Tag Archives: travel

A Blissful Week Away

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The smallest of the Leeward Islands, Anguilla is a British Overseas Territory in the Caribbean Sea.  Home to 33 white sand beaches, this little island is an ideal spot for a relaxing, sun-filled getaway.  In 2019, as a passenger on a Star Clippers cruise, I spent a delightful afternoon with my family on the beach at Sandy Ground.  We settled into a row of beach chairs in front of the popular Elvis’ Beach Bar, ready to soak in the sun, and bury our feet in the luxurious sand while sipping festive drinks with nostalgic names like Love Me Tender or Blue Suede.   We all had a grand time.  Before we knew it, the tender (or navette) arrived to carry us back to our clipper ship anchored out in the bay.  After this small taste of island life on Anguilla, I did some reading about this lovely destination and now I’m eager to return some day to explore more of its history and culture along with one or two more beaches. In the meantime, I am sharing some photos from my day at the beach, which have inspired the photo essay below.

“Oh no,” Violet  Goodwine cried as she circled her arms in a wild attempt to keep  her balance.  Despite her  efforts, she splashed down into the crystal clear bay at Sandy Ground.  The cool water soothed her sunburned skin as she bobbed back up to the surface.  She swam a few strokes to retrieve her paddle floating on the calm water a few feet from the bamboo board she had rented from her beachside hotel.

Her paddle boarding instructor, Marco, offered encouraging words as she heaved herself back onto her board and rose slowly to a standing position. “You’re doing very well,” he said.  “Everyone falls sometimes. Are you sure this is your first time paddle boarding?”

Violet grinned at the stocky, middle-aged man clad in a perfectly dry tee shirt bearing the name and logo of her boutique hotel.  “Yes, most definitely,” she said, as she pushed her dripping hair out of her eyes. “Actually, I was rather glad to take the plunge.  The water is so refreshing.”

He laughed and glanced at his waterproof watch.  “Sadly, it’s time to head back in.  I have another lesson in a quarter of an hour.  Would you like to practice paddle boarding again tomorrow?”

”If only I could,” Violet sighed.  “This is my last day here.  I fly home tomorrow.”

As they steered their boards to shore, Violet took in the view of the crowded and colorful beach. Wooden lounge chairs adorned with blue and yellow striped cushions and shaded by matching sun umbrellas lined the shoreline. Up on the bluff the brilliant white stucco walls and red tiled roof of the hotel rose into the cloudless cerulean sky. A gentle sea breeze carried the burbling music of a steel drum band out across the water.  Violet thought she recognized the tune to one of favorite songs by Carly Simon.  Wishing she had her camera, Violet filed away this idyllic view in her memory, knowing it would warm her heart on cold winter days ahead at home in Maine.

Back in the cool comfort of her room, Violet took a quick shower and dressed in her favorite pair of lavender capris and an eyelet top. The sun would set at 6:12.  She had plans to meet her hotel neighbor, Sophia, at the Elvis Beach Bar.  The past two evenings, they had meandered over to the popular bar to take in the Caribbean sunset.  Violet couldn’t miss out on this charming island tradition on her last night.

Sophia, a widow from upstate New York, was staying two doors down the hallway.  Like Violet, she was a solo traveler.  The two women had struck up a friendship over coffee and croissants in the breakfast room.  As they chatted, they discovered that they had similar taste in music and books and that they were both enthusiastic seamstresses. Feeling grateful for this holiday friendship and hoping she and Sophia would stay in touch, Violet checked her reflection in the full-length mirror.  Her short auburn hair neatly framed her  sun-kissed face and her gold hoop earrings and locket added the finishing touch to her outfit.  Widening her large, sherry-colored eyes, Violet gave herself a satisfied nod, grabbed her purse from the overstuffed arm chair by the window and headed out the door.

The beach bar was humming when Violet arrived.  Piped in music filled the air as a calypso band set up on the small stage.  Violet wove her way through the tables to the bar and waved when she spotted Sophia, who was dressed in a vibrant orange sundress.  As she approached the bar, a server delivered a plate of jerk chicken strips and two glasses of wine.

Violet scooted herself onto the bar stool beside her friend.  “Wow,” she said, gesturing at the food. “This looks marvelous.  Thanks!”  She reached for a glass of rosé and took an appreciative sip.  “How was your day?” she asked.

”Excellent,” said Sophia.  “I went to the Ani Art Academy.  They have a fantastic exhibition of student work on display now.  What about you?”

Violet told her about her paddle boarding adventure and then changed the subject. “Do you often travel on your own?” she wondered.

“I do. Of course, I used to travel with my husband.” A momentary shadow of grief clouded her face.  With a small sigh, she went on, “When he passed away, I was a little nervous about traveling without him, but I couldn’t give it up. There is still so much of the world I want to see.”

Violet  nodded knowingly and both women took a sip of wine.  They fell into a comfortable silence and gazed out at the ocean where the glowing golden sun hovered on the horizon. 

After a moment, Sophia said, “Ever since my first solo trip to Portugal, I’ve realized how much I like vacationing by myself. It makes me feel so brave and independent.”

“Good for you,” Violet said, reaching for a chicken strip with her fork. “You know, we’ve had an increasing number of single women staying at my inn over the past few years.”

“Tell me more about the hotel where you work,” Sophia said. “How does it compare to our hotel here?”

Violet paused, considering.  “They are completely different, but each wonderful in its own way,” she explained.  “My hotel is a lovely old inn on the Maine coast. Originally, it was the home of one of the town founders.  A ship builder who lived there with his wife and their 9 children.” 

“It must be pretty big to fit such a large family.”

Violet nodded. “There are twelve rooms, each with its own character or personality, if you will, and all brimming with New England charm.  They’re named for different towns in Maine.”

“What a cool idea.  Do you have a favorite room?”

“Hmm . . .” Violet tapped a manicured finger against the base of her wine glass.  “Good question.  I think I’d have to say that our Brunswick Suite is the best.  It’s certainly popular with our guests. The stone fireplace and built-in book shelves make it snug and cozy,” said Violet.  

“It sounds perfect. I spent a lot of time on the Maine coast during college. I went to Colby, but it’s been years since I’ve been back,” Sophia said, checking her watch. “6:10. Almost sunset time,” she added.

Both women turned in their seats to look at the colorful western sky now streaked with violet and deep pink. The sun floated on the edge of the ocean for a dramatic moment and then disappeared.

Thinking about watching the sun set behind a grove of pine trees from the inn’s sunroom back in Maine, Violet was overtaken by a wave of homesickness. She signed, and said, “I’ve had a marvelous time this week, but I’m actually looking forward to getting back home,” she said.

“It has been a lovely week,” Sophia agreed. “I’m glad we met.” She gave Violet a hopeful smile.  “Perhaps this summer I’ll venture up to New England and book the Brunswick Suite at your inn.”

“That would be grand!” Violet’s mind was already filled with plans for the anticipated visit. “You’re welcome anytime.”

No Place Like Home

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This month, I enjoyed a three-day solo retreat to my hometown, Madison, CT. I stayed in a lovely, historic inn across the street from the library and half a block from my favorite bookstore. What an ideal location! During my stay, I had a grand time shopping, going to the cinema, visiting the library, walking on the beach and reminiscing with a lifelong friend while dining on excellent Asian cuisine. Of course, I took a lot of pictures. The selection of photos in the slideshow below have inspired my newest photo essay.

Happy Reading!

When she was a little girl, Kathryn Moore always looked forward to the family road trip to Connecticut. Instead of sending her to camp, Kat’s parents would take her to visit her grandmother in New England every summer. The drive from Delaware took hours, but Kat didn’t mind. She would stretch out in the backseat and read or play the license plate game with her father, while her mother drove their roomy station wagon. They would always stop for lunch at a clam shack on the northern tip of the Jersey shore and then walk on the beach before piling back into the car.

Upon reaching their destination, Kat’s grandmother would be waiting on the wide, shady porch of her nineteenth century house, a welcoming smile lighting up her elegant face. She lived in one of the historic homes across from the town green within walking distance of the cinema, the public library and the local bookstore. Kat would jump out of the car and run up the porch steps ready, for five weeks of fun in her Gram’s shoreline town. Mom and Dad would stay for a few days and then head back to Delaware, always returning at the end of the visit to pick her up.

Now, twenty years later, Kat lived in the top floor of the house across from the green. The old house had been turned into two condominiums, and she was lucky enough to purchase one of them when she landed a teaching job at the town’s elementary school. Her downstairs neighbor, a jolly woman named Flora, who was about ten years older than Kat, worked at the library down the street. They quickly became great friends.

On the Saturday after Labor Day, Kat, dressed in khaki capris and a pink polo shirt, relaxed barefooted in a cushioned wicker rocker on the wraparound porch with Flora, who sat cross legged on a matching couch. Panda, Flora’s tuxedo cat, perched on the wide porch railing purring in the afternoon sunshine. Two neighborhood children clattered by on their bicycles, and across the street the postman made his way along the block delivering mail.

As the two friends sipped chilled glasses of rosé and snacked on cheese and crackers, they talked about Kat’s first week of school in her new kindergarten classroom.

“I have just fifteen kids in my class, seven boys and eight girls. Believe it or not, they are all so sweet and well behaved,” Kat said. She laughed, crossing her fingers and added, “So far.”

Flora smiled and reached for a wheat cracker and slice of Brie. “Fifteen sounds like the perfect class size,” she said.

“By the way, they loved the story hour books you suggested, especially If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.

“Happy to help,” Flora said, raising her cracker in a toast. “I’m glad the children are so delightful. What about your fellow teachers? Are you settling in with the faculty?”

“I think so. I’m having a bit of trouble remembering everyone’s name. The other kindergarten teacher, Ms. Hope, is great though. She wants to collaborate with me on projects our kids can do together, which is fantastic. I think she’ll be a good friend.” Kat set her wine glass down on the wicker table and clasped her hands under her chin. “And I really like the principal. She’s totally supportive.”

Flora nodded and flipped her long auburn braid over her shoulder. “Very good. Having a supportive boss is important. Our library director is wonderful. We’re both blessed to have jobs we like.”

“My Gram always said that enjoying your profession was the most important thing. I think she was right.”

“Do you think your grandmother’s spirit guided you back here?” Flora asked, her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Here you are in her hometown, living in her house and starting a new career that seems perfect for you. It must be fate.”

“Could be,” Kat said thoughtfully. She leaned back and let her gaze wander, taking in the cozy porch and friendly neighborhood. “I have so many happy memories of my summers with my grandmother. I feel like I’ve come home.”

Traveler v. Tourist

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When I go on vacation to a new destination, I like to think of myself as a traveler, rather than a tourist. Although I do enjoy sighteeing, I also love exploring the culture and daily life of the people who live in the country I am visiting. Shortly after my now husband and I decided to get married, we took an “engagementmoon” to St. Lucia to celebrate. We stayed at a wonderful all-inclusive resort and had a marvelous, relaxing time. However, I do wish we had ventured outside of the resort a bit more. The locals who worked at the resort were so warm and friendly, I would have appreciated learning more about their culture and island life. In the photo essay inspired by these vacation pictures, my character, Violet Goodwine, discovers the unique qualities of life on St. Lucia at Hotel Chocolat, and the Gros Islet Street Party.

On Friday morning, Violet Goodwine, strolled by the lagoon shaped pool on her way to the main lobby of the resort. A group of hotel guests stood in the low end following the instructions of the water aerobics teacher. About half of the lounge chairs circling the pool were already occupied. It was another sunny day in St. Lucia.

Violet had spent the first couple of days of her vacation relaxing by the pool, drinking colorful cocktails and walking on the beach. The resort was a beautiful, luxurious retreat, but after two days, Violet was ready to venture out and explore more of the island.

Strolling into the lobby, she pulled a stack of postcards from her hand-woven straw bag. She gave the postcards to the concierge, and asked him about day trips around the island. While they were talking, someone tapped Violet on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” a vaguely familiar woman said in an Australian accent. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re looking for an excursion today, isn’t that right?”

“Right,” said Violet, smiling uncertainly at the petite, auburn haired woman who was dressed in cargo shorts, a bright blue polo shirt and sneakers.

The woman returned her smile and said warmly, “I’m Kaleigh. This is my third trip to St. Lucia. I love this island. It’s known as island of iguanas, you know.”

Violet laughed, thinking of the iguana she had spotted down by the tiki bar. “I’m Violet, she said holding out her hand for Kaleigh to shake. “I’ve seen you around the resort. You’re a solo traveler like me, aren’t you?”

“You’re right about that. Don’t you just love traveling on your own?” Kaleigh asked with a twinkle in her green eyes. “I certainly do, but sometimes it’s nice when you find someone to join in on your adventures. Do you like chocolate? I’m heading out to tour a cacao farm now. Care to come along?”

“The Hotel Chocolat? I’ve read about that place.” Violet was intrigued.

Kaleigh nodded and gestured to the door. “Come on, I have a taxi waiting. Let’s go sample a bit of St. Lucia life.”

Violet glanced over her shoulder at the concierge, who was now chatting with one of the desk clerks. Swept up in Kaleigh’s infectious enthusiasm, she said, “Why not? Let’s go”

The new friends took a taxi through the capital city of Castries and down the coast to the 140-acre estate. Along the way, their jovial driver pointed out the sights and told them a little bit about the Carib culture and history.

At Hotel Chocolat, they joined a small group of other visitors to tour the farm, learning all about their sustainable practices of growing cacao beans and making chocolate. The grounds were lush and green and the chocolate samples were rich and creamy. Violet and Kaleigh were excited to end the tour by making their own chocolate bar and then sitting down for an authentic St. Lucian lunch.

Sitting by the window with a view of the rain forest, they each ordered cacao beer-battered fish and chips. While they ate fresh and crispy fish, they chatted easily, talking about their chocolate experience and sharing travel stories.

“That was such a great tour,” Kaleigh said. “Who knew that chocolate grows on trees? And I loved making my own chocolate bar! I can’t wait to try it.”

“Me too.” Violet laughed. She took a couple of bites of fish and then said, “This place reminds me of a tour I took in Costa Rica to a rain forest ranch, where they were just starting out their cacao business. Thank you so much for inviting me along today. I feel like I’ve gotten a glimpse of the real St. Lucia.”

Kaleigh took a sip of wine. “No worries. I’m glad you came with me.” She wiped her mouth with her cloth napkin and went on, “If you want to see the real St. Lucia, we should go to the Gros Islet street party this evening. I went to it last year and it was awesome. They block off the streets on Friday nights in a fishing village not too far from our resort, and there’s food and drinks and music. What do you think?”

“That sounds terrific,” Violet said. “Tomorrow, there’s a cricket tournament at the national stadium. Would you want to check that out? Cricket is really popular here, apparently, and I’ve never seen a cricket game. It might be fun.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kayleigh said. She raised her glass in a toast and the two travlers clinked glasses, looking forward to experiencing true island life.

Excerpt from True Love

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More than 30 years ago, my youngest sister moved west and settled in Fraser, Colorado. I have been out to visit her several times since she relocated. On each trip, I have appreciated the stunning scenery and the friendly atmosphere in her small town. We have enjoyed a variety of interesting activities and attractions, including white water rafting on Clear Creek, exploring Rocky Mountain National Park and checking out the historic Stanley Hotel in Estes Park. Of course, I have taken many, many photos to preserve the memories we have made. The pictures in this slide show, inspired me to set one of my Martini Chronicles short stories in the mountains of Colorado. Here is an excerpt from that story. Happy Reading!

Gentle sunshine filtered through the fluttering linen drapes.  I lay on my side in the large brass bed, watching the early morning shadows dance across the floor.  Outside, the birds were starting to sing.  I listened, trying to pick out any familiar calls.    I smiled at the cheery twitter of a goldfinch, recalling an afternoon bird-watching with my father when he had shown me the pretty yellow bird for the first time.

With a glance at the clock on the bedside table, I decided it was time to start my day. I climbed out of bed, stuck my feet into my slippers and put on the hotel bathrobe draped across the end of the bed.  I crossed the hardwood floor and stepped out onto the balcony of my second floor room. 

The morning air was crisp and clear.  In the distance, snow-capped mountains  stood shoulder to shoulder spanning the horizon. The morning sun cast long shadows across the manicured lawn.

“Good morning, hon.”

At the sound of my mother’s gentle voice, I turned from the stunning view.  She sat in a wicker chair on the adjacent balcony.  Her honey blonde hair was pulled back into a long braid, and she wore yoga pants, a Colorado sweatshirt and sneakers.  A carafe and two mugs stood on the table at her side.  She lifted the carafe and poured a fragrant cup of coffee.

“Morning, Mom,” I said, breathing in the tantalizing scent of hazelnut.  I pulled the matching chair on my balcony close to the railing, settled into its overstuffed cushions and then accepted the warm mug she handed over to me.  “Have you been out walking already?”

She nodded, pouring herself a cup and setting down the carafe.  “I took a stroll through the gardens.  They have the most beautiful columbines, and I saw two hummingbirds.”

“I’ll have to take my camera there later.  I can probably get some pretty photos.”  I   took a sip from my mug, savoring the nutty sweetness.  “Mmm.  This coffee is great.”

Mom stretched out her legs,  crossing them at the ankle and sighed.  “It looks like it will be a splendid day for the wedding.  Edmund and Joy are lucky.” 

Below, a man in a cowboy hat led a pair of chestnut horses from the paddock to a large meadow.  “I can’t believe I’m going to my brother’s wedding today,” I said.

“It seems like just yesterday you two were just going to your first school dance,” Mom agreed. “Eighth grade, wasn’t it?” Her expression softened.  “The sun shone just like this on the day your father and I got married.”

Trying to imagine myself in my twin brother’s place, I could envision every detail of my wedding day except the most important one.  After spending countless high school afternoons cutting out photos from the stacks of glossy bridal magazines my best friend, Nancy,  loved to collect, I knew I would be married in an off-the-shoulder ivory gown and carry a bouquet of roses and peonies. My veil would be fingertip length and edged with lace.  Of course, the wedding would take place at our parish church, St. Monica’s. The only missing detail was the identity of my groom. 

I sighed and took a sip of coffee.

“Your wedding day will come, Elizabeth Ann,” my mother said, giving me a perceptive look. She could always read my thoughts and feelings.

With a grateful smile, I replied, “When it does, I hope it’s just as beautiful as today will be.”

A Day to Remember

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Of all of the wonderful travel destinations in Canada, Quebec City is my favorite. The centuries old, historic city is replete with European charm. On a recent visit there with my sister, we toured the city on foot and by bus. We stayed in a comfortable, ideally located hotel in Old Québec. We had plenty of opportunities to admire the art and architecture, indulge in some delicious meals, and take a lot of photos. The pictures from our weekend adventure reflect the setting of my most recent short story. Please enjoy reading an excerpt of that story below.

I’ve always loved his grey-green eyes.  The minute our gazes met across the kitchen in Québec City, I was hooked. I met Lukas on my second day of vacation at a baking class led by one of the city’s well-known pastry chefs. Our instructor, a petite, middle-aged woman with a long, blonde braid divided our group of eight into pairs and Lukas was my assigned partner.


Lukas and I  worked well together, chatting companionably.  I found out that he was an only child who grew up in Bath, England and a chef, who was on the verge of opening his own restaurant. I described my job as a food critic for a local newspaper and told him about my family.

Our time in the kitchen flew by. Before we knew it, we were showing off a tray  of rather impressive maple macarons to the class.   As we were cleaning up our station, Lukas invited me to lunch.  From then on, we were pretty much inseparable for the rest of the week.

We explored the Basse-Ville neighborhood, walked along the walls enclosing the city and got our fill of history and québécois culture at the Musée de la Civilisation and the Musée National des Beaux Arts. On our last day together, we ate breakfast at my hotel and then walked off the scrambled eggs, fruit and almond croissants on the Plains of Abraham.

Closing my eyes, I relived that wonderful day.  The weather had been perfect.  Blue skies and plenty of warm sunshine.   Bypassing the military museum at the entrance to the park, we made our way to the wide path overlooking the St. Lawrence River.

The park was busy that day, filled with joggers, dog walkers and picnickers. We strolled by the Joan of Arc garden, with its monument to the saint and one of the stone Martello towers, built to fortify the city. In front of the tower, a group of men dressed in eighteenth century military costumes, entertained a crowd of onlookers with stories of life in the army barracks centuries ago.  

When we reached the riverside walking trail, we paused to take in the view. We looked down at the roofs of the lower town and the glittering, watery expanse of the St. Lawrence. The silhouette of the famous Chateau Frontenac, Québec’s iconic landmark, shimmered on the horizon.

Shading my eyes from the sun to watch a tour boat churn by on the river, I said, “My brother and his wife were here last summer for the music festival. Edmund’s wife, Joy, is a singer. She has a life goal to attend at least one music festival a year. She said the Québec City Summer Festival was one of the best.”

”Apparently, concerts and festivals are a regular occurrence here on the Plains,” Lukas said.

“The Québec Winter Carnival in February is also supposed to be pretty awesome.  I’ve heard the ice sculptures alone make it worth braving the cold.”

Lukas linked his arm with mine, as we continued walking. ”We should come back in February,” he said.  “Do a bit of cross country skiing and brave the cold at the carnival.  Afterwards, we can cuddle up in front of the fire with a cup of tea or even better, a glass of mulled wine.”

”That might be fun,” I said. My heart filled with hope as his grey-green gaze met mine and we shared a smile.

Home Away From Home

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There are so many lovely places to visit in the world. My husband and I love traveling to Europe. Edinburgh in Scotland is our most loved city. In the past few years, we have also discovered some great North American destinations. While on vacation, we often enjoy popping into iconic hotels for lunch or a drink, which is a wonderful way to experience the property. Some of the outstanding hotels we have explored include the Algonquin in St. Andrew’s by-the-Sea, NB, the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego, and Dalvay by the Sea on Prince Edward Island. The pictures that have inspired this photo essay are from Dalvay by the Sea, which was built as a summer home in 1895 by Alexander MacDonald, a Scottish-American businessman. The hotel offers 25 guest rooms and 8 cottages, and is known for its European charm and excellent service. Please enjoy a brief visit to this luxurious home away from home through my words and photos.

After an invigorating and scenic bike ride around the north shore of Prince Edward Island, Cecelia Hart mounted the front stairs of Dalvay by the Sea, her home away from home on this autumn getaway. Feeling a bit wind-blown and quite hungry, she headed to the cozy bar off the lobby. She pulled off her hand-knit hat letting her wavy chestnut hair fall around her shoulders and unbuttoned her LL Bean barn coat.

The bartender greeted her by name. “What can I get you this afternoon?” she asked.

“I’d love a cup of hot coffee. Hazelnut if you have it. And how about the charcuterie board, please?”

“Very good.”

“Would it be alright if I sat in there by the fireplace?” Cecelia asked, waving toward the spacious, sunlit living room furnished with friendly groupings of plush armchairs and couches.

“Of course. Make yourself at home,” the bartender said with a smile.

Once she settled herself in one of the wingback chairs in front of the crackling fire, Cecelia didn’t have to wait long for the bartender to deliver a steaming cup of fragrant coffee and a plate of artfully arranged cured meats and cheeses accompanied by bread and crackers.

As she thanked the bartender, another guest wandered into the room and stood in front of the stone fireplace, warming her hands. Cecelia took a swallow of her coffee and watched the other woman with friendly curiosity. She was thin and wiry with a cap of silvery bobbed hair. She looked like she spent her free time on the tennis court.

“Hello, there” Cecelia said.

The woman turned, her blue eyes lighting up as she returned Cecelia’s greeting. “Do you mind if I sit here by the fire too?” she asked.

“I’d be glad for the company,” Cecelia said, introducing herself. 

“It’s wonderful to meet you. I’m Alicia Peabody.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the bar and said, “Let me just order a drink. I’ll be right back.”

While she waited, Cecelia pulled her knitting from the depths of her Italian leather backpack. She was making a sweater for her 3-year-old granddaughter. When Alicia returned carrying a tall coupe of sparkling wine, Cecelia set aside her knitting. She nodded toward the matching armchair beside her own. “Please join me.” She gestured to her overflowing plate. “If you’re hungry, feel free to help me with this amazing charcuterie plate.” 

“How kind. That does look tempting.” Alicia reached for a wheat cracker and a slice of Havarti cheese.

The two women chatted amicably and discovered that they shared a love for writing. Alicia recently had a book of poetry published.

“That’s wonderful!” Cecelia exclaimed. “I wish I could write poetry.”

“What do you like to write?” 

“I’ve written too many book reviews to count, and quite a few articles for a librarian’s professional journal. Now that I’m retired, I want to try my hand at fiction. Maybe a historical novel.”

“Marvelous! As a librarian I’m sure whatever you turn out will be impeccably researched. Any ideas what you would focus on?”

“I want to find out more about PEI, actually. I adore L. M. Montgomery, but I’m sure there is more to this lovely island than just Anne of Green Gables. I’d love to find a forgotten story from the past.”

“This hotel has quite a fascinating history. The concierge told me it originally was built as a summer home for a wealthy family from Ohio and the granddaughters ended up marrying into European royalty. Can you imagine what it must have been like in its heyday?” Alicia gestured enthusiastically encompassing the fireplace, the gleaming woodwork, and the sweeping staircase leading up to the guest rooms.

Cecelia nodded thoughtfully. “Imagine the stories that have taken place here. I wonder if the hotel has maintained any historical archives . . .”

She raised her coffee cup to Alicia. “Thanks to your intriguing idea, I have a feeling I may be coming back to the Dalvay before long.”

Sea Turtles and Sunsets

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My intrepid niece, who is an archivist for the National Park system, recently finished up a year-long assignment at Haleakalā National Park. To my great delight, I was able to visit her in Hawaii before she moved on to her next adventure. Originally, I planned to go to Maui, where she lived, but due to the wild fires, we decided to meet on the Garden Island, Kaua’i instead. We coordinated our travel plans to arrive at Lihue Airport at the same time. In fact, her plane landed immediately after mine. After a joyous reunion in the terminal, we rented a car and drove to the condo we had reserved in Koloa. All week, we had a grand time exploring the island. Every evening we would end our day by strolling from our condo to Poʻipū Beach to watch the glorious sunset. My memories of our week on Kaua’i have inspired the photo essay below.

“This is amazing,” Elizabeth Ann sighed.

Grace smiled at her daughter and agreed, “Indeed it is.”

They were standing knee-deep in the Pacific Ocean at Poʻipū Beach. The clear, warm water lapped gently against Grace’s shins. A soft breeze ruffled the edges of her new sarong cover up. On their afternoon shopping excursion in Old Koloa town, both Grace and Elizabeth Ann had gone a little wild in a fun and colorful store called Aloha from Koloa.

When they finally managed to tear themselves away from the racks of beachwear and souvenir displays, they stepped out of the shop into the bright sunshine, each with an overflowing shopping bag dangling from her wrist. Along with the floral sarong, Grace had bought a wide-brimmed straw hat, a pair of sandals and a set of hand-woven place mats.

Hands on hips, both women turned toward the horizon where the sun floated above the ocean on a bed of golden clouds. Everyone at the beach, both in the water and on the shore, had paused to face west and take in the sunset.

“It’s time,” Grace said, glancing at the waterproof watch on her slim wrist. “7:52.”

Slowly, the sun slipped through the clouds illuminating the sky in shades of lilac, tangerine and coral, before sinking silently into the sea.

“Look at all the people who are here.” Elizabeth Ann gestured back toward the lines of spectators standing on the sand and up on the bluff. “Is it always like this?”

“It’s a nightly event,” Grace explained. “Every evening, the sun sets one minute later than the day before. We’ll all be here tomorrow at 7:53.”

“Can’t wait,” Elizabeth Ann said. She bent forward to dip her hands in the ocean water and then ran her dripping fingers through her thick, dark hair, smoothing it back away from her face. “The girls would love this beach,” she said. “Angela would spend all day snorkeling and Victoria would have a blast on her boogie board.”

Grace’s sighed happily at the thought of her granddaughters. “You’re right about that. They must get their love of the water from their father. Both you and Edmund would have spent your entire summer down at Mission Beach if we had let you.”

“I loved that beach! Remember the summer Edmund and I took surfing lessons? He was a pro right from the start, naturally. I, on the other hand . . .” Elizabeth Ann let her voice trail off and then, with a bright smile, she went on, “But my favorite beach memories are from when we took that road trip up to Malibu. Remember? We had that little cottage right on the water and we could see dolphins from our front porch.”

“That was one of our best family vacations. Everything went like clockwork,” Grace said. ”I remember picnic suppers at Point Dume and our week-long miniature golf tournament. As I recall, you were the mini golf champion.” She smiled fondly at Elizabeth Ann.

“That was such a long time ago,” Elizabeth Ann remarked.

“And yet, it seems like just yesterday,” Grace said. “Spending time with Angela and Victoria always brings back so many memories of when you and Edmund were small. I hope Edmund and Joy will be able to bring them out here for Christmas. It would be so marvelous to have all of us together for the holidays.”

“Well, I’ll definitely be here. Gerald, my editor, wants me to write a series of articles about Hawaiian restaurants for my column. I’ll start doing some research on Kauai.”

“I’m glad.” Grace reached out to squeeze her daughter’s hand and then looking again at her watch, she said, “Shall we head back?”

“I’m ready.” Elizabeth Ann turned and began to wade to shore. After just a few steps, she stopped. “Look at that, Mom,” she exclaimed clutching Grace’s forearm with one hand and pointing at a shadowy creature swimming just beneath the surface of the water. “Is that a sea turtle?”

Grace nodded and explained, “The sea turtles often come up on this beach to rest. See, it’s crawling out of the water now.”

Mother and daughter waited and watched as the turtle settled comfortably into the sand a few feet from the water’s edge. Then Grace led Elizabeth Ann back onto the beach away from where the turtle had landed.

“We mustn’t disturb the turtle. This is his natural habitat after all and we’re merely his guests.”

“You are so lucky to live in such an amazing and beautiful place, Mom,” said Elizabeth Ann.

“Speaking of beautiful,” Grace replied, “tomorrow, we’ll go to the north side of the island and I’ll take you to the most stunning beach in all the Hawaiian islands at Hanalei Bay.”

Grace and Elizabeth Ann strolled arm in arm at a leisurely pace back home. As they approached the driveway leading into the condo complex, Elizabeth Ann said, “Believe it our not, I am glad you ended up moving here.”

“Why shouldn’t I believe it?”

“Because I was such a brat when you told me you wanted to move. Remember how freaked out I was? But, I have to admit, you were right. I can’t wait for the whole family to be here at Christmas.”

Grace nodded as they climbed the steps onto her front stoop. She fished in her bag for her house key and softly began to hum “Mele Kalikimaka” under her breath.

She pushed open the door and said, “I’m looking forward to making new holiday memories here in Hawaii with all of you.”

I am a deltiologist. Are you?

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One of my favorite postcards. I found these cute pups in a postcard rack on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh.

Today, I learned a new word—deltiology—the collection of postcards. I love postcards.  Whenever I travel, I write stacks of them to family and friends and also buy some to add to  my own collection.  At home, I always look forward to the pleasant surprise of finding postcards in my mailbox, carefully saving each and every one.  Additionally, I collect virtual postcards on my Pinterest page.  I suppose I can call myself a deltiologist.

Sending and collecting postcards first became popular around the turn of the twentieth century. During the golden age of postcards (1907-1915), millions of picture postcards traveled through the mail, especially at holiday time.  Some of the most collectible vintage postcards were produced and printed by a British company, Raphael Tuck & Sons.  A native of Prussia, Mr. Tuck was an art-lover who opened a graphic art printing business with his wife in London.  They sold postcards, Christmas cards, prints and lithographs, eventually being awarded a Royal Warrant of Appointment from Queen Victoria and expanding their business worldwide with offices in Paris and New York. (TuckDB)  Today, historic Tuck postcards even comprise a portion of the photograph collection of England’s National Portrait Gallery (my favorite museum in London).

Photo Source: TuckDB.

Photo Source: TuckDB.

Although Raphael Tuck died in 1900 before the dawning of the golden age of postcards, his sons faithfully carried on his legacy.  Deltiologists worldwide still recognize and revere the name Raphael Tuck.  In his honor, I will extend my Happy Thanksgiving wishes to one and all with this charming Tuck holiday postcard.

Happy Thanksgiving!  Best wishes for a day filled with warmth, happiness and satisfaction!

Words and Photos: The Tearoom

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On my first visit to St. Andrews in Scotland, my friend, Susan, and I stumbled upon a charming tearoom located on the edge of the sea.  The name of the establishment made me laugh: Crumbs Pavilion Tearoom.  When I returned home, I wrote this photo essay sparked by the photo I took that afternoon in St. Andrews.

Photo by L. LeVasseur, 1995

Photo by L. LeVasseur, 1995

As soon as she spies the tearoom from the crest of the hill, Sage can’t help smiling.  The compact building sits squarely on the edge of the cliff above the calm, clear ocean.  The summer sun shines down from the azure sky bathing its coral-colored walls in curtains of golden light.  The murmur of voices and the clatter of china and silverware blend with the steady hum of the surf on the beach below.

For her, Crumbs Pavilion Tearoom is a favorite old haunt from her childhood.  She and her pen pal, Linda, who lived on the Isle of Skye, met face-to-face for the very first time at the tearoom.  Shy with each other after their initial greeting, the girls exchanged curious glances as they stood silently at the counter waiting to order Wall’s ice cream bars. Sage asked for a Magnum White and Linda chose almond.  Finally, as they sat side by side on the sea wall, swinging their legs and biting into the thick chocolate that coated the rich vanilla ice cream, they began to talk.  For years, Sage continued to meet Linda at Crumbs each summer.  As they moved from college to first careers and then to marriage, they somehow had let the tradition go.  Until now.  

Linda waits for her at the doorway of the tearoom.  She holds the hand of a young girl, who has straw-colored braids and sports a pair of glamorous white sunglasses.  Catching her breath, Sage feels like she has stepped back in time.  The child is the spitting image of Linda at the same age.  Swept away on a wave of fond memories, Sage laughs like a carefree girl and runs down the hill.

When in Rome . . .

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The VaticanIn Elizabeth von Arnim’s delightful novel, The Enchanted April, four London women find a soothing respite from the rain and cold of the British winter by taking up residence in a small Italian castle.  Feeling a bit like Mrs. Wilkins or Mrs. Arbuthnot, I too traveled to Italy this February.  My niece, is studying in Rome for the semester, and my husband and I simply could not pass up the wonderful opportunity to visit her.

View from the Spanish Steps On our first morning in the Eternal City, we were treated to a warm and sunny day.  Walking through the quiet streets of our hotel’s neighborhood, I was happy to have escaped the bleak, relentless winter weather at home.  As we strolled toward the Spanish Steps to meet my niece, I couldn’t believe our plane had taken off the night before in a near blizzard and now were basking in the gentle spring-like sunshine of Italy. Vatican MuseumsDuring our five-day visit, we eagerly played tourist, crossing the city by metro and by bus to experience as many of those can’t-be-missed sights as possible.  We viewed the Colosseum and the Forum by night.  We said a prayer in the Pantheon and stood in awe in front of Michelangelo’s Pietà in St. Peter’s Basilica.  We toured the Vatican Museums and gazed up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.  We had dinner on a restaurant terrace in the Piazza Navona and sampled “the best” gelato in Rome at the Frigidarium.  However, the highlight of the trip for me, was the morning we spent at the Keats-Shelley House. Keats-Shelley MuseumIn 1820, diagnosed with tuberculosis, poet John Keats traveled to the warmer climate of Rome to convalesce.  He lived at 26 Piazza di Spagna, just at the foot of the Spanish Steps.  Sadly, he never recovered his health, and passed away there in February 1821.  Today, the house is preserved as a museum dedicated to the British Romantic Poets.  The collection features, portraits, correspondence, manuscripts and other memorabilia of literary notables like Percy Shelley, Mary Shelley and Lord Byron, as well as Keats.  We spent a fascinating morning learning about these writers and their connection to Rome. Piazza di Spagna mapThe neighborhood surrounding the Spanish Steps was a haven for writers, artists and architects during the nineteenth century.  John Keats and many others found great creative inspiration during their time in Rome.  Perhaps I should follow in their footsteps.  Right now, I am writing a series of short stories chronicling the travels of a food critic named Elizabeth Ann Martini.  She (and I) might enjoy a trip to Rome in her next story . . .