Word on Bay Street has it that an 80-year-old woman living in Old Point sells scratch biscuits out of her kitchen door. With mouthwatering visions of buttermilk and honey, Pierre and I drift toward historic quadrant of Beaufort like cartoon characters with noses clipped to a clothesline.

The bustle of Bay Street is quickly replaced with the impenetrable aura of old world southern style, its iconography hallmarked by verandahs, plantation shutters, molding, and demure colors that seamlessly meld into the magnolia grove and marsh reed palatte that defines the Lowcountry. A crown of Spanish moss weighs heavy on the neighborhood, filtering the intense midday sun into a more genteel dappled haze. Silence is golden in Old Point; only the birds, the clip of a horse drawn carriage, and a tour guide’s weaving narrative pierce the dreamy quietude.

We wander for the better part of an hour, sniffing the air for an aroma other than tea olive or damp pine straw. The streets are perfectly perpendicular, a thoughtful grid that makes it easy to navigate without a map or the threat of getting turned around. We meet a smattering of locals, all of whom affirm the biscuit lady lore but politely shrug when pressed for an address. One dandy invites us to try out the rope swing hanging from a magnificent oak tree, so Pierre and I take turns soaring from the porch toward the river, feet kicking the clouds. Our new friend engages us in the quintessentially southern paint-by-numbers game called “who do you know” intended to suss out both kin and social circle, hence character and prominence. Dry genealogy eventually turns into wild tales of fish and women, boats and the Caribbean. He’s an affable man with wind-worn skin and rough hands, and we delight in his colorful, swashbuckling history. But the raconteuring isn’t enough to fill our bellies, so we bid farewell to the gentleman and his swing.

Alas, no biscuits. But this first blush casts Beaufort as a charming novella born of an era when servicemen hosted Saturday night dances, soda fountain counters served a hardy lunch, and southern graces penetrated every facet of life. We’re bound to find biscuits before the day is over. — Fanny