Sullivan's Island in the 1850s--The Moultrie House Hotel: Charleston’s Lost Seaside Palace

Long before Sullivan’s Island became a quiet beach community of pastel cottages and summer porches, it was a place of contrasts. It was both a military outpost and fashionable retreat, windswept wilderness and social playground. In the 1850s, the island stood at a crossroads between old coastal traditions and the rising tide of antebellum leisure culture. Today, little remains of that world. Nonetheless, with a bit of imagination and a few surviving accounts, we can step back onto the island and see it as it once was.

In the mid‑19th century, Sullivan’s Island was still largely untamed. Sand dunes rolled along the shoreline. Sea oats bent in the wind. The Atlantic crashed in long, rhythmic lines against a beach that stretched unbroken for miles. There were no paved roads, no rows of houses, no bustling commercial district. Instead, visitors found a handful of summer cottages in the village of Moultrieville, a scattering of military buildings around Fort Moultrie, and the great Moultrie House Hotel, a wooden palace rising above the dunes. It was a place where the horizon felt close enough to touch.

Even in its most peaceful years, Sullivan’s Island was shaped by the presence of Fort Moultrie, the historic stronghold guarding Charleston Harbor. Visitors to the Moultrie House Hotel could often hear the distant thud of cannon practice or see soldiers marching along the beach road. The mingling of military discipline and seaside leisure gave the island a unique character—half resort, half fortress.

Charleston families flocked to Sullivan’s Island each summer to escape the heat and the threat of mosquito‑borne illness. The island’s constant breeze made it feel safer, cleaner, and infinitely more refreshing than the city’s narrow streets.

By the 1850s, the island had become a seasonal social hub, a place for balls, promenades, and seaside dinners. A retreat where families mingled, flirtations blossomed, and reputations were quietly made or unmade. The Moultrie House Hotel stood at the center of this world, offering luxury, entertainment, and a vantage point over the Atlantic that felt almost otherworldly.

The Moultrie House Hotel was located directly on the beachfront just west of Fort Moultrie, on the southern end of Sullivan’s Island. It was close enough that someone standing on the fort’s ramparts could look down the shoreline and see the hotel’s long piazzas facing the Atlantic. It rose above the sand like a great ship run aground. It was two hundred and fifty feet of sun‑bleached boards and broad piazzas lifted on stout pilings. Its verandas stretched the entire length of the façade like open arms welcoming the summer elite of Charleston.

Guests arrived at the hotel by way of the Moultrieville Rail and Plank Company, a short horse-drawn railway which ran from the ferry landing at the Cove. After disembarking, passengers boarded the horse-drawn rail cars and were carried directly to the hotel's front door. Ladies in gauzy muslins stepped down beneath parasols, their skirts stirring in the salt breeze, while porters hurried forward to gather trunks and hatboxes. The air smelled of sea grass, warm pine, and the faint mineral tang of the ocean.

Inside, the hotel breathed luxury of the distinctly Southern kind with high ceilings, polished floors, and rooms arranged to catch every possible breeze. The great ballroom occupied the eastern wing, its folding doors thrown wide so that music could spill out toward the dunes. On summer evenings, the glow of chandeliers shimmered through tall multipaned windows, and the melodic line of a quadrille drifted across the sand.

During the day, guests wandered the wide piazzas, shaded from the sun yet open to the endless horizon. Gentlemen in linen coats leaned against the railings, watching the surf break in long, even lines. Children darted between the posts, their laughter mingling with the rhythmic creak of the hotel’s windmill pumping fresh water from the cisterns. Farther down the beach, the ladies’ bath house stood discreetly apart, its wooden slats bleached by salt and sun.

By late afternoon, the entire establishment seemed to settle into a kind of golden idleness. The heat softened, the sea turned a deeper blue, and the hotel’s long façade glowed as if lit from within. Servants moved quietly through the halls preparing for supper, while guests gathered on the piazza to watch the sun sink behind the distant spires of Charleston. In that hour, with the breeze lifting the curtains and the scent of the ocean drifting through every open door, the Moultrie House felt less like a hotel and more like a world unto itself—an elegant refuge suspended between sea and sky, untouched by the daily concerns on the mainland.

The Moultrie House offered "no deficiency of amusements," said Dr. Irving, adding that among its many amenities were four billiard tables and three bowling saloons. There were horses for riding, boats for fishing and "none but the choicest liquors." It offered an inspiring view of the Harbor and Bay of Charleston while the Atlantic Ocean surf spilled onto its wide beach, not many feet from the Hotel.

“Anyone who was anyone” stayed there. It quickly gained national attention as a premier Southern resort. The Moultrie House Hotel’s reputation was so favorable that people came from the entire eastern seaboard. "I never saw anything like it before," wrote William Gilmore Simms.

In 1861, as Sullivan's Island turned from resort to a Confederate military post, the hotel served as housing for Confederate officers, which made it a ready target for Union bombardments. Union officer Abner Doubleday, a captain and second in command at Fort Sumter and author of Reminiscences of Forts Sumter and Moultrie in 1860-61, described firing on the Moultrie House Hotel during the first bombardment. He recounted, “Just before the attack was made upon us…I aimed two forty-two pounder balls at the upper story. The crashing of the shot, which went through the whole length of the building among the clapboards and interior partitions, must have been something fearful to those who were within." 

Following the war, attempts were made to re-establish the Moultrie House Hotel to its former grandeur. However, times had changed. Gone are the great ante-bellum days of wealthy plantation owners seeking elegant surroundings in which to spend the summer season.

Today, there are no hotels on Sullivan's Island. The island is home to a close-knit community of a little over 2,000 residents, who enjoy a small-town charm and relaxed lifestyle. It is well known for its soft, white sandy beaches where families enjoy picnics and swimming, while the calm waters are perfect for relaxation. Visitors can still explore historical sites like Fort Moultrie and enjoy local dining options ranging from barbecue to gourmet cuisine at its award-winning restaurants, Poe's Tavern being a local favorite. It is an ideal destination for both relaxation and adventure.

The Nation's Longest Operating Liquor Store and an Entertaining Side Story: The Day the Parrot Outsmarted the Pirates

What most visitors don’t realize—while they’re lining up pastel façades in their camera lenses or setting up easels beneath the shade of palmettos—is that Rainbow Row has witnessed more than its share of mischief. One of the most beloved stories, still whispered by old‑timers in the French Quarter, involves a pirate, a parrot, and the very liquor shop that claims the title of the oldest in the nation.

According to local lore, sometime in the early 1700s, a member of Stede Bonnet’s crew—an overconfident fellow named Red Tom Mallory—stumbled out of the waterfront taverns in search of more rum. He was loud, unsteady, and accompanied by a parrot with a vocabulary so colorful it could make a sailor blush. The bird, named Captain Pickles, was said to have been trained to mimic Bonnet’s voice with uncanny accuracy.

Red Tom swaggered into the liquor shop demanding a private cask “on the authority of Captain Bonnet himself.” The shopkeeper, unimpressed and entirely sober, refused. But Captain Pickles, perched on Tom’s shoulder, suddenly squawked in a perfect imitation of Bonnet’s clipped Barbadian accent: “Give the man the rum, you scurvy‑minded barnacle!”

The shopkeeper froze. The voice was unmistakable. Bonnet had been in Charleston only days earlier, and no one wanted to risk crossing a pirate captain with a reputation for unpredictable moods. So, the cask was handed over.

Red Tom strutted out triumphantly—only to be immediately intercepted by the city watch. They had been tracking him since he’d knocked over a fishmonger’s stall earlier that morning. As the watchmen hauled him away, Captain Pickles flapped to a nearby balcony and began loudly repeating the phrase: “Give the man the rum, you scurvy‑minded barnacle!”

The parrot’s performance drew such a crowd that the watchmen lost their grip on Red Tom, who slipped away into the maze of alleys behind East Bay Street. Captain Pickles, however, remained on his balcony perch, where he was adopted by the family living there. For years afterward, the bird would shout pirate insults at unsuspecting passersby, startling tourists, merchants, and even a few dignitaries.

Some say the parrot lived to a venerable age, long enough to greet the first wave of artists who began painting Rainbow Row in the early 20th century. Others insist the whole tale is nonsense. But if you ask the right Charlestonian—preferably one who’s had a drink or two—they’ll tell you that on quiet mornings, when the tide is low and the breeze comes off the Cooper River just so, you can still hear a faint voice echoing between the pastel walls: “Give the man the rum!”

The Tavern at Rainbow Row dates as far back as 1686, according to documents and maps discovered in Scotland and the Netherlands. Quite possibly, Captain William Carse and the crew of the Magdalen from Edinburgh purchased liquor here in August of 1743 after unloading their cargo of salt, sailcloth, and, among other items, ninety‑six mashies (golf clubs) and four hundred thirty‑two featheries (golf balls) consigned to David Deas, a Scottish emigrant who had become a successful Charleston merchant.

Through its three centuries of business, The Tavern has endured the test of time—sometimes unstoppable, sometimes hard‑pressed. It survived the Revolutionary War and the incessant pummeling from Federal cannons during the Civil War, not to mention numerous historic fires and the catastrophic earthquake of 1886 that brought down hundreds of Charleston’s buildings.

Thomas Coates apparently purchased or constructed this group of commercial buildings by 1806. It served as the meeting place of Charleston's Jacobin Club in the 1790s, a group largely made up of French immigrants who wholeheartedly embraced the spirit of the French Revolution. This group of commercial buildings was also known as Coates's Row.

The Tavern, 120 East Bay Street, has been known by more than a few names, including The Tavern on the Bluffs, Harris’s Tavern, the French Coffee House, and Mrs. Coates’s Tavern by the Bay. In 1903, it became a “Whiskey Store” during an era when it was illegal to buy a drink, even if it was served in a teacup. Disguised as a barbershop through Prohibition, it sold liquor from a back room. A latched door at the rear of the shop led to an underground tunnel that once moved moonshine to speakeasies—then known as “blind tigers.”

The Blind Tiger Pub building on Broad Street has such an underground tunnel, which can also be entered through a latched door at the back of the building. Those wanting a drink would have had to sneak one in one of the tunnel’s many dark nooks. Whether the two tunnels connected is open to question. At this point, I must insert a bit of caution: like many stories from Charleston’s past, you must measure its factuality with a grain of Carolina Gold. Following Repeal, the Tavern returned to legal status. It has been the nation’s oldest spirits store in continuous operation. Now that bit of information is as bona fide as its Bluffton Whiskey.

The original building is divided into three separate addresses. By law, spirits must be sold separately from wine and beer. The middle section, which sells wine and beer, is the most fascinating of the three. Its brick front exterior at 118 East Bay Street features an arched double door flanked by two arched windows, and, directly above it, a double‑window second‑floor extension—added by Coates in the early 1840s—all painted in dark green. Inside, the current owners have preserved the shop’s legacy by restoring its interior, showcasing original hardwood floors and brick walls alongside antique furnishings from around the world—a bookshelf from the Library of Congress and an artisan’s worktable from France. In one of the adjoining rooms is the mysterious latched door leading to the underground.

The third section of the building is unused—once a gallery. Future plans include opening the wall where the beer taps are currently located and converting the unused section into a drinking space with a garden patio outside.

The Tavern specializes in local and rare spirits, including a five‑grain bourbon made with a Carolina rice variety (Seashore Black Rye) once thought to be extinct, and Carolina Gold; a black tea liqueur produced by the only large‑scale tea plantation in the U.S. (the Charleston Tea Plantation); and a vodka distilled from rye grown on South Carolina’s Edisto Island. To acquaint visitors with the unfamiliar, the shop also offers weekly tastings.

The Tavern at Rainbow Row has been featured on Southern Charm, Moonshiners, History’s Most Haunted, and Atlas Obscura. With a multifaceted history and a singular focus, The Tavern has stayed true to its reason for being and has never stopped distributing booze. Now that makes for one happy sailor.

120 E Bay St, next door to the Old Exchange and Provost Dungeon.

A Lowcountry Legend from Runnymede Plantation—and the History that Shaped it

Runnymede Plantation 1917

In the Lowcountry, history is never just something you read in books. It breathes. It clings to the air like humidity, settles into the marsh grass, and whispers beneath the live oaks. Some stories rise from that landscape with such insistence that they become part of the region’s cultural marrow. The tale of what happened at Runnymede Plantation one September afternoon is one of them.

The year has slipped from memory, but the season has not. It was late summer, the kind of day when the Ashley River glints like hammered pewter and the cicada's drone with a last burst of bravado. Two brothers from Charleston—teenagers on the verge of leaving for school in another state—had come to Runnymede for a final outing before their departure. The plantation had long been a place of adventure for them, a patchwork of riverbank, marsh, and forest where boys could roam freely and imagine themselves explorers.

Runnymede Plantation today

Runnymede’s landscape, like much of the Lowcountry, is a living archive of natural and human history. Alligators patrol the rice‑field canals. Egrets lift from the reeds in sudden white flashes. And tucked deep within the woods are remnants of a past that is neither forgotten nor fully at rest. It was there, in the quiet shade of the forest, that the brothers stumbled upon an old slave burial ground.

To the untrained eye, the graves might have seemed simple—mounds of earth, weathered by time. But atop each one lay a careful arrangement of personal belongings: plates, cups, tools, a favorite chair, a bottle of medicine with a spoon resting beside it. These were not random objects. They were part of a tradition carried to the Lowcountry by Africans, rooted in West African cosmology. The practice—placing the deceased’s possessions atop the grave—reflected a belief that the boundary between the living and the dead was permeable. Objects used in life could accompany the spirit into the next world. To disturb them was to disturb the dead themselves.

By the nineteenth century, this tradition had become deeply woven into Gullah‑Geechee culture. Even those who did not personally believe in the spiritual consequences respected the custom. It was an act of reverence, a recognition of humanity in a world that had denied it. The brothers knew the stories. Everyone in the Lowcountry did. But youth have a way of mistaking knowledge for immunity.

Seeing the objects laid out on the graves, the boys decided to play what they considered a harmless prank. They lifted a drinking glass from one of the mounds—laughing, perhaps, at the idea of “superstition”—and carried it home to Charleston as a souvenir. Their parents did not share their amusement.

They weren’t believers in curses, but they understood the weight of what had been done. The issue was not fear of spirits. It was respect—respect for the people buried at Runnymede, for the descendants who still lived nearby, and for the cultural traditions that had survived enslavement, war, and time itself. The parents contacted the plantation owners immediately. The glass was returned to the burial ground and placed exactly where it had been. But word had already spread among the community at Runnymede. And the consensus was quiet, solemn, and unwavering. It was too late.

The next morning, the brothers boarded the jet for school. They never arrived. The details of the tragedy have blurred with retelling—some say an accident, others a sudden illness—but the outcome was the same. When news reached Runnymede, no one expressed shock. No one questioned how such misfortune could have happened. Among those who held fast to the old beliefs, the explanation was simple. The spirits had been disturbed.

Whether one believes in supernatural retribution or not, the tale endures because it speaks to something deeper than folklore. It is a reminder of the cultural traditions carried by Africans—traditions that survived against all odds and still shape the Lowcountry’s identity. It is also a story about reverence: for the past, and for the communities whose histories are too often overlooked.

Runnymede Plantation, like so many places in the South, holds layers of memory. Some are beautiful. Some are painful. All deserve respect. And sometimes, the land itself seems to insist on it.

Note: This story is a mix of some fiction and historical facts. However, it is associated with an actual event.

Runnymede Plantation is not open to the public. It is used for special events and weddings.

The only Luxury Hotel on the Historic French Quarter Waterfront--The Cooper Hotel Opens in March

Stand at the edge of Waterfront Park’s long pier, where the swings drift lazily over the water and the salt air carries the faintest trace of pluff mud, and look north toward the shoreline. Rising above the harbor, six stories of glass and contemporary architecture now join Charleston’s steeple‑studded skyline. This is the city’s newest mega‑complex, a modern counterpart to Charleston Place with one striking distinction: it will soon host the only luxury hotel on the historic French Quarter waterfront.

For decades, the view here was dominated by Carnival’s Ecstasy and Sunshine, their towering silhouettes anchored the horizon whenever they were in port. But the era of cruise‑ship giants has slipped quietly into memory. As the Carnival Cruise Line faded into the city’s past, The Cooper Hotel has stepped confidently into its future.

It’s easy to forget that Charleston’s historic district wasn’t always the polished jewel it is today. Before the 1980s, King Street was lined with empty storefronts, and the city’s architectural heritage felt more forgotten than celebrated. Then came Joe Riley’s bold vision: the construction of Charleston Place, a catalyst that reignited the city’s cultural flame and restored Charleston to its rightful place as a world‑class travel destination.

The Cooper complex is slated as “the first extraordinary step in the reimagining of Charleston’s storied waterfront.” Its diverse amenities are world‑class and, like Charleston Place, will be open to residents, visitors, and global travelers eager to experience the charm and hospitality of Charleston’s commercially and recreationally welcoming spirit.

Image from thecooper.com

Inside, the Cooper will feature boutique retail, a 12,000‑square‑foot spa and fitness center, and nearly 20,000 square feet of event space. Dining concepts include its signature restaurant, The Crossing, serving culinary creations by Executive Chef Nick Dugan, and a casual eatery, Current Burger, offering elevated comfort foods such as juicy smash burgers and hand‑spun milkshakes. Up top, guests will find cinematic views: the graceful sweep of the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge to the left, the pineapple fountain glimmering to the right, and the harbor unfolding in between. Finally, beside The Cooper Marina, a café called Cooper Coffee & Wine will round out the offerings.

Image from thecooper.com

The hotel’s 191 accommodations—sun‑drenched rooms and suites with sweeping water views—promise a serene, coastal‑luxury retreat. But the crown jewel may be the outdoor infinity‑edge pool, a shimmering ribbon of blue suspended above the harbor. Already touted as one of the most impressive pool experiences in the Southeast, it features its own bar, Bar Marti, offering the kind of atmosphere that invites you to lose track of time.

Image from thecooper.com

Beyond the hotel, the Cooper’s waterfront green space will seamlessly extend Joe Riley Waterfront Park, continuing the pathway more than 400 feet to Fleet Landing Restaurant & Bar. A new dock and marina will welcome boaters, while hotel guests will have access to three private vessels—including a yacht for intimate dinners and events, and a water taxi to Daniel Island. Guests at BHC‑affiliated properties, such as Charleston Place, will also enjoy these privileges.

Image from thecooper.com

Soon, the quiet stretch of Concord Street between Cumberland and Vendue Range will transform into a vibrant corridor of five‑star luxury when the Cooper Hotel opens in the spring of 2026. It promises to reshape the French Quarter waterfront in a way that feels both forward‑looking and unmistakably Charleston.

And if you’re already imagining yourself there, you’re not alone. I can picture it now: the rooftop bar glowing at golden hour, the harbor shifting from honey to indigo, a signature cocktail in hand. And yes, booking a room just to slip into that infinity‑edge pool might be the most irresistible indulgence of all.

Accommodations

176 Concord Street, Charleston, SC

“Across the Causeway of Time: The Hidden History of the Pitt Street Bridge”

The Pitt Street Bridge is a popular Charleston destination for enjoying a pleasant stroll with a scenic view of the harbor and the Sullivan’s Island marshlands. It is also an ideal place to cast your fishing line or slide your kayak into the surrounding estuary waters. However, beginning January 5, a section of the bridge’s causeway will be closed for a week so crews can drill into its substructure to examine and assess its stability. During the inspection, 600 feet will remain open for you to enjoy. As you walk its wooden causeway, soaking in the view, it’s worth pausing to consider the long and surprising history that unfolded across these waters.

Today, Charleston’s barrier islands stretching north from the harbor are lined with beautiful, expansive vacation homes. Their sparkling shorelines welcome throngs of visitors and local beachgoers spreading blankets and chairs across the sand. With that familiar scene in mind, it may be difficult to imagine one of these pristine islands once dominated not by quiet neighborhoods but by a Ferris wheel turning above the dunes, a merry‑go‑round spinning in the sand, and a Coney Island–style roller coaster called The Steeple Chase thundering across the landscape. Yet the islands have undergone dramatic transformations long before becoming the serene retreats we know today.

To understand how unlikely such amusements once were, it helps to look back to the earliest days of settlement. In the colonial era, a simple plank bridge built on barrels connected what is now Mount Pleasant to Sullivan’s Island at Cove Inlet. When Edgar Allan Poe arrived on Sullivan’s Island in 1827 aboard the Waltham and served as a company clerk at Fort Moultrie, he described the island in vivid, if unflattering, terms. In The Gold Bug, he wrote, “The island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than sea sand, and is about three miles long…” His portrayal—bleak, windswept, and sparsely inhabited—reflects both the island’s raw state and Poe’s own dark literary sensibilities.

Yet not everyone saw Sullivan’s Island through such a somber lens. Around the same time, Charleston architect Robert Mills offered a far more inviting depiction. Writing in 1826, he described the island as “the summer retreat for pleasure and health” for Charlestonians, noting the steady flow of boats ferrying visitors across the harbor and the growing village of Moultrieville with its wooden houses and breezy shoreline. He praised the firm, wide beach at low tide, where “the delighted visitant may inhale the pure and bracing sea breeze, which wafts health and vigor to the system.”

The old floating footbridge stretching across from mainland Mount Pleasant was once the only access to Sullivan’s Island—and the stepping‑stone to the uninhabited six‑mile stretch of sand beyond Breach Inlet known as Long Island. On the 17th of February, under the command of Lt. George Dixon, the Hunley’s crew of eight crossed that same footbridge at Cove Inlet near Fort Moultrie. From there, they hiked 2½ miles north to Breach Inlet and waited for nightfall, following a route that would later become central to the island’s transformation.

As the islands slowly drew more attention, the Town of Moultrieville granted land to Robert Chisolm for the construction of a hotel. Around Station 22, the New Brighton Hotel rose in the mid‑1880s—later renamed the Atlantic Beach Hotel—and included three beach cottages alongside the main structure. This modest development marked the beginning of a new era of leisure along the coast.

That shift accelerated in 1897, when the stretch of sand beyond Breach Inlet—once visited only by the Atlantic surf—began to attract real interest. Dr. J. S. Lawrence established a public amusement and beach resort on the island. With no cottages or hotels yet built, visitors gathered at the Pavilion, where a 50‑cent meal awaited them. The amusements were ambitious: a Ferris wheel, a merry‑go‑round, and a roller‑coaster‑style ride called The Steeple Chase, featuring five mechanical horses racing along a U‑shaped track. The Ferris wheel itself had traveled a storied path—from the Chicago World’s Fair in 1892 to the Cotton Congress in Atlanta and then to Coney Island—before arriving in South Carolina. The resort’s popularity earned it the nickname “Playground of the South,” and with that, the Isle of Palms was born.

Infrastructure soon followed. In 1898, the old planked bridge was replaced by a trolley bridge known as the Cove Inlet Bridge, or the Pitt Street Bridge. Before electricity, the earliest trolleys were horse‑drawn and ran on wooden rails that often shifted in the sand beds, but even this imperfect system marked a significant improvement in access.

At the same time, Charleston embraced new technology. The electric streetcar arrived in the city, and in July of that year the Seashore Road opened. The local paper reported on July 26, “A great event for the city, the Seashore Road formally opened yesterday…” as ferries such as the Commodore Perry, the Sappho, and the Pocosin carried eager passengers across the harbor to Mount Pleasant.

Once ashore, travelers boarded trolley cars that carried them through Mount Pleasant, across the Pitt Street Bridge, and onward toward Breach Inlet before continuing to the Isle of Palms. Development followed quickly: Nicholas Sottile built the island’s first home in 1898 at 807 Ocean Boulevard. The Seashore Hotel opened in 1906 with fifty rooms, and the Hotel Marion by the Sea followed in 1912.

Not all progress was without loss. On January 9, 1925, tragedy struck the Atlantic Beach Hotel on Sullivan’s Island when it, along with one of its cottages, burned to the ground. Rumor held that a bootlegger searching for hidden whiskey lit a match in the bushes beside the hotel, sparking the blaze. No hotel would ever rise on the island again.

Transportation continued to evolve. In the 1920s, the Pitt Street Bridge was widened for vehicular traffic, and a drawbridge was added. By 1926, the trolley trestle over Breach Inlet had been converted into a bridge for automobiles, and trolley service to Sullivan’s Island ended the following year.

Until then, Mount Pleasant and the islands had relied entirely on ferries to connect with Charleston. That changed in 1929 with the construction of the Grace Memorial Bridge, a cantilever span across the Cooper River that finally linked the islands to the city by automobile. The Pitt Street Bridge closed to traffic when its drawbridge was relocated, and in 1945 the Ben Sawyer Bridge was completed. Its rotating center span allowed boats to pass along the Intracoastal Waterway, marking the final step in the islands’ evolution from isolated stretches of sand to accessible coastal communities.

The Joggling Board: A Lowcountry Legend Born of Necessity, Folklore, and Charleston Charm

If you’ve spent any time wandering the piazzas of Charleston, South Carolina, you’ve likely noticed a curious piece of furniture: a long, springy plank—painted a deep Charleston green—resting on two arched rockers. Locals call it a joggling board, and it’s as much a part of Lowcountry identity as sweetgrass baskets, live oaks, and the scent of pluff mud drifting in on the tide.

But the joggling board isn’t just a decorative porch oddity. Its story stretches back more than two centuries, crossing oceans, plantations, and generations of Southern folklore.

The most widely accepted origin story begins in 1803 at Acton Plantation in Sumter County, just outside the Charleston region. The plantation house burned down in 1911. Mary (or Mrs. Benjamin) Huger moved in to help her brother, Cleland Kinlock, manage the house after the death of his wife. According to historical accounts, Mary suffered from painful rheumatism that kept her from enjoying carriage rides—her favorite pastime. In a letter to her family in East Lothian, Scotland, she lamented her limited mobility. Her Scottish relatives responded with an unusual solution: a model and plans for a flexible exercise bench designed to allow gentle bouncing and movement.

East Lothian, Gilmerton House

A carpenter at Acton Plantation built the first American joggling board based on those plans. The result was a long, pliant board—typically 12 to 16 feet—mounted on two wooden stands. The gentle “joggling” motion was believed to soothe stiff joints and provide low-impact exercise.

What began as a medical aid soon became a cultural fixture. By the mid-19th century, joggling boards had migrated from inland plantations to the piazzas of Charleston homes. Their distinctive look—long, narrow, and painted Charleston green—made them instantly recognizable. The color itself is a local signature: a near-black shade of green believed to withstand the Lowcountry sun and blend elegantly with historic architecture. One place to see a joggling board in Charleston is at the Edmondston-Alston House.

Edmondston House

Charlestonians embraced the joggling board not only for its gentle rocking motion but also for its social possibilities. The board’s flexibility allows two people seated at opposite ends to bounce toward one another—a feature that inspired one of the most enduring pieces of joggling board folklore.

Charleston legend holds that a joggling board is a “courting bench.” If two people sit at opposite ends, the board naturally dips and sways, drawing them closer together. Many Lowcountry families claim that “a home with a joggling board will never be without suitors,” and some even credit the bench with sparking marriages across generations.

Whether or not the board truly possesses matchmaking magic, it has become a symbol of hospitality, romance, and Southern charm.

Though joggling boards fell out of fashion in the early 20th century, Charleston artisans and preservationists helped revive the tradition. Companies like The Joggle Factory and the Old Charleston Joggling Board Company continue to handcraft boards using the same principles—flexible Southern pine, graceful rockers, and that iconic Charleston green paint.

Today, joggling boards appear on porches, in gardens, at wedding venues, and even on college campuses. They’ve become a beloved emblem of Lowcountry culture—functional, whimsical, and steeped in history.

Lingering at Poogan’s Porch: A Charleston Landmark Restaurant

Poogan, the dog, was more than just a resident of the porch—he was its heart and soul. A scruffy, amiable mutt with a penchant for lounging in the sun and greeting every visitor with a wagging tail, Poogan became a beloved fixture long before the porch earned its name. Locals and travelers alike would pause to share a moment with him, drawn by his gentle presence and the quiet comfort he offered. His spirit lingers still, woven into the very boards of the porch, a reminder that some memories are best kept alive by those who simply choose to stay. The restaurant is also said to be haunted by Poogan.

There are places that feel like thresholds—not just onto porches, but into memory. Poogan’s Porch, nestled on busy Queen Street, is one of them. The wrought iron gate, cool beneath the palm, the sign swinging gently in the breeze. It all felt like a nod from the past.

Queen Street hummed, alive with pedestrians and chatter, but the porch held its own silence. It was a pause in the rhythm, a breath between beats. The scent of biscuits and rosemary butter curled through the air, drawing him toward the white tablecloths and black chairs. Crossing the threshold feels like you entering not just a restaurant, but a memory someone else had carefully preserved.

The waitress greeted him with a smile—practiced, perhaps, but still warm. “Welcome to Poogan’s. First time?”

“First time, yes. Maybe not in spirit.”

She laughed, jotting down his order for sweet tea and pimento cheese fritters. He settled into the chair, notebook resting on the table. He didn’t open it. He wanted to feel before he wrote.

The porch creaked underfoot as other diners shifted, laughter rising from a nearby table where shrimp and grits were being devoured with abandon. Magnolia leaves overhead filtered the sunlight into shifting mosaics across the tablecloth.

She arrived with the rush of someone caught in art—windblown hair, eyes bright from the sun. “Sorry I’m late. Queen Street swallowed me whole.”

He smiled. “This porch forgives lateness. It’s haunted by people who never wanted to leave.”

She settled in. “Then let’s join them.”

They ordered: she-crab soup for her, fried chicken for him. The waitress called them darlin’ as she walked away, and they both smiled at the cadence of it.

The food arrived, steaming and fragrant, and with it came the unraveling of words.

“You always chase places like this,” she said. “What are you hoping to find?”

“Proof,” he replied, cutting into the chicken. “That the past can be tasted. That memory has flavor.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then maybe the silence between bites is enough.”

They drifted into talk of shared moments—the kind that linger like shadows—and of beginnings, fragile as biscuits that crumble at the touch. The porch seemed to listen, its boards absorbing their voices, its air holding their confessions.

“You know,” she said, “I think this place is haunted.”

“By what?”

“By conversations like ours. By people who sat here, spoke truths, and never wanted them to end.”

He raised his glass. “Then let’s linger. Let’s haunt it a little ourselves.”

The meal stretched into afternoon. Sweet tea was refilled, plates cleared, but the conversation refused to end. The porch became less a restaurant and more a stage. A place where memory and presence braided together.

When they finally rose to leave, he glanced back at the sign. Poogan’s Porch. It no longer felt like a name. It felt like an invitation to return, to keep haunting, to keep tasting the past until it became the present again.

72 Queen Street, Charleston

Brunch Monday - Sunday, 9:00am - 3:00pm

Dinner Monday - Sunday, 4:30pm - 9:30pm

843-829-4332

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