SUMMER VACATIONS ISSUE : Jerry Hulse’s PERSONAL BESTS : Favorite memories of places that stir the wanderlust of a seasoned traveler

With summer approaching, I have been reflecting on places I have a particular fondness for. One tempts fate, of course, when one meddles with the past--resurrecting the imagery of spent moments, reflecting on joys that surfaced spontaneously, only to pass as some rare and remembered dawn. Still, while such moments cannot be replayed, the destinations call to the heart to return.

Without hesitation I would sail again to Washington state’s San Juan Islands, especially Orcas, whose weathered farmhouses and barns evoke memories of coastal Maine.

One arrives by ferry from Anacortes, slipping by fishing trawlers and small islands with summer homes and beaches choked with driftwood. Gulls wheel overhead, and when the fog rolls in, a haunting stillness envelops this world of wilderness.

On Orcas, wildflowers blanket the roadside and cattle and sheep graze in wet green meadows beside farmhouses whose windows glow cheerily at dusk. Orcas offers tranquillity; even the village of Eastsound is caught up in a time warp that reflects a period when life in America was less hurried. Wooden buildings line the main street and seafood fresh from the channel is served in several good restaurants, particularly Christina’s, whose windows frame the bay.

Miles of country lanes cross the island, taking in shady glens and deserted coves, as well as Moran State Park, where vacationers picnic in the shadow of Mt. Constitution. Shelter is provided at nearly two dozen inns and hotels, including Orcas Hotel (“Your Doorway to the Island’s Victorian Past”), which rises on a bluff overlooking the ferry landing. The hotel is a three-story saltbox with a dozen guest rooms, a dining room with a fireplace and a lounge with a harbor view.

Given the opportunity, I would return to Orcas, where sea otters pass and sandpipers scatter along the shore and the air is a refreshing mixture of salt and pine and the fragrance of roses.

In Oregon, I might settle again at Morrison’s Lodge, which is on the Rogue River near Grants Pass and the village of Merlin. In summer, vacationers raft the rapids and pick berries, and in autumn they fish for salmon and steelhead and study the changing colors of maples that frame the lodge.

Morrison’s features shelter in an unspoiled wilderness beside the Rogue, where bears fish for salmon and bald eagles soar, while deer and Roosevelt elk graze within earshot of the lodge. At Morrison’s, vacationers from the city become dropouts in a world that remains as peaceful as a scudding cloud.

A chance to turn back the calendar? I would hasten to Hawaii and settle at Hana on the east side of Maui, or perhaps the Waipio Valley on Hawaii’s Big Island.

As old island hands know, getting to Hana requires patience, what with more than 400 curves and 56 bridges, some so narrow that only one car can squeeze by at a time. Alongside the road the jungle is choked with shower trees and vines as delicate as a spider’s web.

Waterfalls spill into pools with moss-covered banks and bouquets of plumeria and torch ginger. One moment the road rises hundreds of feet above the ocean and the next instant it sweeps past lonely, uninhabited beaches.

A sign reads: “Don’t hurry, don’t worry--and don’t forget to smell the flowers.” This is old Hawaii, the Hawaii that existed before mass tourism and the advent of the high-rise. Tin-roof shanties face the ocean and rainbows bend across Hawaii’s incredibly blue sky.

While it is a pity to miss the drive, vacationers in a hurry fly from Kahului to Hana by helicopter or in small, twin-engine airplanes. As for Hana Town, well, just don’t blink: a bank, a postage stamp-size post office, a few churches, a gas station and a couple of general stores, including Hasegawa’s, which continues to stock every imaginable item from kerosene lamps and chick meal to passion fruit and poi.

Shelter is provided at a handful of inns and hotels, including the splendid, low-rise Hotel Hana-Maui with its impeccable good taste.

Close by there’s the solitude of Hamoa Beach and pastures where cattle graze. Locals refer to their village as Heavenly Hana, and for good reason. One day I hitched a ride with a helicopter pilot and we hovered nose-to-nose with a waterfall hundreds of feet over the beach--while over the headset came the strains of “Chariots of Fire.” Wow!

At the haunting Waipio Valley on the Big Island, those who elect to remain overnight have but one choice: Tom Araki’s Waipio Hotel, a five-room clapboard inn with only a single shower and mattresses that sag like hammocks strung between palms. Still, the peacefulness of Waipio makes up for Araki’s lack of amenities. One reads by kerosene lamp and cooks on a Coleman stove, and it’s impossible to be disturbed by telephones--because none exist.

Over the centuries, little has changed in Waipio Valley. I recall awakening to the pounding of waves and the distant thunder of a waterfall; later I explored the jungle and picked papayas and mangoes.

During the night it had rained, and so streams poured forth from the mountains, threading their way to a magnificent black-sand beach, where the Waipio Valley meets the ocean. I’ve promised myself I’m going back someday--and I might just remain.

I have other memories of Western Samoa and Aggie Grey’s, a hotel of great warmth in the village of Apia. And although Aggie has gone to her reward and Samoa, perhaps, will never be quite the same, one is relatively certain that the character of Aggie’s hotel will survive. James Michener was fond of Aggie. Indeed, there are those who insist she was Bloody Mary in Michener’s monumental “South Pacific,” although he denies this, as did Aggie.

The last time I visited Aggie she was fretting about growing old, although in the minds of the hundreds of Marines she fed hamburgers to during World War II, Aggie will remain forever young. It wasn’t until the fighting was over and the Marines had gone home that Aggie opened her hotel. I recall when chickens ran through the rooms and geckos darted across the ceiling--while rain pounded furiously on Aggie’s tin roof.

It was a scene.

So is Apia, the village where islanders continue to trade--a setting that stirs memories of pictures on an old South Seas wall calendar: Samoans gather on storefront verandas and pigs run in the street, and tourists hail beat-up taxis to deliver them to jungle rivers where dugout canoes are hired for a song.

In Western Samoa, trade winds blow through open thatched-roof fales , youngsters run naked on the beaches and on a distant hilltop a monument marks the final resting place of Robert Louis Stevenson.

As an old island buff I couldn’t resist Hydra, which is reached by hydrofoil from Athens’ port of Piraeus. Fishing boats face the harbor and facing the boats is a string of galleries, boutiques, bars and cafes. Overhead, perched on the hillside, whitewashed houses and chapels are put to canvas by artists who struggle up steep steps leading to their doors.

For years there wasn’t a single car on the entire island. Either one walked or rode a donkey. Even now there are only a handful of taxis. And only a couple of major streets. And so if one wishes to visit the fishing hamlets of Kaminia or Vlichos, one must go by boat, or else travel by donkey.

A sense of peace draws visitors to Hydra, where a sign at the waterfront reads: “Welcome to the Island of Joy.” In little tavernas, visitors sip retsina while candles flicker in old wine jugs and the melodies of mandolins pour into the night.

Memories. Well, Tangier, the North African city that entertains visitors doing one-night stands from Spain, continues to fascinate me. Earlier, the old Moroccan city served as an international zone under the control of eight nations, including the United States, Britain and France.

One hotelier recalls how Tangier was an “exciting, tight-knit little community” from which there was little chance to escape in the event of a crime. Police patrolled the harbor. Others patrolled the roads and the airport. Tangier was locked tight as a safe-deposit box.

The hotelier sighed: “You could walk down the street carrying an armload of cash. No one would molest you. Who would be so foolish? Who would be so crazy?” He smiled. “With all the police there was no escape.”

Tangier was like a scene out of “Casablanca.” One half expects to run into Claude Rains. Or Bogie himself.

During World War II Tangier was a gathering place for spies from a dozen nations. By day they spied on one another and by night they repaired to the bar at Hotel El Minzah. “After all,” said one hotelier, “even spies need a few moments of relaxation.”

With the war over, the spies abandoned Tangier and the tourists took over, moving into El Minzah with its marble floors and flowered courtyard. In Tangier, Hotel El Minzah remains a legend, rising like a pasha’s palace on a hillside overlooking the sea.

In its gardens, exotic women reposed around a swimming pool while Moroccans gathered for cocktails. I recall a bartender named Mohammed, a striking figure in a red fez whose gold tooth flashed like sunlight itself whenever he smiled. Patrons agreed that Mohammed mixed the best martini in all North Africa. I’m going back, and soon.

Rising blindingly white above the Strait of Gibraltar, Tangier is reached by ferry from Algeciras, Gibraltar and Malaga. One may fly, but the ferry provides a stunning approach to the port city. Tourists climb narrow, winding streets to the casbah where shopkeepers shout their sales pitches. If there is a town in all North Africa where the tourist is king, it is Tangier.

Other moments I’m tempted to return to England, to the little village of Chagford with its celebrated inn, the Gidleigh Park, a Tudor-style mansion set in 40 acres of gardens and forest on the edge of Dartmoor National Park, about 200 miles southwest of London in the lovely Devon countryside.

A fire crackles in the lounge and oak paneling glows throughout the rambling old mansion, which is within earshot of the River Teign and surrounded by wildflowers, copper beech, maples and sweet chestnut.

Europeans continue to sing their praises of the inn, as do Americans. Indeed, Gidleigh Park is operated by an American couple, Paul Henderson, a New Englander, and his wife, Kay, a displaced Hoosier. Guests fish for salmon and trout or else hike the haunting moor. Others choose the privacy of the woods, with picnic baskets that await their arrival--along with bottles of wine that are found chilling in the icy river.

And, well, there’s Paris. The memories burn deeply. I recall an old woman with a pushcart filled with violets who waited patiently for couples exiting a bistro to sell her flowers to. Later she disappeared down a cobbled alley--just as a new day began.

Along Boulevard St. Germain that morning the trees were starting to leaf out, and although it was barely 7 a.m. a crowd already had gathered at Cafe les Deux Magots, which was where Hemingway scribbled away the hours, turning out his marvelous prose.

Always in Paris I sense the old excitement as I catch sight of Notre Dame . . . or cross Place de la Concorde on a rainy afternoon . . . or stroll along the Seine . . . or take a table at a sidewalk cafe along Boulevard St. Germain, studying Parisians hurrying on their rounds.

Years ago I discovered a little Left Bank bistro, La Polka des Mandibules, whose spirited owner, Monique Claude, made no secret that La Polka des Mandibules was dedicated to romance.

She served heart-shaped sandwiches and patrons listened intently while a stunning blonde sang haunting love songs. In this dimly-lit cave a single candle burned at each table and wine spigots rose from the copper table tops, so that everyone poured for themselves.

La Polka des Mandibules possessed a magic that is hard to define. Years later I returned, but it was closed and Claude had disappeared. Well, never mind. Paris survives. There are other haunts. La Coupole in Montparnasse, which is favored by a creative crowd, is a fine place to linger over a cup of espresso. Others gather at L’Auberge des Deux Signes on Rue Galande, which is where waiters pass out music menus to guests who order recorded classics played with their meal.

And what of Annecy, which is said to be the prettiest village in all France. Although it is barely a year since my last visit, the desire to return persists, this wish to stroll once more beside little canals as artists sketch Quai du l’Isle and Rue Perriere and bridges that span the canals. It is indeed a moment in time that plays to the hearts of all who visit this picture-perfect village near Grenoble in southeastern France.

I carry on a love affair with Austria as well. Readers will recall Schloss Durnstein, the 15th-Century castle-hotel on the Danube where classical melodies are piped to the dining room and logs burn on chilly nights and other warmth is reflected by a ceramic stove.

With its vaulted ceilings, baroque armoires and other treasures, Schloss Durnstein is unlike any other hotel between Vienna and Salzburg, as is the village of Durnstein with its narrow, cobbled streets and vine-covered hills and an ancient church whose bell strikes the hour like the echo of thunder on a rainy afternoon.

Along the Danube, visitors gather to capture scenes that bless the village: a hilltop castle, barges passing downriver, cattle grazing by the roadside and baroque steeples rising on the horizon. Should I return, I would indeed take a table on the terrace at Schloss Durnstein . . . to feed both body and soul.

Switzerland, of course, remains close to the heart. Only recently I returned to Murren, the little Alpine village in the Bernese Oberland--where cares are abandoned and cars are banned. But while Murren is a joy, a few miles away the melody of cowbells and waterfalls sets the tone for Hohfluh, an Alpine retreat of unrivaled splendor.

Barely 60 miles outside Zurich, Hohfluh is another world. The little village (pop. 400) faces Reichenbach Falls--only a short drive from the Wetterhorn Mountains whose meadows unfold like velvet into valleys lost in mists.

One autumn, before the snows fell, I discovered Hohfluh while searching for a peaceful retreat. I took shelter in a chalet with a stream running by its door--this during a season when the leaves were turning, when the mountains were scarlet and gold, and so Hohfluh with its verdant pastures and autumn colors shall remain locked forever in the memory.

On sunny days we would hike to the high meadows, and one morning we took the train to Meiringen, in the valley below, where we sipped rich chocolate and listened while a herd of cows passed in the street, bells ringing, in a symphony that spelled peace.

It is with an abiding affection that I recall the village of Portofino on the Italian Riviera. Near Genoa, Portofino continues to attract crowds that surrender to its charms: pastel-colored buildings, a crescent-shaped harbor, sidewalk cafes and an ancient piazza where fishermen mend their nets and romantics appear at the sunset hour while others gather at La Stella and La Gritta for the evening cocktail ritual.

Although Portofino is only a speck on the Gulf of Tigullio, it works as a drug: Everyone who goes there wants to return. Hillsides are smoky with olive trees, and poking out of the trees are restored castles and villas that overlook the gulf of the Mediterranean.

Portofino’s politicos had the good sense, years ago, to establish the village as a national monument, thus protecting it from unscrupulous developers. No Holiday Inn. Not a single disco. Portofino is a page out of the past that Winston Churchill put to canvas during repeated journeys.

Visitors seek shelter at the grand Hotel Splendido on a hillside, or else Hotel Nazionale, which faces the piazza. Marvelous pastas and seafood are prepared at Ristorante Il Pitosforo, Da U Batti and Trattoria al Navicello. Who wouldn’t succumb to the charms of Portofino? I was hooked the moment I eyeballed the place.

Just as I was hooked by Puerto Vallarta before the developers invaded the Mexican Riviera. It was in the ‘60s, and Puerto Vallarta was a sight. Imagine, a village without TV or telephones. One could try reaching the outside world by radio, but with all the static, it was simply too annoying.

There were no taxis in Puerto Vallarta. Only one-horse cabs. And only a single road. It was a bone-rattling, 14-hour ride from Tepico. When it rained, the road washed out altogether.

In those days Puerto Vallarta was called the “Poor Man’s” Acapulco. Pastel-colored adobes were piled like children’s blocks up the hillsides and cobbled streets led to the sea.

And whenever a freighter arrived, locals rowed out in dugout canoes to sell the crews beans and chili. This was before there was a pier, and so there were no ocean liners. Neither were there beggars or crime. The police had little to do but round up a stray pig or a goat and return the animals to their owners, who paid fines for letting the beasts run loose.

One day I stopped for a beer at a cantina and a fighting cock fluttered in and perched on the stool beside me. The owner cursed and shooed it away with his bar towel. Yet the damned bird stood on the sidewalk crowing angrily. Afterward it ran squawking across the street, feathers flying, into an ice cream parlor.

At the Oceano Hotel a room with meals cost $14. Remember, this was in the ‘60s and greed hadn’t set in. The hotel owner was content with Puerto Vallarta as it was, opposing any talk of building a road from Guadalajara.

She sighed: “Tourists could ruin this peaceful village.”

Well, eventually the road was paved and after that the airlines began serving Puerto Vallarta and developers built their huge hotels. One that’s described as a “hacienda” contains 434 rooms, four restaurants and three bars. This is a hacienda?

Still, certain charms remain. Dawn continues to arrive softly and the sunsets are breathtaking and Puerto Vallarta’s lovely old colonial section has been spared for posterity. So while it’s not old Puerto Vallarta, it has its moments. And, well, provided the opportunity, I’d return in a jiffy.