Evan Rothman
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Now, perhaps to some people, such as the titans of industry who set down their Gulfstreams at the private airstrip adjacent to the resort, ours was a rather pedestrian entrance, and I would no sooner argue the point than complain about, well, anything at this paragon-of-propriety oasis.
Still, upon pulling up to the front of the 40-room Lodge at Sea Island, we were treated like these other, bottomless-pocketed guests, which is to say, like visiting potentates, or so I imagine. There is no check-in desk here. A charming but plainspoken butler greets you at the front door and embarks upon a short tour of the common areas: restaurants, reading rooms, bar, sprawling verandah and so on, at once Southern genteel and masculine, which is no small feat. Then he takes you to your room, done in an English country manor style, with exposed-beam ceilings and hardwood floors. By the table near the picture window, at least in our case, is a golf green, replete with flag, balls and so forth, all done in chocolate, as sweet as an eagle on the 18th hole. (Or the first hole, but more about that later.) It distracts attention, briefly, from the killer view of the Plantation golf course below and the shimmering Atlantic beyond, bathed as always in that painterly Low Country light. It's truly a sight. And yet the bathroom is no less impressive: A deep soaking tub you can't leave till pruning, especially with the speakers that pipe in sound from the television or radio in the bedroom. Heated towel bars. Bulgari white-tea toiletries. Oversized shower heads. As you can imagine, the robes tempt you to stuff them into your golf travel bag. (We did not, I promise.)
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