DAN’S PAPERS
Page 34 September 7, 2012
danshamptons.com
Bull’s (Continued from page 26) present them to our next meeting of the Save the Bulls Head Inn Committee.” “Any predictions?” There was, of course, no Save the Bull’s Head Inn Committee other than me. And maybe one or two people who had written letters supporting the idea, one of which had come from Lynn St. John. “I wouldn’t count on their approving it,” I said. And so that was the end of that. And it was also the end of Sun Oil’s application. The Town Board refused to approve it. Sun Oil went away. Last week, Bill Campbell, the former corporate executive of Lorillard now retired out here, took me on a tour of the completely restored and dazzlingly beautiful Bull’s Head Inn which, now re-named the Topping Rose House, will open for lodging and meals next week. On its
second and third floors, it has seven rooms and suites, many with fireplaces. These rooms have the original floors, moldings, even the original blown glass from 1842 in the windows. On the ground floor, there is the parlour, a sitting room, a dining room and a grand staircase, all restored. The dining room will be open to the public. There are fireplaces in some of the rooms. The extension in the back is built with the identical material and design as the main building so it fits right in. And in its final incarnation the extension is no taller than the main building. Along the way, Campbell introduced me to his business partner, Simon Critchell. I also met Tom Collichio, the judge of “Top Chef” on Bravo, who will be in charge of the restaurant. Jeff Morgan will be the manager.
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We continued on our tour to the big old barn in the back, which has also been lovingly restored as a conference center. To the east of that are the foundations and walls of what will be the spa, pool and apartment units. But they are still under construction. There never did get to be three gas stations on the four corners of the center of town of Bridgehampton. Indeed, today, there are NONE and there will continue to be none. Across the street where the Wick’s Tavern once stood, the gas station there has been bulldozed down and the raw land awaits the construction of a beautiful three-story office building in the same Greek Revival style as the two other buildings. Across the street directly, the gas station that was in front of the home of Nathaniel Rogers is all torn down and gone, and the main house, now under the ownership of the Town of Southampton, is being restored to shortly become a museum. I feel very lucky to have lived to see this center of town transformed from a nightmare to a grand centerpiece for Bridgehampton. It’s a great and wonderful historic restoration in the Hamptons. And it couldn’t have been done without the help of the town, Dan’s Papers, Lynn St. John, Bill Campbell and Simon Critchell.
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if we kept quiet. To discuss it was like waking a sleeping tiger. We ran sand—pickled with tiny pieces of shell—through our fingers as she waited for me to say something. “Will you get sick?” I finally asked. My mother answered that yes, she would get sick, but it would be temporary, in service to that greater good, Remission. After that, it would all go back to normal. She examined a tiny golden stone. When I was younger still, on the beaches of Fire Island or Cape Cod, my mother would dig large holes in the sand for me, carving out sand cars with seats and a dashboard on which she had drawn instruments and a circle for a steering wheel. Now I looked at the bright blue water, the brilliant sky and the birds, then back at our hands. I thought about how long and graceful her fingers were, how short and stubby mine were. I did not think about what she might have had to endure to face these moments with me on this beautiful beach. I did not question why we were there in the first place, on Long Island, at the home of her oldest friend. I did not wonder about what discussions they might have had, late into the night, after I was safely in bed. I could not wonder if in fact she might be lying, if in fact there was no hope after all. What I saw was our hands, and then as I looked up, the ferry—a blip on the horizon now, but it would grow larger as it bobbed through Plum Gut. Soon it would dock and its massive ramp open to reveal a yawning cave, and my mother and I would climb the long flight of stairs to the topmost deck, where we would watch as the ferry pulled slowly away from the little beach, and Orient Point would grow smaller and smaller and then disappear altogether, and we would cross the Sound to New London, where my father waited, to take us home.