Provincetown - Cape Cod

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SOMERSET HOUSE INN

Come join us year-round for luxury accommodations in an historic city. The Somerset House Inn bed and breakfast is located on Commercial Street in Provincetown, MA, right across from Cape Cod Bay. Many of the rooms boast bay views. Dine on a hot breakfast, imbibe on cocktails during our nightly cocktail hour. In the past we have been fortunate to host several travel writers. They have some amazing things to say about our home and town. GoNOMAD.com traveled here in October so this is a good article on fall travel. A writer from Passport Magazine visited in June so this article gives you a different perspective.

378 Commercial St, Provincetown, MA
phone: (508) 487-0383
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The Solitude We Found at Wood End
Friday June 13, 2025
This morning, long before the coffee even kicked in, Sadie and I had a mutual look?the kind we give each other when we both know it's time to vanish. Not run away, not escape? just disappear for a bit. Reset. We've gotten good at it. No calendar entry. No big speech. Just that silent agreement between two overworked, overpaginated humans who've seen one too many CTs lit up like Christmas trees lately.   By 7 a.m., we were in the Porsche?black, growling, poised?gliding down Route 6 with no destination other than ?east.? The early light draped the landscape in gold as we passed cranberry bogs, sleepy diners, and those impossibly cute weathered cottages that always look like they've just stepped out of a Winslow Homer painting. Windows down. Music low. A sense of lightness building with each mile.   We found ourselves in Provincetown by late morning, the streets already busy with art-chasers, beachgoers, and those timeless townies who've been watching the tide roll in and out for longer than we've been alive. But instead of joining the crowd at Race Point or Commercial Street, we took a left turn?literally and figuratively?and decided to walk out to Wood End Light.   Now, if you've never been, Wood End Lighthouse isn't exactly convenient. It's not a pull-up-and-snap-a-photo kind of spot. You've got to want it. You park near the breakwater, lace up your shoes, and make peace with the idea of walking nearly a mile across stone and sand, exposed to every whim of the coastal weather gods. In other words: perfect.   We stepped onto the breakwater, those big granite blocks lined up like the spine of some ancient sea beast. Each step is a small gamble?watch your footing, avoid the puddles, mind the slippery bits. The tide was out, and the sun rode high and proud, glittering off the harbor like spilled mercury. Gulls cried overhead. Wind tugged at our clothes. Crabs scuttled in the crevices beneath us, going about their secret crustacean business.   The farther we walked, the more the town disappeared behind us, swallowed by the haze. Eventually, it was just us and the lighthouse ahead?standing like a white sentry at the edge of the known world. Wood End isn't flashy. It doesn't dominate the landscape the way Highland or Nauset does. It belongs to the landscape. Modest. Resolute. A square tower, all white with a black lantern, quietly doing its job since 1872.   We reached the end of the breakwater and stepped onto the sandy flats. At low tide, it feels like the Earth has exhaled, revealing hidden shallows and narrow tide pools that reflect the sky with near-religious clarity. The walk from there to the lighthouse is soft and surreal. A little squish underfoot. Salt air in your lungs. And that blessed Cape Cod silence?broken only by the occasional buzz of a dragonfly or the whisper of wind through the dune grass.   When we finally reached Wood End, we didn't say anything. We just stood there, gazing up at it?this weather-worn monument to patience and endurance. Behind it, the dunes rolled in soft, sandy waves. Ahead, the Atlantic stretched out toward Portugal. Sadie pulled off her shoes and walked barefoot across the warm sand toward a driftwood log, where she sat and closed her eyes. The sun lit up her face in a way that made me pause.   We stayed a while. No rush. Just long enough to absorb what we came for. That liminal feeling?the edge-of-the-world quiet where things make sense again. Where the endless beeping of hospital monitors and fire pagers and trauma alerts are nothing but artifacts from a different life.   Eventually, we made our way back?feet a little sore, hearts a little lighter. I looked over at her as we reached the car, her hair windblown and tangled, face slightly sun-kissed, and I thought: This. This right here is why we do it.   It's easy to forget in the chaos of our day-to-day that restoration doesn't come from a weekend off or a massage or some half-hearted meditation app. It comes from standing in a forgotten corner of the world with someone who knows you down to your soul. It comes from choosing quiet over noise, simplicity over spectacle, lighthouses over luxury.   Wood End doesn't try to impress you. It just waits. And if you're lucky enough to find yourself there, it welcomes you with the kind of gentle, wordless wisdom that only old coastal sentinels seem to possess.   We got back in the Porsche. Turned the key. Rolled the windows down again. No need to talk. We had been spoken to.
Where the Sea Whispers in Morse: A Visit to Long Point Lighthouse
Friday June 13, 2025
Some days just begin with a feeling. Not an idea, not a plan. Just that low, instinctual hum?like something in your bones knows you need to head toward water. This morning was one of those days.   Sadie and I loaded up the old black Porsche 911SC just after sunrise, coffee in hand, and no real agenda in mind. She wore a light linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up the way she always does when she's in adventure mode. I had that familiar feeling I get every time I hear the engine kick over: anticipation tinged with nostalgia. There's something about an air-cooled flat-six engine echoing off a two-lane road that makes the rest of the world melt away.   The destination, loosely, was the Cape. We didn't bother naming a beach. That would have made it feel like an obligation. We just drove east, the sun at our backs and no traffic in sight.   Midway through the drive, somewhere around Eastham, Sadie mentioned?almost offhand?that she'd always wanted to visit Long Point Lighthouse. She'd read about it once in some travel magazine in a Munich waiting room, and it stuck in her mind ever since. ?They call it 'The Graveyard of Ships,' you know,? she said, sipping her iced coffee like it was no big deal. I glanced over at her and smiled. I've known her long enough to recognize when something is not just a passing thought.   And just like that, we had a mission.   Now, for anyone unfamiliar: Long Point Lighthouse sits at the very tip of Provincetown like a quiet sentinel, surrounded by sand, sea, and sky. It's not the kind of place you just happen upon. It requires a little intention, a bit of work, and a willingness to get sand in your shoes. We parked near the edge of town, ditched the Porsche under the shade of some scrappy trees, and made our way across the long, winding, slightly surreal trek over the breakwater?a granite causeway that stretches across Provincetown Harbor like a spine made for walking.   The walk itself is a rite of passage. Each slab of rock is uneven, sunbaked, and stained by decades of sea spray and seabird drama. We walked hand in hand, occasionally pausing to look out over the glassy harbor. Fiddler crabs scurried in the shallows. A pair of terns circled above, squawking like tiny winged sentries.   After a while, the lighthouse came into view?whitewashed, square, and unassuming. Not the dramatic, gothic kind you see in paintings, but something quiet, sturdy, and noble. A keeper of stories. A historian of storms.   The beach around it was almost empty?just the occasional birdwatcher and one older couple sitting on folding chairs, binoculars dangling around their necks like necklaces of intent. The air smelled like sun-warmed salt and dune grass. We kicked off our shoes and walked along the sand, watching the waves roll in at a slant, their rhythm deliberate and unhurried.   Standing near the lighthouse, you can't help but feel the gravity of history. Hundreds of ships once met their fate in these waters. The currents are brutal, the fog relentless. Long Point Light was built to guide the desperate and the brave away from catastrophe?and in its quiet way, it still does.   Sadie stood with her hand on the cool stone base of the structure, her eyes scanning the horizon like she could see the ghosts of masts through the shimmer of heat. She doesn't speak often in places like this. She just absorbs. And I let her. She's always understood the language of lighthouses?silent, resilient, understated.   We sat for a while on the sand near the base, sharing a bottle of water and a bag of trail mix that tasted exactly like every road trip we've ever taken. We talked about everything and nothing?hospital politics, the garden back home, whether we should bring Kevin with us next time (he'd complain the whole walk but secretly love it).   Eventually, the sun began its slow arc westward. We made our way back across the breakwater, this time a little quieter, the wind stronger now, kicking up tiny swirls of sand like mischief.   By the time we reached the Porsche again, the car felt like a familiar friend waiting patiently for our return. We brushed off the sand, slipped in, and turned the key. The engine roared back to life, not so much loud as confident?like it knew the way home even if we didn't.   As we pulled out of Provincetown, Sadie reached over, rested her hand on my leg, and said simply, ?I'm glad we came.?   Me too.   There are places that ask nothing of you but attention. Long Point is one of those. It doesn't beg for Instagram posts or souvenir pennies. It just waits?quiet, stoic, timeless. Like a lighthouse should.
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