When we first made reservations in Oysterville, my first thought was, "It's kind of far from Long Beach."--with a negative tone. But now I think "It's a long way from Long Beach!" Which I have decided isn't a bad thing, particularly in July when the streets and shops of Long Beach are crowded with tourists.
What is left of this once thriving town is quaint and quiet and lovely--and oh so photogenic.
The little cottages are all named with little plaques detailing a brief history of the original owners.
They are all surrounded by mossy little picket fences.
. . . a few of which are adorned with little pink roses.
Of the businesses that used to dot the landscape, which is now mostly sea grass and memories, one of the only remaining is the little oyster shop.
The girls weren't thrilled with its selection of flavored oysters and local cranberries and other assorted jams and jellies and mixes, but they loved the large deck outside that faced the bay.
I had a hard time choosing which of the historic homes I would like to live in.
. . .because really, any would do.
And the quiet was amazing.
The prize for queen of quaint goes to the church with its elaborate detail and red and white paint.
It was practically across the the street from where we stayed.
Literally across the street was the charming little old school house. Now available for family parties or receptions.
The beach house we rented was not as old as the others, and did not have such a long history, but it was heavenly.
It might have had something to do with the layout--the long hall that connected the outdoor and indoor space in a single line.
Maybe it was the beachy decor and soothing white and natural tones that filled the place. . .
and whisked away thoughts of home and work.
Or the massive windows surrounding the fireplace with a stress relieving view of the bay.
Or the picket fences that led to it from the quiet little street.
One for the car. . .
and one for foot traffic.
And while the walk to the water was iffy during low tide, the grassy pathway beckoned us to attempt it. . .
and then beat a hasty retreat after spying loads of spiders lurking in the tall grasses.
The deck provided a close enough, uninterrupted view, spider free.
And while the wheelbarrow along the fence may have hinted at the possibility of work, actual work never crossed our minds.
As clear as the sign post in the middle of town (or at least what once was the middle of town) this location was no longer about work, but all about the lack thereof. . . and the view while we basked in that lack.