Weekend Away By Jason Oliver Ni xon

Falling for Folly

T h e Ma dcap Cot t age gent s d ecamp for a wint er escape

By Ja Son ol i v er ni xon There is something about a beach town after the season winds down, and the endless streams of SUV-driving visitors pack up and head back to lands farther afield (aka, New Jersey). The air chills. Restaurants resume a sense of normalcy without those tiresome, we-aren’t-on-Open Table waits. The music tones down a notch, and the locals actually say hello.

For a decade I lived year-round in the Hamptons, and ever y L abor Day, the v ibe would shif t seismica lly. For the bet ter. Granted, our cof fers were f ull f rom the go -go summer season just behind us, so ever yone was happy, flush, and ready to hiber nate. A nd there would be no more of those a ll-too -f requent R ange Rover road rage incidents in f ront of the must-have doughnuts joint until next Memor ia l Day.

Folly Beach in South Carolina boasts that cer tain of f-season magic, too. My par tner, John L oecke, and I had v isited this vest pocketsized beach tow n br iefly in the summer, and it br istles w ith energ y. T hink f un, f unk y and just a dash honk y tonk. Roof top ter races pack in the crowds. T he g roov y a l f resco Mexican eater y Chico Feo hosts hipsters 6 - deep at the bar order ing dinner (tr y the ma hi-ma hi tacos and pozole if you brave the July hordes), and “Park Here!” placards are as ubiquitous as teens in bik inis w ith ice cream cones.

But come fa ll, as we discovered, the pace slows, and by w inter the place has largely cleared out. In November, John and I craved some time away — a long weekend to read book s, sit by a fire, wa lk on the beach and cook — and, on a whim, we decided to tr y a w inter time Folly. We rented a 1920s- era cot tage, Camp Huron, that we had spot ted on Instag ram, and the house lived up to its billing.

Per fectly sit uated mere block s f rom the action but plunked smack upon a postcard-per fect marsh and the Folly R iver, Camp Huron proved to be the idea l home base. T hink an atmospher ic white clapboard, one-stor y cot tage w ith creak y painted-wood floors, t wo char ming bedrooms, a per fect k itchen, claw foot t ubs, a record player, a firepit and barbecue g r ill, and a f ront porch k it ted out w ith par t y lights. A nd Holly wood-wor thy sunsets.

Says John, “Imag ine stepping into the past but w ith a ll of the mod- cons, heaps of thought f ul touches, and lightning-fast Wi-Fi. F luf f y towels. Stack s of wood for the marsh-facing firepit. Elv is on the record player. A nd wonder f ul rock ing chairs on the f ront porch. Tr uly, a sma ll slice of heaven.”

T he bar r ier island ’s t wo -block s-long main drag, Center Street, showcases rela xed, color f ul eater ies (take note of Taco Boy and Jack of Cups Sa loon, in par ticular) and the usua l assor tment of beach

gear shops and bars. It’s an idea l wa lk ing tow n. In the mor nings, we g rabbed a cof fee at nearby, a lways- open Ber t’s Market w ith its endless assor tment of f resh sandw iches, barbecue and sushi (and oh! the cor n dogs).

One evening, we stopped at a ter r ific seafood food tr uck near the br idge, Crosby’s Fish and Shr imp Co., and picked up f resh, f resh fish and sat on Camp Huron’s back deck bundled up w ith heaps of candles. K ick ing up the camp exper ience, we paired our mea l w ith a big bot tle of Prosecco and Sw iss chocolate s’mores. T here was a f ull constellation of stars overhead, and the occasiona l trawler passed by in the distance w ith lights flicker ing.

John and I wa lked the dark-sand beach.

We re ad Na nc y Mit ford a nd Ca leb Car r — a nd c onsidere d De ath in Veni ce.

With to -go sandw iches in tow f rom Ber t’s, we plunked dow n on the long strands in scar ves and sweaters for a leng thy picnic lunch.

A nd we spent a stellar day in nearby, more but toned-up Charleston and env irons.

We had biscuits at Ca llie’s.

We shopped for v intage finds at the a lways-inspirationa l A ntiques of South Winder mere.

Exploration of idyllic Mt. Pleasant was followed by cock tails at the wonder f ul Post House Inn.

At sunset, we headed back to our restorative beachside retreat for another dinner under the stars paired w ith a superlative Sicilian white. Cold. Cr isp.

Herons bobbed about in the marsh.

A nd we t ur ned of f — ready for a fina l, blissf ul mor ning of doing absolutely nothing. PS

T h e Ma d c ap gent s, John L o eck e an d Ja son Oliver Ni xon, emb ra ce th e n ew re alit y of COV ID -fr i en dly travel — h e aps of roa d tr ips.