We must learn from history or be doomed to repeat it. This is one reason why the state historic sites are such an important facet of the South Carolina Park System. What is true for all humanity is no less true for our family. Remembering our experience at Rose Hill and not wishing to subject Ben to another learning experience regarding historic homes just yet, Anchor and I decided to concentrate on the grounds of Redcliffe Plantation. (Note: We have since braved the tour of the historic home at Redcliffe to great success. The interpreters were predictably wonderful with Ben and there was no fake food!)
The grounds were wonderful. We explored the less formidable out buildings and read the interpretive signs delineating the slave dwellings, stables and notable trees. We peeked inside the visitor center which had been newly remodeled and contained mounds of information regarding the Hammond family who once resided here, their holdings and their history. We walked out among the sprawling magnolias- the tree that most personifies these old southern plantations. Below one great specimen, we even found a secret hidden treasure in the form of a geocache.
Anchor and I watched our children race over Redcliffe's back lawn, over manicured mounds of green and from tree to tree. It seemed incomprehensible that this was only a small part of the property itself. We listened as our children called to each other, laughing and playing. We watched them collapse and writhe in laughter and the joy of childhood freedom onto the rich green carpet. We glanced at each other knowing we had chosen wisely by forfeiting busy streets and screens in lieu of this sweet and simple scene. This is what we wanted for our children- for our family- and this is what the parks- Redcliffe today- stood so eagerly to give.
We stood among the magnolia and crepe myrtle trees in the otherwise still yard of the stately house and remembered our very first adventure to Redcliffe some months ago.
We had first visited Redcliffe on a day when the site was primping itself for a special event. I had missed this detail or I would have planned around it as the event seemed a more formal affair and our little band was anything but. It was mid summer and we had travelled and hour and a half to visit Redcliffe that day on our way to pursue her stamp and at least two others. We were hot, sweaty, decked out in our hiking best and reeked the southern perfume of sunscreen, sweat and mosquito spray.
I had found information about trails to explore at Redcliffe and we had determined to conquer them. An examination of our map led us in front of the house, down a stately magnolia lane that shaded us from the beating sun with its great thick foliage. Except for our own ramshackled appearance, it would have been easy to have become fully transported to a bygone time while standing under this magnolia shade. We walked on and on under these magnificent trees and all but heard horses and carriages from historic days. They seemed just audible from the corner of our ears.
We turned per the map's direction off to the left and parallelled the front fence of the property. We passed the parking area and seemed to leave our present century completely and were now surrounded by the magnolias and fence to the side, the house behind and the woods just ahead. We hiked on. Even this piece proved a long trek as the property is vast. We walked and sweated under the hot sun. Just before we entered the wood, we stopped short. Even Little Legs thought we were seeing aberrations. Sunstroke? Hallucinations? We passed the water between us panting in wonderment. No. These images were real. Now they greeted us with smiles and waves. Here was a lane of vintage cars. Model T's circa the early 1900s processing down the dirt road and proceeding past us toward the main house. Families and children laughed at our astonishment as they swirled the dirt and honked deafening greeting. Our little band checked each other, the procession passing and ourselves again. If we were insane, we had all fallen into the same delusion. Anchor and Wetfoot snapped pictures while the rest of us just stood and stared.
The cars passed and on we went following the trail as it ushered us into the woods. We were lulled as the first bit seemed an easy though hot and sandy walk. But little by little, the underbrush crept in towards us. Tall wispy grass overtook the trail. Knee high pine saplings, prickly holly and literally hundreds of tiny brown amphibians the size and color of a well worn penny inhabited the trail. We inspected our tiny fellow travelers and found them to be froglets. There were hundreds and hundreds of tiny jumping frightened hurrying froglets anxious to cross the trail and avoid the dangers of our brigade of hiking boots. Now Anchor and I did question our sanity. There were hundreds and maybe thousands of froglets and no body of water in sight. The trail was almost completely unmarked now and covered with undergrowth. My mama mind catalogued the dangers we could encounter: ticks on the grasses, snakes hunting the feast of froglets, the afternoon sun beating down, the passage of the afternoon and us out in a place devoid of cell service. We followed the trail farther not knowing but that the next corner would put us in sight of the house. Down the sandy hill and in the full sun now, we followed until we saw the overturned picnic table.
There is a point where adult explorer and adventurer meets with responsible parental instinct, where the weighty obligations of the welfare of your prodigy avails the most avid explorer of their senses. It was time to turn back.
We tried. Our task was not easy as we discovered that we had been following not the trail, but a deer path.
Anchor and I felt animal eyes of the wild inhabitants of the place watching our group and laughing. We could imagine amused deer and even snakes looking at us and regarding us piteously. I saw it in my mind's eye, the snakes telling each other that it wasn't worth the bite but that they should all get back and watch the stupid humans try to make it out. Anchor used instinctual tracking skills to lead our caravan as we both made light conversation and hid our worry as we searched for the trail and civilization. None were more happy to find the main trail than the parents. The children had been taken in by our rouse and had not doubted our ability. Sweet little ones.
We eventually trekked back within sight of Redcliffe proper. We checked with the ranger and found that the trail had been beset by a tornado a couple of years back. I had an old map and that part of the trail had been decimated by the storm. The ranger was glad of our safety and appreciated that we had made the best out of our situation. Our little troupe had christened our newly discovered trail as "Tornado Trail" though it had almost been dubbed "Froglet Forest."
We cleaned up and cleared out fast as the evening event was about to begin in earnest. The model Ts were parked in the front of the plantation house and we were noticeably ill dressed and mightily odoriferous.
Back from memory and now to the present autumn day watching our children on the lawn of Redcliffe, the manor was cooler, seemingly deserted yet welcoming. The place was so full of memories and adventure. It was almost sad when our children rose from the lawn and eventually ran on to the car for the cooler of food. It was sad to leave Redcliffe that day and whisk off to another park. It was sad until we remembered that there were more memories and adventures awaiting us just ahead.
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