The sound of horses’ hooves echoes between the historic houses of Charleston. It feels like another era. An empty carriage passes by; later today it will be filled with guests touring the city. Americans adore Charleston, the most romantic city in the country. It’s easy to understand why: wooden mansions with porches, narrow cobbled streets, excellent restaurants, small boutiques and that deep-blue sea.
Walking through the old centre, I watch the city wake up. Forget the images of American cities filled only with high-rises and business districts. Charleston is dreamily classical, especially in the soft morning light glimmering through the palm fronds overhead.
I stroll through the fairy tale that has been carefully preserved for decades, with golden streetlights, lush gardens, horse-drawn carriages and fine wine. For years, the shadow side of this eighteenth- and nineteenth-century beauty – slavery – was mentioned only in passing. But that has changed. Bit by bit, it’s finding its rightful place in the city’s larger narrative.
The new International African American Museum has set the tone. This outstanding museum not only addresses the painful past with care, but also celebrates the immense contribution of African Americans to the country: their role in building the nation and their lasting influence on its culture – from architecture to music, from science to art.
It’s exactly what bothered Frank Williams when he drove groups of tourists around Charleston. ‘The guides always talked about the white entrepreneurs and what they did for the city,’ he says. ‘Aiken-Rhett, Robert W. Roper, Edmondston-Alston. But where were the Black craftsmen, builders and designers? Almost everything you see here was made by them. With skill, talent and craftsmanship. See that ornate iron gate? Beautiful, isn’t it? It was made in the workshop of a Black blacksmith, Philip Simmons. He practised the craft for 78 years. Charleston is full of his work.’
Charleston sits in a strategic spot where several rivers meet the sea. On the island just off the city, the first cannon shot of the American Civil War was fired. The coasts of South and North Carolina are a patchwork of sandbanks, marshes, shallows, rivers and islands. Take Georgetown, for example, a small, lesser-known town stretched along the water, radiating that warm small-town-USA feeling with its shops and cafés.
In the harbour lies the fishing boat Stormy Seas, owned by the Hubert family. On the quay stand Stormy, Bert and young Will – second, third and fourth generation fishermen. They’re actually all named Hubert after their ancestor, but that proved impractical, hence the nicknames. The Huberts mainly fish for shrimp around the coastal islands. Will loves his work. ‘The best thing about this life? Being out on the water. Every day is different. The weather, the catch, the sea, the sky. It makes me happy.’
The contrast is striking with some of the islands developed as holiday resorts, thanks to their long white beaches. Myrtle Beach is the best-known, with a long tradition of entertainment. The centre is especially fun because of its vintage attractions – think Peaches Corner (since 1937), the Gay Dolphin Gift Cove (1946) and Pier 14, dating back to the 1920s.
We drive across islands and through the hinterland, where ruler-straight roads cut through empty land. The local radio crackles. Depending on where you are, you’ll hear gospel, classic rock, country or a fiery preacher. The scenery feels cinematic: an asphalt road with yellow-orange lines slicing through fields, swampy wilderness, cotton, abandoned trailer parks and small towns. Old gas stations repurposed as vintage shops, bookstores, plant shops or village stores keep the drive full of surprises.
These backroads make a coastal road trip even more special. Take Calabash, where the modest harbourfront is crowded with seafood restaurants. At some places, the fish goes straight from the boat to the kitchen – literally. One of the classics is the Waterfront Seafood Shack. Order at wooden hut number one, pick up your food at hut number two, and eat at a table right above the water. You won’t find a better spot for a shrimp basket or blue crab.
As a visitor, you don’t notice when you cross from South Carolina into North Carolina – the landscape doesn’t shift just because humans drew a line. Soon enough you reach Wilmington, another charming small town, and then New Bern, a place with Swiss roots and the birthplace of an American icon: Pepsi (1893). On the corner of Pollock and Middle Street, pharmacist Caleb Bradham created his health drink – the recipe that grew into Coca-Cola’s greatest competitor. The shop is part museum, part gift store, part café, where visitors come to drink Pepsi and eat popcorn.
From New Bern it’s still more than 200 kilometres to the Outer Banks, a chain of sandy islands linked by bridges and ferries. A few films and a recent Netflix series (Outer Banks) have made the region popular – and rightly so. You’ll find dunes with wild horses, film locations, beautiful beaches and the place where the Wright brothers invented modern aviation. The sunsets over the inland waters are spectacular.
Some bridges and sandbanks are so long and narrow that it feels like driving on water. In the north, you can take your 4x4 onto the beach to search for the wild horses known as bankers – descendants of Spanish horses brought by colonists in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. A century ago there were more than 5,000 of these semi-wild horses on the Outer Banks; now there are around 700, most of them hiding in the dunes. My early-morning attempt is a failure. No horses – but the twenty-kilometre drive is unforgettable. I see almost no one, pass two isolated settlements and watch the light slowly rise over sea and land.
Before radar and sonar, the shifting islands and sandbars were dangerous for ships. In the late nineteenth century, so many people drowned in the ‘Graveyard of the Atlantic’ that a network of Life-Saving Stations was created. These posts housed rescue crews that would rush out when ships were in distress. Many still stand today, perched on stilts in the sand.
The most famous is the Pea Island station. After the Civil War it became the first in the country with an all-Black crew, including their leader, Richard Etheridge. The resistance was fierce – even for lifesavers. Five months after Etheridge’s appointment, the station was burned down. Sentiment began to shift after the heroism of the crew during the wreck of the E.S. Newman in 1896, when all souls on board were saved at great personal risk.
The islands are pure joy to explore, with stops at birding lookouts, the Nights in Rodanthe film hotel, the Avon Fishing Pier full of anglers and surfers, and of course the Wright Brothers National Memorial in Kitty Hawk, where aviation pioneers are honoured with an enormous hill and triumphal monument. In the museum you can see a replica of the aircraft that made the first powered flight.
It’s no coincidence the Wright brothers chose this island. They needed space, wind and solitude. People thought they were mad, but the brothers had absolute faith in their invention. Every setback became a lesson, prompting tweaks to the plane and its launch system. Bit by bit, they moved closer to their goal.
On 17 December 1903, they succeeded. The 274-kilogram Flyer 1 stayed aloft for twelve seconds and travelled 37 metres – the first powered human flight. That day they made several more attempts, each one farther. Four stones mark the distances on the field. The brothers had even drawn lots to decide who would pilot the first flight. Wilbur won.
Before heading back to the mainland, I drive north one last time in the early morning light. Could the horses be there today?
Driving through one-hundred-percent authentic America, along the backroads of North and South Carolina, letting the road decide where you go. Visiting towns not found in every travel guide, eating shrimp with your back against a fishing boat, searching for wild horses on the beach. We love it – you will too.
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