Bowens Island, Folly Creek, and My Margaritaville

Charleston has no shortage of places that capture the spirit of the Lowcountry, but Bowens Island and Folly Creek hold a special place in my heart. They’re not just destinations—they’re experiences, each with its own rhythm, flavor, and reminder of what it means to slow down and savor life.

Bowens Island Restaurant is one of those spots you’ll never forget. Perched at the edge of the marsh, it’s rustic, weathered, and unapologetically authentic. Don’t expect white tablecloths or polished décor—expect oyster shells piled high, picnic tables, and sunsets that paint the sky in colors no artist could replicate. If you go, order the fried shrimp or the oyster roast. The shrimp are crisp and perfectly seasoned, and the oysters—steamed over open flames—taste like the marsh itself, briny and rich. Pair it with a cold beer, and you’ll understand why locals keep coming back.

Just beyond Bowens Island lies Folly Creek, which I’ve come to think of as my own Margaritaville, minus the booze in the blender and brand-new tattoo. It’s where I take my kayak when I need to reset. If you’re planning a paddle, go in the morning when the tide is rising. The water is calm, the marsh birds are active, and the sun casts a golden glow across the grasses. You’ll likely spot dolphins playing in the creek—they surface with effortless grace, reminding you to find joy in simple moments.

On my last trip, I was lucky enough to see both dolphins and a great blue heron. The dolphins reminded me of playfulness, of living unburdened by the past. The heron, lifting slowly from the reeds, reminded me of renewal—patient, deliberate, rising steadily into the sky. Together, they became metaphors for my own healing journey.

Life doesn’t always unfold the way we expect. Relationships end, tides shift, and sometimes we’re left searching for balance. But places like Bowens Island and Folly Creek remind me that endings aren’t failures—they’re transitions. The tide goes out, but it always comes back in.

So, if you’re visiting Charleston, make time for Bowens Island. Order the oysters, linger over the view, and let the marsh remind you of the beauty in simplicity. And if you have a kayak, take it to Folly Creek. Paddle with the tide, watch for dolphins, and keep an eye out for the heron. You might just find, as I did, that the water has a way of carrying you forward—not with regret, but with gratitude and hope.

Where the Tide Turns Between the IOP and Sullivan's Island—A True Story

There’s a place on Sullivan’s Island where the water narrows and the current quickens. It is a place where the Atlantic meets the Intracoastal, where tides collide and the sea decides who stays and who drifts away. It’s a place that doesn’t ask questions but somehow answers them anyway. The place is Breach Inlet.

I went there this morning, hoping for stillness. I brought a book I didn’t open and a Yeti of sweet tea I barely touched. The sky was a perfect blue, the kind that makes you forget anything could ever go wrong. But the inlet—it knows better. It’s seen too much to be fooled by the weather.

The sands here are never still. I have watched their transformation through the years. They shift with each tide, reshaping the shoreline like a restless artist never satisfied with the last sketch. One day there’s a crescent of beach wide enough to walk barefoot for hours; the next, it’s swallowed whole, replaced by a churning ribbon of water. Locals say the inlet has a memory, that it remembers storms and shipwrecks, and that it never forgets.

Out in the current, a pod of dolphins surfaced, their sleek backs catching the morning light. They moved with the tide, weaving through the eddies like dancers in a slow, ancient ballet. I watched them for a long time, their presence both playful and profound, as if they too were drawn to the mystery of this place.

And then there’s the new house on the point—glass and stucco, all clean lines and quiet luxury. It stands where the old house used to lean, weather-beaten and wise. The new place is beautiful, no doubt, but it hasn’t earned its stories yet. It hasn’t heard the wind howl through hurricane shutters or watched the moon rise over a sea turned silver. It’s still learning the language of the inlet.

On the drive over, just past Patriots Point, I saw something that stopped me cold. A woman walking hand in hand with a man. Her hair caught the light in a familiar way that took me by surprise. It was someone I once knew—someone I once hoped to know better. She didn’t see me. I didn’t stop. But the moment stayed. It appeared the ocean breeze was not blowing in my favor.

I sat in my car for a long time after that, watching the water shimmer like nothing had changed. But something had—not in the world—in me. There’s a quiet kind of sadness that comes when you realize a door you’d left open has quietly closed. No slam. No drama. Just the soft click of finality.

I walked the shoreline barefoot, letting the tide wash over my feet. The inlet curved ahead like a question mark, and I followed it—not looking for answers, just letting the water carry my thoughts. Some places feel like endings, even when they’re beautiful. And some people stay with you, even when they’re gone. I won’t write about that epiphany again—not directly. But she’ll be there: in the spaces between sentences, in the hush between tides, in the way the marsh holds its breath before the wind returns.

Breach Inlet doesn’t truly belong to anyone. It’s a threshold, a breath caught between tides. It is a place where the land exhales and the sea inhales, where endings blur into beginnings. If you sit with it long enough, in stillness and silence, it might whisper something you didn’t know you needed to hear. The current there has a mind of its own, often carrying you in directions you never intended. And when resistance feels futile, sometimes the only choice—the wisest one—is simply to let go and float.

Echoes Beneath the Vaulted Ceiling: The Story of Charleston’s Union Station

Fire is like a two-edged sword: it giveth and it taketh. It is both hospitable and hostile. It reclaims what has been taken and reshapes what has already been formed. It is a merciless entity, absent of malice. It does only what it is destined to do, bound by the laws of nature.

Fire has played a notable role in the evolution of Charleston’s cityscape—in the years 1698, 1740, 1778, 1812, and 1947. Like that two-edged sword, it has cleared the way for a more durable metropolitan landscape, but in doing so, it has consumed some of the city’s most celebrated architectural masterpieces.

In the heart of Charleston’s historic peninsula, where East Bay Street meets Columbus, once stood a monument to movement, ambition, and architectural grace: Union Station, a grand passenger terminal that served as the city’s rail gateway from 1907 to 1947. Though long vanished from the skyline, its memory lingers in the Lowcountry’s collective imagination—an echo of steam whistles, polished shoes on tiled floors, and lantern light flickering beneath vaulted ceilings.

Union Station was born of necessity and vision. In 1902, the South Carolina General Assembly chartered the Charleston Union Station Company, a joint venture by three major railroads—Atlantic Coast Line, Southern Railway, and Seaboard Air Line. Their goal: to consolidate passenger services into a single, elegant terminal worthy of Charleston’s stature.

Construction began in 1905, and by November 1907, the station opened its doors. With its classical architecture, arched windows, and ornate murals, Union Station was more than a transit point—it was a civic landmark. Travelers arriving from Savannah, Richmond, or Washington stepped into a space that felt both grand and intimate, where the rhythms of rail travel met the rituals of Southern hospitality.

Illustration of Union Station

Though few photographs survive, contemporary accounts describe a station of impressive scale and detail. The checkerboard tile floors, hanging lanterns, and decorative columns created a sense of ceremony. Ceiling murals were a defining feature of the station’s interior, contributing to its classical and civic grandeur. These murals likely included scenes of ships, harbors, and historical vignettes, consistent with Charleston’s identity as a port city and its colonial and Revolutionary War legacy. The murals were described as elaborate and atmospheric, helping elevate the station from a mere transit hub to a place of cultural and architectural significance.

The station was a stage for everyday drama: soldiers departing for war, families reuniting, porters wheeling trunks beneath the gaze of stationmasters in brass-buttoned coats. It was a place where time paused between arrivals and departures, and where Charleston’s social tapestry—black and white, rich and poor—briefly converged.

On a cold morning in January 1947, Union Station was destroyed by fire. The Charleston Fire Department responded quickly, but the station’s wooden framing and open interior spaces allowed the flames to spread rapidly. Despite efforts to contain the blaze, the entire structure was engulfed and ultimately destroyed in hours. Archival records from the Charleston County Public Library’s Fire Department collection document the event as one of the city’s most significant structural losses of the mid-20th century. No definitive cause for the blaze was ever confirmed in public records. The building's destruction marked the end of an era.

Following the fire, rail services were rerouted. The Charleston Union Station Company, which had operated the facility, gradually dissolved its operations. A collection of 183 scanned documents, including letters and newspaper clippings from 1947 to 1954, is preserved in the Southern Railway Historical Association archives, offering firsthand accounts of the fire’s impact.

Charleston never rebuilt a central passenger terminal of comparable grandeur. Instead, rail travel gradually shifted northward. Amtrak eventually established its presence in North Charleston, and by the 21st century, the original site of Union Station had faded into obscurity—its footprint absorbed by urban development, its memory preserved only in archives and anecdotes.

Union Station was more than a building—it was a portal. It connected Charleston to the wider world and offered a glimpse of modernity wrapped in classical beauty. Its destruction left a void not just in infrastructure, but in the city’s architectural soul.

Today, as Charleston balances preservation with progress, Union Station reminds us of what once was: a place where movement met meaning, and where the hum of locomotives underscored the quiet heroism of everyday life.

The Whispering Alphabet of Runnymede Plantation

The moon hung low over the Ashley River, its pale reflection trembling across the black water like a secret trying not to be spoken. Beneath its glow, Runnymede Plantation stood like a monument to memory itself—its chimney a solitary sentinel rose into the sky, its oaks draped in Spanish moss that swayed like mourning veils in the humid breeze. An impressive avenue of live oaks led to the haunting estate, their limbs arching overhead like cathedral vaults. A second avenue, consisting of a skyline hedge of Southern Magnolias, bordered the garden in fragrant silence, their waxy blossoms glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Elias Carrington had come alone. In his hands he carried the parchment containing the verses written by Poe as he strolled the garden. The edges were brittle, the ink faded in places, but the rhythm of the lines still pulsed with eerie vitality. Local lore held that Poe had been a frequent visitor, slipping away from Fort Moultrie during his brief military posting in Charleston to wander the plantation’s shadowed paths, drawn to Runnymede’s spectral beauty and the strange Alphabet Walk that twisted through its gardens like a living cipher.

He was seen once, they said, beneath the Cypress tree at twilight, murmuring lines to himself and scribbling furiously in a leather-bound journal. The gardener’s daughter swore she saw him bury something beneath the tree—a scroll, perhaps, or a letter sealed with wax and marked with a raven.

Nothing prepared Elias for the visceral unease that crept into his bones as he stepped onto the Alphabet Walk. The trees loomed like sentinels of an ancient code; each one marked with a brass plaque bearing a single letter. A for Ash, B for Birch, C for Cypress… and so on, winding deep into the garden’s heart.

He paused beneath the twisted limbs of a Hackberry tree marked with an H. The plaque was tarnished, but beneath the grime he saw a faint engraving: “Heed the hush.” He turned. The wind had stopped. The garden was silent. Then came the whisper. It wasn’t a voice, not exactly. More like a memory brushing past his ear. A line of verse, half-formed and aching to be remembered:

"In twilight’s hush where shadows creep,

And ancient oaks their secrets keep,

I wandered lost through paths of lore,

Where time had locked a hidden door."

Elias scribbled it down in his notebook, heart pounding. He had found the first clue.

The Alphabet Walk twisted unexpectedly, leading him to a grove where the trees grew closer together, their branches interlaced like the strands of a wicker chair. Here, the letters grew stranger—Q for Quince, X for Xylosma, Z for Zelkova. Poe had walked this path. It was said Poe had whispered his poem into the bark of these trees, each line a cipher, each stanza a map.

"U urges fate to turn its face,

V veils the vow of love’s embrace,

W wakes the wind to cry,

X marks the spot where secrets lie."

At the base of the Zelkova, Elias found a stone half-buried in moss. It bore a carving: a raven in flight, its wings outstretched over a scroll. Beneath it, a single word etched in Latin: “Veritas.” The final lines of Poe’s poem read:

"But truth is not for hearts untried—

It waits where sea and soul collide.

Seek not the gold, nor glory’s flame,

But speak the word that none dare name."

Elias stood in the hush of the garden, the wind returning with a sigh through the magnolias. He felt the weight of time pressing against him—not just the plantation’s haunted past, but the burden of secrets kept too long. Somewhere, beneath the sand and salt of Sullivan’s Island, a scroll waited. And on it, the name of a treasure lost to time.

But tonight, the garden had given him its first whisper. And the Alphabet Walk, it seemed, was only beginning to speak.

The Haunting Ashley River Plantation Just a Buggy Ride from Magnolia Plantation

The Shell and the Shadow on Sullivan's Island

The morning sun had just begun to stretch its golden streamers across the Atlantic, casting long shadows over the damp sand. The tide was low, and the beach lay quiet, save for the rhythmic hush of waves folding into themselves. A young woman wandered barefoot along the shoreline, her family still asleep in the cottage tucked behind the dunes. She moved slowly, stooping now and then to collect seashells—small, imperfect things that caught the light in curious ways.

She paused to examine one: a pale pink spiral with a smooth, iridescent interior and a jagged, barnacled edge. Turning it in her palm, she felt the contrast between its polished heart and weathered skin. That was when she noticed him.

A man stood several yards away, fully clothed in dark attire that seemed out of place against the brightness of the beach. He faced the ocean, unmoving, as if listening to something beneath the waves. His silhouette was stark—long coat, long hair, and a stillness that felt deliberate.

She looked back down at the shell, hoping to avoid eye contact. But when she glanced up again, he had moved closer. Not alarmingly so, but enough to make her pulse quicken. She pretended to study the shell more intently, but then he spoke.

“Would you like to know more about that one?” His voice was soft, almost melodic, and it caught her off guard.

She looked up timidly. His eyes were dark—so dark they seemed to absorb the light around them—and his hair fell in loose waves past his shoulders. Despite her initial unease, something in his presence calmed her. He spoke again, and the tension in her chest began to dissolve.

He described the shell in poetic detail: its pink hue, the way its interior shimmered like mother-of-pearl, the roughness of its outer ridges shaped by years of tumbling in the surf. He spoke of its origins, its journey, its silent history. She listened, entranced, as if the shell were a relic from another world and he its interpreter.

She bent to pick up another shell, eager to hear more. But when she rose, he was gone. She scanned the beach. No footprints. No movement. Only the dunes stood behind her, silent and still. Perhaps he had wandered back over them. Perhaps he had never been there at all. Clutching her small trove of shells, she walked back to the cottage, the encounter lingering in her thoughts like a half-remembered dream.

That evening, her family dined at Poe's Tavern—a cozy place with creaky floors and the scent of salt and old wood. As they waited for dessert, she wandered toward the fireplace, drawn by a painting that hung above it. The image was dark, brooding: a man in black, his eyes deep and penetrating, his expression unreadable. Her breath caught. It was him.

She stared, heart thudding, then turned to the nearest server. “Excuse me,” she said, pointing to the painting. “Do you know who that is?”

The server glanced up, then smiled politely. “Oh yes, dear. That’s Edgar Allan Poe.”

The young woman blinked. “Poe?”

“Yes. He spent time in Charleston, you know. Some say he still does.”

The server chuckled and walked away, but the young woman remained rooted to the spot, staring into the painted eyes that had once watched the waves beside her.

___Story based on article Stranger on the Beach: One Vacationer Encounters a Famous Sullivan’s Island Specter

The Ghost Light of the James F. Dean Theatre

The James F. Dean Theatre had its quirks—creaking steps, misaligned doors, a draft that whispered down the back stairs. It was the kind of place where shadows lingered a little too long, and the hush between scenes felt thick with memory. On show nights, the old brick walls seemed to breathe with anticipation, as if the building itself leaned in to listen.

Outside, the newly installed marquee brightly lit the front entrance. Inside, the rejuvenated community theater glowed with promise. Prop lighting radiantly illuminated the beautifully prepared set—an assemblage of weathered timber fashioned into a rustic old fishing pier, overshadowed by moss-laden trees and unforgotten recollections.

It was during Catfish Moon, a play about friendship and forgiveness, that the theater revealed one of its quirkiest secrets. I was offered an invitation to work backstage with the prop manager. We sat tucked behind the wings at a table full of props—fishing poles, tackle boxes, dried swamp grass, and a single lamp to light our corner.

As the play unfolded—three old friends on a dock, casting lines into memory—the lamp inexplicably flickered on and off. Not just once. Not just twice. It pulsed like a heartbeat, on and off, throughout the play’s run. Sometimes it glowed steadily during a monologue, then blinked out as if punctuating a line. We checked the cord. We checked the bulb. We even switched it off. Still, for no reason, it would turn on and off. While we sat at the table, I’d say, “I wonder if the light is going to turn off,” and as soon as I said it, it did.

The actors never noticed. The audience didn’t see. But backstage, we watched in silence, the hairs on our arms rising with each flicker. Between cues, we whispered theories. Faulty wiring. A short in the circuit.

On closing night, just before the final scene—when the characters reconcile under a moonlit sky—the lamp flared bright, then dimmed to a soft glow. It stayed lit until the final bow. Then, as the applause faded, it blinked once and went dark.

We left the light on the table after strike. It remained a mystery, and this story, unexplainably true.

Some say every theater has its ghost. Maybe James F. Dean's just wanted to see Catfish Moon one last time.

James F. Dean Theatre now showing Murder on the Orient Express.

The Strange Story of John Street--Home to the Charleston Music Hall

I tried to figure out where John Street in Charleston got its name, and wow—it's not straightforward. From what I could dig up, it might trace back to Hector Berenger de Beaufain, a French Huguenot who played a big role in Charleston’s early days. He was the Collector of Customs and helped shape the city’s infrastructure, including founding the Charleston Library Society. He was noted for his benevolence towards all people. His contributions and legacy are honored in the name of the street, which reflects the historical significance of the area.

But here’s the weird part: how does John come out of Hector Berenger de Beaufain? That connection feels like a stretch. Was “John” a nickname? A middle name lost to history? Or maybe someone else entirely got the honor and the Beaufain link is just a coincidence?

There’s a Beaufain Street, which makes perfect sense. But John? I don’t get it. It feels like there’s a missing chapter—some twist in the naming story that didn’t make it into the records. Maybe it was political, or maybe someone just liked the name John better. Who knows? I’m sure there’s more to it, but for now, it’s one of those Charleston mysteries that refuses to give up its secrets.

John Street stretches from Elizabeth to King, its sidewalks echoing the footsteps of centuries. Among its oldest residents stands the Charleston Music Hall, a building whose bones remember steam and soot long before it knew song.

It began in 1850, not as a theater, but as a train station—The Tower Depot, a Gothic Revival marvel designed by Charleston architect Edward C. Jones. He gave it the silhouette of a medieval castle, complete with turrets, pointed arch niches, and simulated arrow slots, as if yeomen might still be quartered in the tower, ready to defend it from assault. Yet beneath the romantic flourishes lay Renaissance symmetry and industrial purpose. The entrance was wide enough to admit a train. And it did.

The depot was part of a sprawling complex known as Camden Depot, stretching from Line to Hutson Street between King and Meeting. Freight depots, warehouses, and repair shops buzzed with the rhythm of the South Carolina Railroad. But the Tower Depot’s tenure was brief. By 1853, the passenger station had closed, its grand ambitions derailed.

After the Civil War, the building changed hands. On February 6, 1878, the Charleston Bagging Manufacturing Company took ownership. Then came the earthquake of 1886. The three-story tower collapsed, and most of the structure was torn down. What remained was used for storage—silent, utilitarian, forgotten.

The Bagging Company folded during the Great Depression. The building passed to the Chicco family and sat vacant for sixty years, its windows dark, its doors sealed against time. Yet the architecture endured. The turrets, the sunken panels, the heavy doors—they waited.

In 1994, the Bennett-Hofford Company stepped in. Restoration began, not just of brick and mortar, but of purpose. By 1995, the Charleston Music Hall reopened, reborn as a venue for performance and memory. The renovation honored its Gothic soul while adapting it for modern acoustics, flexible seating, and the pulse of live art.

Today, the Music Hall is a cultural anchor in downtown Charleston. Indie bands, classical ensembles, comedians, and filmmakers all find a stage beneath its vaulted ceilings. David Byrne and Joan Baez have performed here. In 2003, bluegrass legend Ricky Scaggs recorded a Grammy-winning live album within its walls.

Restaurant alley next to Music Hall and Rue de Jean

Surrounded by hotels and restaurants, the hall hums with life. But if you listen closely, beneath the applause and laughter, you might still hear the echo of a train whistle—or the creak of a turret door swinging open to the past.

Charleston Music Hall Event Schedule