My girlfriend Sam and I drove up together from New York, meeting our other friend Christina waiting at the hotel. It was a typically humid and partly cloudy late-August Saturday. We had originally planned for sailing lessons, but it seemed that Hurricane Bill had made up his mind and that was subsequently nixed from the agenda. With a quick stroll around Newport’s downtown shopping area, we grabbed some refreshing frozen lemonade at Del’s and some sinfully delicious fudge at Country Kettle (my favorite was the Vanilla Nut), and decided to hop back in the car and go explore.
Newport is very much known for its historic mansions, equipped with sprawling grounds and a delicately preserved sense of American royalty. The drive took us down roads of stone walls and ivy, and we found ourselves sitting in silence as we slowly passed one after the other. The cars, bikers and pedestrians alike all seemed to cower under the shade of the immense elm trees that stood like soldiers guarding their compounds.
Nearing the end of Narragansett Avenue, we decided to park and go investigate another of Newport’s alluring features, the Cliff Walk. We began at The Forty Steps, a breathtaking stone stairway offering a steep descent to the rocky cliffs and crashing waves below. There is a turn at the bottom landing, offering you the opportunity to marvel up close at Poseidon’s (i.e., Bill’s) display of vigor and play — carefully — on the rocky plateaus below.
Emerging from the stone chasm we continued northbound on the path, stopping every once in a while to admire the view and the every so often the enthusiastic surfers braving the crushing swells below. At the farthest point north, the Cliff Walk disperses out onto Memorial Boulevard and we three, sweating and grinning, decided to head to the beach.
Easton’s Beach is typical of New England, rocky and defined, and although the clouds had begun to swallow the sky we were eager to get our feet wet at the very least.
Thoroughly wind-blown and salty, we made our way back to the car and, in an effort to avoid cross-town traffic, decided to take the scenic route along the entire southern coast of Newport. The whole mood of the day felt leisurely, so why rush it now? We had many coves to peer into, many grand houses to discover along that drive.
At the southernmost point of the drive, we turned a corner and the sky seemed to open up in all its glory. Breton Point on its own must be majestic, especially on a clear sunny day. Needless to say, however, we had stumbled upon it at exactly the right moment. A sunset desperately trying to break through a stormy atmosphere. Hues of oranges and blues. Magnificent waves crashing in threefold. In the distance, a lonely sailboat was cutting through the fog. Awe.
We parked and I ran towards the surreal image, towards the onlookers and professional photographers. I took pictures along the way of the black rock patios nestled in the waves that didn’t stand a chance of being remembered by tourists on that day. I was so close to that strange utopia — and then my camera battery failed me.
This was the closest I came to capturing that scene — you can just make out that sailboat. The only thing that consoles me is knowing that a picture would never have done that awesome sight justice.
Later that evening, freshly showered down, blown out and made up, we hit the town for some fresh seafood and Newport Storm Summer Ale. Back into town, traversing the narrow streets of downtown once more, we came upon a happy little — at the risk of sounding like Bob Ross — gelateria and I blissfully concluded my night with a splendid scoop of Cold Fusion’s Maple Walnut.
The next morning, the sun was out and to the beach we were headed. After a brief stop for essential caffeinated beverages and an unintended minor detour, we arrived back at Easton’s Beach. Parking fee paid, we happily made our way towards the sand only to discover that no one was actually allowed on the beach (at the moment) thanks to Billy Boy’s charming combination of killer waves and thigh-high tide. Lifeguard chair #8 had flirted with danger and lost.
Before we knew it almost an hour had passed and we finally were allowed access to the beach. We sunned ourselves for another hour and a half before it was decided that our little beach getaway was truly coming to a close. If it weren’t for foreboding thoughts of traffic-laden Sunday drives on i-95, I would have stayed to see another sunset.
Newport, I miss you already.