South Carolina's Kiawah Island is an idealised version of the US. No wonder
Middle America – and Justin Webb – keeps coming back
Forget Florida. For a family holiday on America's East Coast, there is
nowhere better than Kiawah Island. It is, I admit, slightly tricky to get
to, but that only adds to its charm. Kiawah is at the top end of South
Carolina's low country, a land of salt marshes and gentle Southern
architecture of the kind revealed to the wider world by the film, The Big
Chill. It's flat, and hot, and slow, and serene. America's only working tea
plantation is nearby, but that's just about it for industry.
As you near the island on the journey from nearby Charleston airport – or on
a longer drive from Atlanta, Georgia – you leave the highways behind.
There's the odd wooden church sheltering from the heat in a little canopy of
roadside trees, but little else to be seen. Elderly palmettos and live oaks
curve over narrow country roads, clumps of Spanish moss hang from them and
sway gently in the breeze.
On Kiawah itself, sudden storms kick up in the evening with a frenzy of wind
and thunder – and then subside, leaving soaked, steaming peace. One evening
last year, I stood outside as one such storm passed over and torrents of
warm rain cascaded down through the palms. To British eyes, this is exotic
weather – the kind you associate with the rigours of travel to a really
far-flung corner of the world, rather than to a tiny enclave only an hour's
flight south of Washington.
I suppose I should mention that they do have hurricanes here, but on that
stormy night, the dangers were minor: a slight chance of being struck by
lightning or an errant palm nut. Nevertheless – this is America – strict
precautions had been taken and one of the events planned for the evening,
"Shagging on the Pier", had been cancelled because of the storm. Shagging,
by the way, is a Southern dance step from the post-war years, nothing more.
The Ice Cream Social, meanwhile, had been moved into a large shed with open
sides but a sturdy roof. Everyone was wet, but no one was cold.
From February to November, no one is ever cold in Kiawah. It is a place of
particularly American warmth, literally and metaphorically. Which is why I
want to focus on the Ice Cream Social – though I should begin, I suppose,
with some thoughts about the island in general.
Kiawah could be described as a 10-mile long barrier of sand with the
Atlantic on the east side and alligator-infested swamp and salt marshes to
the west. The island is attached to the mainland by one road. This
description would be true up to a point – in fact, it was completely true
until the Fifties; but it is now, well, a little misleading to leave it
there. Kiawah is – let me be blunt about it – a gated community. It is a
private island, which, I suspect for reasons of commercial acumen rather
than ecological rectitude, has been kept free of all the tat you associate
with the rest of the nation: the gas stations and McDonald's and four-lane
highways and sprawl.
On Kiawah, the alligators are allowed to roam free; turtles and bobcats and
butterflies the size of bats all take their chances among them. Construction
is strictly monitored and controlled. It is a holiday island with
pretensions – reasonable ones – to being called a nature reserve. The
buildings are low, generously spaced out, and of muted colours, with little
lighting at night so that nocturnal creatures are not disturbed.
If you venture out after dark, the humming and hissing and rustling all
around you is a reminder that this is shared space. This being America,
however, the humans have not stinted themselves. Kiawah is luxurious: the
golf resort has a course designed by Gary Player and hosts international
tournaments. The tennis courts are spectacular.
And the houses? Well, one on sale last summer had seven bedrooms, eight
bathrooms and 6,000 sq ft of ocean-view decking. The dining room, according
to the estate agent, "will remind you of the Palm Court in Manhattan's Plaza
Hotel". Remember, they don't do irony here: it really will remind you of the
Palm Court in Manhattan's Plaza Hotel, or you can sue.
As well as the grand beachfront homes, there are hundreds of smaller ones,
and hundreds of families with young children spending their hard-earned
annual two-week holidays here. The mix is very American. There are no poor
people anywhere on Kiawah. They do not exist here. There are very few black
guests. There are black people, for sure – this is, after all, South
Carolina, which has a large African-American population – but they are
serving, sweeping, tidying. So when I tell you that the Ice Cream Social is
a joy to behold, I am not pretending that it represents a perfect social
system. Kiawah is an escape from many of the nastier sides of American life,
in particular from the sheer ugliness of much of the built environment here,
but it is not itself Nirvana.
Back to the Ice Cream Social: the evening, slightly delayed by the storm,
begins with the sale of huge amounts of ice-cream and associated sprinkles.
The children – dozens of them – sit, excited yet obedient, at the feet of a
dapper, energetic entertainer: Rick Hubbard.
"Where y'all from?" asks Rick, and the adults, not the children, scream out
the names of their states. Forty-year-old lawyers and teachers and
accountants crying, "Maryland – YEAH!" with true feeling. It is on one level
risible. (Has a British Butlins ever echoed to the sound of "Northamptonshire
– YEAH!"? I doubt it.) But in the years I have lived in the US and visited
Kiawah, I have come to see this ritual differently.
The Kiawah Ice Cream Social is about giving vent to that cry of attachment –
deep attachment – that millions and millions of Americans have towards their
communities and their homes.
There is nothing shameful about that. It is a part of who Americans are. And
the local affection radiates up to the nation at large. America, Rick tells
the children, has never invented any musical instruments of any note, save
two: the banjo and the kazoo. Whether this is strictly true, I have my
doubts. But nobody in Kiawah cares. Rick plays both instruments for the
delighted kids. "Do you think we invented the French horn?"
"No!" roars the audience. No, indeed. The French horn, whatever it is, has a
distant, difficult, exclusive sound to it. The banjo and the kazoo are
approachable and democratic. In fact, the kazoo is so accessible that anyone
can play it at any time, with no practice and little skill. It is the
ultimate democratic musical instrument; everyone can take part.
Rick's show ends with exactly that: everyone playing kazoos. Then we all
drift off into the night. The Kiawah Ice Cream Social has bound the upper
and middle segments of American society together yet again, in attachment to
home, to family, and to simple, accessible pleasures.
Did I mention the beach? These evening activities are, of course, entirely
optional – and the island is big. You could spend weeks in Kiawah biking or
sunbathing or bird-watching and never really sample its culture. I think you
would be missing out, but Kiawah certainly offers a sun-and-sand deal every
bit as wonderful as Florida – and it is far less packed with holidaymakers.
The beach is huge and never crowded. The sand is not as white as it is in
the Caribbean, but the sea temperature is wonderfully warm; it feels like a
tepid bath, and young children can play in it all day with no need for
towels and fuss.
The first time we came here, with two-year-old twins, they toddled down to
the water in their clothes after the long drive from Washington, put their
feet in the sea, and then, to their enormous pleasure and their parents'
European-style horror, simply walked in.
You can stay at a fancy hotel on the island, but I recommend self-catering,
booked over the internet. The range is massive, from gin palaces next to the
beach to modest apartments from where you have to drive or cycle to the
action. But everything is organised and clean and functions well. For
instance, bike hire is done on the phone, with the cycles brought to your
door, and picked up from there as well. Kiawah works.
The Hamptons of Long Island are, of course, a far more sophisticated
American beach holiday destination, and so is Martha's Vineyard in
Massachusetts, or even the Florida Keys. But Kiawah represents the heart of
this nation – homespun and open-faced, where shagging is innocent fun, and
the Ice Cream Social is an event to be remembered your whole life long.
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