Day 3: St. Simons Island to St. Marys

Rice was the most common--and notoriously brutal--crop in coastal Georgia: Slaves who worked the soggy paddies often caught malaria. Following the Civil War, not many rice plantations survived. On a tour of the Hofwyl-Broadfield Plantation in Brunswick, we learn it was one of the few that did, in part due to a pair of savvy sisters who turned it around by converting it into a dairy farm.

A surrey on Jekyll Island (Imke Lass) [enlarge photo] NOVEMBER 2005 ISSUE • Ghosts of the Sierra Madre • Kauai: The Top 25 • When Everybody's an Expert, Who Can You Trust? • Rome Sweet Rome • Chains Giving Away Wi-Fi • The Sea Islands • Turkish Hostels Are Going to New Heights

A terrific thunderstorm erupts right as we arrive on Jekyll Island. The Georgia coast has a subtropical climate; humid summer stretches well into October, and afternoon thunderstorms are common. We take shelter on the wide porch of the Jekyll Island Club Hotel, formerly the clubhouse commissioned by J.P. Morgan, William K. Vanderbilt, William Rockefeller, and Joseph Pulitzer, who were all part of the Jekyll Island Club, which owned the island in the late 1880s. Jekyll Island, including the hotel, was purchased by the state in 1947. I rock in a white wicker chair and admire the sailboats.

For all its former wealth, Jekyll is much more casual than St. Simons. Beyond the historic district, the interior is family-friendly and modest, with mostly small ranch houses. It would be sacrilegious not to play some kind of golf, so during a break in the storm, we squeeze in a round of miniature golf, then head back to Highway 17.

The Georgia Pig is easy to miss. It's right off the highway, and through drenching rain, I barely make out what looks like a weathered barn. Michael and I are the only customers and the woman taking our order hardly looks up. There are four options, in sandwich or platter form: pork, beef, ribs, sausage. The pork is sweet, smoky, and so soft I can't spear it with a fork. I'm dying to take a picture of the pig figurines on the windowsill, but a hand-scrawled sign makes me think twice: CAMERA FLASH + COOK WITH SHARP KNIFE = STITCHES!

By the time we reach St. Marys, it's past 9 p.m. and the sleepy town is in full R.E.M. We check into the Spencer House Inn, a huge pink Victorian run by Mike and Mary Neff. Mary sends us down the street for dessert at Sterling's Southern Café. A lady named Mrs. Wright bakes six pies a week for Sterling's, and, according to our waitress, she's 87 and "won't be around much longer." There's one piece left of her coconut cream pie--fluffy, tangy, and sweet, with a top layer of toasted coconut. Let's hope Mrs. Wright stays healthy.

At the Spencer House Inn, our huge top-floor room has a four-poster bed and a claw-foot tub. But the real draw is a DVD player; we borrow Friday Night Lights from Mike and Mary, who say it's one of the few DVDs in their collection that they were able to agree on, and settle in for the night.

Day three 

Lodging

Food