Posted by The Fig Tree on January 09, 2002 at 12:04:58:
In Reply to: new york times posted by hanley on January 06, 2002 at 08:07:52:
A Bahamian Blessing
By TRISH HALL
By the time I got to the Bahamas, I was a wreck. I had begun the trip tired and cranky from too
much work, a migraine headache the night before, and four hours of sleep. On the way to the
airport, I wondered whatever had possessed me to think that traveling so far for only three nights would
be relaxing. I just wanted to stay in bed.
The flight in June from Kennedy to Fort Lauderdale in JetBlue's large leather seats was fine, and I met
up there with my oldest friend, Liza, who lives in Atlanta and had agreed that we should go away and do
nothing more than sleep, eat and read. My pleasure at seeing her disappeared, how ever, the instant we
boarded a Continental plane for the hourlong flight to North Eleuthera. It was so cramped that I had to
bend over to walk down the aisle to my seat.
Emerging from the plane for a quick trip through customs, a five-minute taxi ride to the harbor and a
short boat ride, we were deposited on Harbour Island, half a mile wide and three miles long. A cabdriver
who regularly meets incoming boats quickly appeared and loaded our luggage in his car for the drive to
the ocean side of the island.
Just five minutes later we arrived at the Dunmore Beach Club, which is approached by driving down a
long hill past a tennis court and into a small parking lot. There was no sign of a hotel; we were enclosed
by lush trees and flowers. Although in that state I was the nightmare customer, just looking to find fault,
I didn't have an opportunity, because the club's assistant manager, Quincie Percente, came out to greet
us. We followed her down a path and around a corner into a cottage, entering from a patio that looked
out on vegetation heavy with flowers and beyond to the water.
Inside, our spacious tile-floored room was simple but comfortable, with a sofa, an armchair, twin beds
with wicker headboards, red-and-white-striped bed skirts, and generous yellow chintz drapes. The room
had its own sink and refrigerator filled with bottled water. The bathroom was vast, with a large shower,
a Jacuzzi tub, two sinks, and a closet stocked with terrycloth robes.
Quincie had told us that cocktail hour would begin at 7 and dinner at 8, so with a bit of time to kill we
went back outside. Our patio had two comfortable lounge chairs but when we sat the view was only of
the trees. The water wasn't far away — you could see it when you stood — but it seemed so; we
wanted to touch it and feel it. And so we walked to the main clubhouse nearby, out to the stone terrace
and down the stairs to the beach. Three miles long, shared with some private houses and several other
hotels, it was practically empty in June. The sand was so soft it felt like cotton, and so pink as to be
unbelievable. We sat on lounge chairs and just stared at the turquoise water until the bell sounded for
dinner. I was starting to recover.
We walked back up to the terrace, where several couples were standing near the bar talking. It was
clear that we were welcome to join the conversation. But, not being ready for social commitments, we
took a table for two on the terrace, where eight or so tables were simply covered in white cloths.
Dinner included an Asian-style tuna tartare served in an oyster shell; Thai snapper on noodles with
peanut sauce; barbecued quail on polenta; and for dessert, chocolate soup with a rum-soaked banana.
The technical competence of the chef was obvious, but the fare seemed too worked over and elaborate
for a beach club. Still, I figured I was in no state to judge. Exhausted, I fell into the very comfortable
bed, cooled by air-conditioning and a ceiling fan.
The next day, all memory of my prior life was gone. The sky was blue. I had only to decide which pair
of shorts to wear. There was no newspaper, no telephone, no television or CD player; there was no
noise at all. We walked back through the clubhouse to the terrace for breakfast, where I had a fruit
plate of mango, grapefruit, papaya and pineapple so perfectly ripened that I wanted to swim in it.
After breakfast, we headed up to the main road, passing the six other cottages, semihidden like ours in
foliage, and the tennis court. The club was started in the late 40's by a local man who used it as a haven
for his friends and, it is said, for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Because it accommodates only 28
people, it still feels like a place that isn't quite public. In the late 1980's it was bought by Tony Shogren, a
hosiery manufacturer who lives on Long Island. When I called him later, he told me that he runs the club
as a hobby, and a passion, with his wife, Cynthia, and his 33-year-old son, Alex.
Harbour Island has long had connections with the United States, or rather, its precursor has. Called
Briland (pronounced BRY-lind by its 1,500 residents, the island was settled in the 1700's, and some of its
first inhabitants were loyalists to the British Crown who had left their homes in the American Colonies
after the English were defeated. They built clapboard houses with picket fences that are strikingly
similar to those found in New England, only they are vividly colored and surrounded by palm trees and
tropical flowers.
We walked through Dunmore Town, the only one on the island, a charming, small, colonial settlement
that can be walked in less than an hour. It has just a few dozen stores, and we wandered in and out of
them, blowing on conch shells and trying on straw hats. In one store selling chic cotton clothes from
Italy, we met a woman who grew up on the island and divides her time between her home there and an
apartment in New York, where she works as a singer. When we told her where we were staying, she
said she found it rather stiff and dull; if we wanted to have a really good time, she said, next time we
should stay somewhere livelier.
We continued our walk, ending up at a marina that rented boats for bonefishing and scuba diving, then
returned to our hotel for lunch. Once again we ate on the terrace, making choices from a buffet set up in
the dining room, with ham sandwiches, several kinds of salad, and cheesecake. After lunch, we were
studying the chalkboard near the front desk of the clubhouse with that night's menu when we met
Shannon Hamilton, who introduced herself as the new manager of the resort and the wife of the chef,
Richard Hamilton. They had worked in restaurants in Las Vegas and Tennessee, and her husband, she
said, had trained in Paris at the Cordon Bleu, among other places.
Unwilling to go back out into the sun, we lounged in the clubhouse, flipping through the books and
magazines. Later we ventured back to the beach to swim. We spent the rest of the day reading and
making occasional trips to the honor bar in the clubhouse.
Dinner was again delicious, but frustratingly complex; I craved simple grilled fish and a big salad. But
there was no way to fault the chef's ability or desire to please. We started with fava bean soup with
stewed morels, wild asparagus with a truffle vinaigrette, tuna steak with a blood orange glaze, and for
dessert a tangerine brûlée. The staff in the dining room was attentive but never obtrusive or cloying.
That night we made a few stabs at conversation with our fellow guests and discovered that the other
two women traveling together were also old friends. A couple had come with their young child, who ate
at a special seating before the 8 p.m. dinner and was provided with local baby sitters. One couple was
there for an anniversary, and ate alone in the nearby gazebo.
The next morning Liza hired a horse from a man who kept several on the beach, and took off on a
45-minute ride; because she was bareback, she didn't go faster than a trot. Afterward, we took another
walk, deciding we would check out some of the other hotels the woman in the shop had mentioned, such
as the Pink Sands and the Coral Sands. They were indeed grander and more colorful, with swimming
pools and elaborate bars (as well as many more rooms). We wound up on the bay at the Ramora Bay
Club where, hot and tired of walking, we sat at the bar and waited for the bartender to offer us a drink.
When she ignored us — what could we have done wrong? we wondered — we finally resorted to
begging her to serve us.
We finished quickly, and hurried back to Dunmore Beach, to Quincie and Shannon. It was simpler, and
plainer, but it seemed just right, as comfortable as home without the obligations. So right that when it
was time to leave, and that tiny Continental plane rose in the sky, I relaxed into my seat and stared out
the window at the island, consuming the view until the land was out of sight.
TRISH HALL writes frequently for The Times on food, travel and design.