz, about a two-hour drive north of Cabo, is the place to go. The capital city of Baja California Sur, La Paz has nevertheless long been overlooked by the more conventional tourist…and that’s a good thing. Because what you’ll find in La Paz on the glistening Sea of Cortez (as the Gulf of California is typically called by Mexicans) is an unspoiled desert landscape on a protected sea and a community that retains the flavor of Old Mexico.
Costa Baja's lobby overlooking the pool
This is not to say La Paz is without development. Resort developers have finally discovered this desert beach paradise, but those that are here claim they are dedicated to preserving the pristine landscape and waters that surround the city. Of course, that remains to be seen. The good news, however, is that posh accommodations are available sans the typical tourist crowd. The best place to check into is undoubtedly Costa Baja, La Paz’s first five star resort with gulf front rooms outfitted with modern decor, including glassed-in showers and private balconies overlooking the sea. And while Costa Baja offers the perfect environment in which to take it easy with its own private white sand beach and nighttime gulf breezes to die for, the more adventurous traveler will enjoy the easy access the resort provides to the UNESCO World Heritage Site–the lovely Sea of Cortes.
Adventure on the Sea of Cortez with Fun Baja
Fun Baja will pick up guests right at Costa Baja’s marina for day-long excursions into the gulf on one of its seven yachts with activities ranging from snorkeling with sea lions to scuba diving. Stay tuned for the lowdown on how to best spend the day on the Sea of Cortes….
I’ve known about The Liberty Rose in Williamsburg since my grad school days at William and Mary but only recently had the opportunity to stay there. This luxurious bed and breakfast on Jamestown Road only a mile from Colonial Williamsburg’s Merchant’s Square is something of a rarity in this tourist town, which is dominated by chain hotels.
Situated under towering oak, beech, and poplar trees, this four diamond inn is colonial in style on the exterior but full throttle Victorian on the inside with decadently romantic rooms swathed in jacquard and velvet. Surrounded by sumptuous English gardens rich with blue hydrangea, creeping ivy and ferns, fountains, and cushioned rocking chairs, the Liberty Rose is something of a haven from the bustle of Williamsburg, and one is almost tempted not to leave.
All four rooms here are lovely, but my favorite pick is Magnolias Peach, which occupies an upstairs wing unto itself. Light and airy with windows on three sides, the room has a four poster Queen Anne bed dressed in soft as silk 800-thread count sheets and a quiet alcove with chaise lounge and electric stove.
Gardens at The Liberty Rose
Breakfast is beyond indulgent, and forget counting calories. It’s hopeless to even worry about it. Fresh fruit dishes followed by oozing ham and cheese croissants, scrambled eggs, and warm and gooey pineapple upside-down cake are the order of the morning here.
If you’re visiting the Highland Maple Festival this year in beautiful Highland County, Virginia, the weekends of March 12-13 and March 19-20, you’ll be touring my home stomping grounds. If you’d like to pick up a copy of my latest travel book, the first edition of Moon Blue Ridge and Smoky Mountains, you can find signed copies available at Artful Gifts on Main Street in Monterey or at Country Convenience, a classic old-time country store in Blue Grass. Published by Avalon Travel, publishers of the popular Moon Handbook as well as Rick Steves series, Moon Blue Ridge and Smoky Mountains is the independent traveler’s guide to the Blue Ridge Parkway and Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina and Tennessee.
