Lazy Days in Old Nantucket : For decades, timeless summer pleasures have attracted an elite crowd to this staunchly preservationist island off the Massachusetts coast

“If you liked Martha’s Vineyard, you’ll adore Nantucket. There’s simply no comparison.” Nancie Taylor’s voice came over the phone from one of this Massachusetts island’s many real estate brokerages. She’d just convinced us to rent a house for a fortnight in mid-July, instead of staying at an inn. Nantucket may be a mere 20 miles from its more heavily-trod island neighbor, Martha’s Vineyard, but she assured us it was still 50 years behind them--in only the best of ways, of course.

As Californians in search of that quintessential New England spirit, my husband and I had visited the Vineyard before. We’d appreciated her chic charms but abhorred the overabundance of seasonal invaders. “I want to go farther next time,” I announced. “I want to go to Nantucket.”

Agreeing on the advantages of private house rental over a hotel stint (more room, a kitchen for breakfast and casual meals, utter privacy), we contacted the Nantucket Chamber of Commerce for a list of agents, and the feeding frenzy began.

We called six or seven realtors from the chamber’s list in early June and let them know what we were looking for: size, price range, length of stay--and, within days, we were inundated with information. For three weeks, the faxes flew back and forth, complete with photos and detailed descriptions. You would think, with approximately 3,000 rental houses available each summer, that there’d be quite a choice. But so desirable a destination is Nantucket that they often fill up months in advance.

Taylor, who’s president of Preferred Properties, won us over with her offering (from her list of 275) of a two-story, three-bedroom saltbox, complete with den and office, at $2,200 per week. She not only met us upon arrival at the airport, but drove us straight into town for a tour of the “best” local supermarket, post office and bike rental shops.

We “off-islanders” were initially struck, in stark contrast to the Vineyard, by Nantucket’s respectful adherence to the laws of nature in all things architectural. Property development is carefully controlled--some say dominated--by a well-bred preservationist committee known as the Land Bank: Almost 30% of the island is off-limits to construction. Woe to greedy condo-minded invaders and nouveau riche arrivistes with Hamptons-style mansions on their minds.

Nicknamed “the little gray lady in the sea,” Nantucket was spared the 19th-Century mass industrialization that transformed much of the rest of New England, and its lanterned, cobblestoned Main Street and sweeping sea captains’ homes are surviving testaments to this fortunate fact. The majority of the island’s pristine, shingled saltbox homes are kept a uniform “Nantucket gray” with white trim, so that nothing ever looks spanking new, a visual surprise that produces either extreme delight in the beholder, or utter apathy. Hailing from a city of weiner-shaped chili-dog stands and neon-sparked mini-malls, we found this constancy quite enchanting.

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But this design preference, like most of Nantucket itself, is a matter of personal taste. If you don’t appreciate Calvin Klein, antique weather vanes, and arbor-shaded lanes lined with rose-covered cottages, don’t bother making the trip. If you long to hear the sounds of sails snapping as a schooner tacks into a stiff breeze, or have five miles of unturned beach as your private picnic ground, you probably will adore it.

Where Martha’s Vineyard may build its homes high and emphatic, Nantucket’s are low and closer to earth, even in coloring, and ours was no exception. Although the large, airy kitchen was wasted on me (no talent in the culinary arts), the den, with its over-stocked mini-library of books and magazines, was not. A wooden back deck, outfitted with loungers, barbecue and umbrella-topped table, gave way to a huge, grassy yard full of secretive, hedge-dwelling wild bunnies. With the exception of a too-soft, sleeping-on-mashed-potatoes mattress, No. 1 Pinkham Circle was spacious, simple and peacefully private, and only a 10-minute bike peddle to the center of Main Street.

Thirty miles south of Cape Cod and slightly half the size of the island of Martha’s Vineyard to the west, Nantucket is a 15-mile-long, 3 1/2-mile-wide triangle of low, tumbling hills and boundless moor, encompassing the preserved town of the same name and the bucolic village of Siasconset, commonly called ‘Sconset, with a smattering of smaller settlements around the island.

The staunchly devoted year-round residents number approximately 6,000, multiplying to about five times that in summer. The highest land point, Altar Rock, on a windy east-central plain, rises barely 100 feet, making Nantucket ideal for cyclists, but you won’t find much shade for your rest stops. The island has no tall, sheltering forests or dense, overgrown woods like Martha’s Vineyard, but dwarf pine, scrub oak, and tiny cedar sprout in the thin soil and strong salty winds sweep from shore to shore. Unfortunately, Nantucket’s moors and longgrass areas also harbor the Ixodes or “deer ticks” that carry Lyme disease, the bacterial infection that causes flulike symptoms and, if untreated, potentially serious joint- and nervous-system damage. The number of local cases has dropped recently, however, according to the Nantucket Chamber of Commerce, and leaflets in hotels and public places warn travelers about the disease and tell how to protect against tick bites.

Algonquian Indians taught 17th-Century settlers to harpoon the whales that passed near Nantucket sands, and thus began 100 years of prosperity, when the island was the world capital of whaling. Shippers and merchant families such as the Folgers, Coffins, Starbucks and Macys (who several generations later became the department store Macys) amassed staggering fortunes from the sale of whale oil, and erected elaborate Nantucket Main Street homes that still stand. Such are the impressive “Three Bricks” at Nos. 93, 95, and 97 Main St. Originally built by a fortunate father for his sons, the Georgian houses remain in private hands, cared for and preserved as traditional family homes.

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Nantucket is far removed from mainstream U.S.A., and locals still say “going over to America” when they have to tear themselves away from their isle. Our first stroll around town on a summer weekday bore witness to its small-town ways. As the Unitarian Church bell tolled for noon, we were just in time to catch a concert guitarist strum his opening chords for a small crowd gathered in the church. His melody distracted us momentarily from the seasonal heat, which averages about 89 degrees, plus humidity, in July.

Just around the corner, the professional Nantucket Actors’ Theatre was rehearsing a production of W.H. Auden’s “Knights of the Round Table” for its evening show. We could have dropped in on one of the regular neighborhood ice cream socials, taken part in the annual Blueberry Festival (July is picking season), or sipped a cup of Darjeeling on an emerald lawn at a ladies’ charity tea. The gavel descends almost daily for antique auctions, and small artists’ groups open their studio doors to tour groups.

Or you could do as I did, and take the real pulse of Nantucket by wandering into Murray’s Toggery Shop on Main.

If you’re the least bit claustrophobic, perhaps this isn’t a bright idea, but Murray’s stocks the quintessential uniforms of the scene, a sort of anti-style that seems tres au courant on the local rich kids. Emporio Armani it isn’t: Murray’s interior looks like an overstuffed thrift shop, but one glance at the price tags will remind you you’re on hallowed ground. There’s Fred Perry, Izod and the “World Famous Nantucket Reds,” Murray’s brand of red cotton trousers and shorts that fade quickly to pink: The older and more tattered your Reds are (sort of “preppy grunge”), the more you belong. There are penny loafers and deck shoes, madras shirts and cashmere sweaters. In case you fret over your choice of attire, rest assured Murray’s boasts of selling “Only true, comfortable classics, cut for gentlemen and ladies.” Yes, amid the towering stacks of Polo pullovers and khaki pants beats the heart and soul of Nantucketers. I succumbed to the essential Reds. I bought a pair of shorts and a shirt for $33 and $28 respectively, and the attentive saleslady reminded me--three times--not to throw them in the wash with my white cotton socks.

But Sunday mornings, I believe, are the best barometers of low-pressure life in this corner of New England. As I leaned my rented bike against the white picket fence of St. Mary’s Church, the faithful for the 8:30 a.m. service had already spilled out past capacity onto the steps. It was standing room only inside, so I shared my square foot of space with a toy white poodle in his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ duds--a bright pink leash and flowered hair bows. The priest inserted an ancient Nantucket prayer into the liturgy: “For all those who make their living from the sea, may they be safe and prosperous in their catch,” an endearing but absurd contrast to the designer ladies around me, with their chic “lightship” purses slung over tanned wrists and heirloom-ringed fingers. (The basket-style purses, which originated as an early lighthouseman’s hobby to quell boredom, are the Nantucket blue-chips’ answer to Louis Vuitton. They’re topped with scrimshaw-whale-patterned disks and sold by a few choice town shops for about $1,200.)

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On that Sabbath morning in July the cobblestoned town center was a hive of activity, from the bookstores to the gourmet shops and grocers that open for business about 8 a.m.--before the steamship “day people,” from the mainland and the Vineyard can set one sandaled foot on the island. At the door of Orange Street’s Espresso Bakery, dogs munched fresh doughnuts from their masters’ hands. Determined to keep possession of two just-baked baguettes that stuck out of my bike basket like a pair of crossed oars, I peddled through the leafy streets edged by ancient elms with nothing more pressing on my mind than what flavor jam to have for breakfast.

Astonishing smells filled the morning air, spilling from country-kitchen windows and garden courtyards: A whiff of waffles and syrup, bacon sizzling, fresh blueberry muffins. Alfresco brunches were laid out in the gardens behind Colonial homes, friends and families hovered on doorsteps to be greeted by hugs and laughter. Sometimes the whole thing seemed just too Norman Rockwell to be believed. I finally realized that’s precisely the point. This is Nantucket: an isle, a county, and a town that could very well be a time-warped foreign country.

Nancie Taylor, a woman who is seldom spotted without her trademark straw hats and scarlet sunglasses, told us she first saw Nantucket when she was just a college co-ed on a day-long antique hunt with her mother: “I met a boy, and we went to a dance at the Yacht Club that night, and I remember wandering outside and looking up at the grand houses on the hill on Cliff Road (Nantucket’s most affluent street) and saying, ‘Someday I’m going to own one of those.’ I met my mother later on the dock, at midnight, and I said, ‘I won’t be coming back!’ ”

Fifteen years later, she did own one of those homes--a Du Pont heiress’ former estate. The heiress, Taylor recalled, “was very fond of throwing fabulous parties when she lived there. Invitations to her cocktail soirees were treasured. . . . People like Cary Grant were always popping in.

“We locals respect the privacy of our neighbors, though, so I don’t want to drop too many names,” she confided, steering her wood-paneled Jeep on our impromptu tour.

But as we drove past one sumptuous gray mansion after another perched high above the splendid harbor, she began a roll call that quickly dispensed with the confidentiality clause:

“That’s Roger Horchow’s house over there,” she pointed. “He’s the catalogue king, of course, and was the head of our Land Bank conservation movement. And I often see Fred Rogers, you know--’Mr. Rogers,’ in the market, bending over the mayonnaise jars reading ingredient labels. The kids love him.”

Writer/comedians Jerry Stiller and Anne Meara chose Nantucket as an author’s hideaway, installing themselves in a lovely home near the town center. John Chancellor, Willard Scott, Tom Brokaw, Jane Fonda and Ted Turner, fashion mogul Bill Blass, and Russell Baker all head to Nantucket for R&R.;

Clearly, Nantucket is more Mr. Gatsby’s neighborhood than Mr. Rogers’.

Besides the stunning harbor full of snapping sails and burnished yachts, Nantucket town has many much-loved landmarks, like the signposted Easy Street that runs along the water, and the Dreamland Theatre, whose name alone is enough to induce instant nostalgia. Among the elder landmarks, I liked the Old Mill, a working windmill that still turns and grinds corn--even if it is only put into operation now for curious tourists.

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Apart from the shark’s tooth I found at Shimmo Beach, my most prized souvenir is my official Nantucket Atheneum Library Card, issued to me by Miss Barbara P. Andrews, Librarian, a venerable employee of the library dedicated over a century ago by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I spent an intriguing two hours rummaging through dusty old tomes and photos, but she made me read the “Rules & Regulations” thoroughly before she allowed me to check out a book: “The overdue fine is 10 cents,” she sternly warned. “That’s per day .”

Two-hour walking tours of Nantucket town are led by astute guide Roger Young, but if you have more than one day to see the place, a packaged tour is hardly necessary. Besides, if you’re with a large group, straining to hear the lecturer’s words of wisdom, you might miss important messages like the sign I found stuck to a Main Street lamp post: “Roommate needed. Contact: House of Seven Guys, Looking for an Eighth.”

Before a properly paved road linked Nantucket town to ‘Sconset village, making the eight-mile trip meant boarding the island’s only train, with its tracks built perilously close to the crashing waves at Tom Nevers Head, a turbulent spot on the southeast coast. By 1902, the road was finally completed, and one of the two abandoned train cars is now The Club Car Bar & Restaurant, a locals’ fave on Main Street that became our unofficial people-watching headquarters.

Baited by the sounds of cocktail shakers (yes, the real, old-fashioned kind), Gershwin and riotous laughter, we stumbled into said train car on our first night in town. As the piano player, in shirt sleeves and suspenders, skillfully plunked out “Someone to Watch Over Me” on a corner upright and the smooth bartender cooed, “Name your poison,” all that was missing was Robert Ryan in a fedora and the swaying motion of a real train clicking down the tracks.

The Club Car really pops after 11 p.m., when everyone starts to sing. Earlier in the evening, it’s a chic little supper spot. Our candle-lit dinner of soft-shell crabs and seafood risotto in the connecting restaurant proved the chef is no amateur, either.

Saturday night at the first-rate Topper’s, another local favorite, always brings out at least three or four well-known authors in search of a good meal and a bottle from the restaurant’s award-winning wine list--OK, maybe more than one bottle. Set eight miles out of town at the Wauwinet, the island’s highest-rated, Mobil four-star inn, Topper’s and its chef outdid themselves the night we were there. My husband’s seared tuna steak, accompanied by wild mushrooms and explosively flavored local tomatoes, was rather splendid, as was the service: Not only did we have a waiter for water-pouring, a waiter for silver-laying, and a waiter for order-taking, we also had a waiter for bread-basket refilling. But wear a jacket here, or suffer the humiliation of trying to get seated without one. Think William F. Buckley, Jr., or even rumpled old Andy Rooney--and don’t forget socks with those loafers.

In the darkest hours of Nantucket’s sweet summer nights, the rollicking Ropewalk on Straight Wharf in town is about as wild ‘n woolly as it gets on the island--meaning it’s the place where everybody seems to end up at the end of the night. Nantucket has miles and miles of accessible-to-anyone, powder-white beaches, a beach for every taste: Brant Point, The Jetties, Dionis, even a children’s beach on the North Shore, placid and sheltered for young swimmers. Unlike Martha’s Vineyard, beach house owners here actually own their sands, right up to the water. But also quite unlike their neighbor, these landholders allow anyone with sturdy legs or a 4-by-4 vehicle to enjoy their shores, no matter how many tracks are left behind. It’s litter they’re allergic to, so just tidy up after yourself and everyone remains calm.

We saw quite a lot of people knee-deep in shallow waters, especially at Shimmo, wading for the prized “steamers.” To do the “Clam Bed Shuffle” like a native, twist your heel into the sand until you feel the shell underfoot. Scalloping gourmets must wait until the correct season, October through April, to cull their tasty mollusks. But “bluefishing” for feisty 15-pounders is a local summer hobby, even though the locals often exchange their catch at market later for lobster. After sampling the species at dinner one night, I think this practice is sane: I don’t like bluefish. No matter how hard a chef tries to smother them in sauce, their strong, herring-ish taste is entirely overwhelming.

One evening before sunset, we hopped aboard the Wauwinet’s elegant boat for a scenic cruise from Straight Wharf in town to the inn’s private beach, where Topper’s chefs prepared a lobster dinner, including smoked Nantucket seafood chowder and fresh corn, served in comfort on the restaurant deck with its white wicker chairs, white umbrellas and white-water view. It’s a tradition that’s been carried over from mid-19th-Century summer folk who boated to the inn from town for these “shore dinners.” At $48 per person, this lobster dinner cruise seemed good value, and the meal was almost as good as the formal one we had in Topper’s dining room.

Traversing the island, you’ll come to ‘Sconset, where all attempts to avoid maudlin description will escape you as you try to explain why you liked it so much to the folks back home.

My husband and I had planned an early bike ride to the village, then an afternoon of lazing on ‘Sconset’s wide sands. But his face that morning was scarlet, and his forehead felt warm and feverish. “You go,” he said, as he drifted into a summer-cold haze. “Don’t forget your hat.” I made the 12-mile bicycle trip on my own--just me and my hat.

According to the locals, ‘Sconset was the first summer resort in America, but began in 1676 as a temporary shelter for fishermen seeking the cod that swarmed off the east shore each spring and autumn. Perched on the bluffs, ‘Sconset was also ideally situated as a prime whale lookout, and is still the best place to spot them spouting. It’s an English Cotswolds-style village with rose-and-ivy-covered former fishermen’s cottages bearing storybook names like Auld Lang Syne, Sans Souci and Heart’s Ease. A majority of these early cottages still stand, affectionately embellished and improved by both Man and Nature: Trumpet vines encircle dollhouse-sized windowpanes, ivy crawls across a rooftop, and bushes of inkberry and hollyhock thrive in the briny air. There are no boutiques or fancy storefronts.

Baxter Road, which runs along the bluffs, is home to the larger ‘Sconset estates, some sporting tall-hedged tennis courts, nautical observation towers and sweeping driveways. At the end of this street--and the land itself--Sankaty Head Lighthouse stands in all its glory, steadfast guide to mariners for over 136 years.

“How was your trip?” my husband weakly asked from a mountain of pillows on the couch when I returned late that day. He seemed mildly interested, until I told him of my discovery at No. 9 New St.: The Chanticleer, ‘Sconset’s bid for the best French restaurant on the island. Housed for the past 24 years in a rambler rose-draped fisherman’s cottage with a “Snow White” feel, it’s made “most romantic restaurant” lists for years, and chef Jean-Charles Berruet has garnered the Wine Spectator “Grand Award” every year since 1987 for his wine list.

Suddenly, my husband made a miraculous recovery. Within 30 minutes, he was steering our rental car down the main road for a quietly divine dinner of crab a la maison and fresh oysters. Gourmet take-out items that match the restaurant’s lofty standard also are available at Chanticleer. “Why do you like Nantucket?” a lively acquaintance asked when I returned. “I spent a week there--was bored stiff. Nothing ever happens .” Yes, I thought, precisely.

GUIDEBOOK

Stuck on Nantucket

Getting there: American, United and Northwest Airlines fly nonstop from LAX to Boston, with 14-day advance purchase, for about $420 round trip. Northwest flies round trip from LAX all the way to Nantucket for about $460. From Boston to Nantucket, USAir and Northwest fly round trip with 14-day advance purchase for $99, or $99 each way unrestricted. A round-trip flight on Cape Air is $119, $89 one way. The Steamship Authority has ferry service to Nantucket originating in Hyannis, Mass.; rates are $166 round trip per vehicle, $19.50 per person; telephone (508) 540-2022 for reservations.

Getting around: The most popular mode of transport is the bicycle, which can be rented at many shops in town. Car rentals are available from Hertz, tel. (800) 654-3131; Nantucket Car Rental, tel. (508) 228-7474, and Affordable Rentals, tel. (508) 228-3501.

Where to stay: Nantucket has a variety of choices, including private house rental, condominium rental and country-style inns. The best source of information on lodging, dining and shopping is the 240-page guidebook published by the Nantucket Island Chamber of Commerce, 15 Main St., Nantucket, Mass. 02554. To order, send $3.50 for postage and handling, or phone (508) 228-1700.

For house rentals, be specific with the agent about your needs: size, budget, proximity to beaches, town, etc. Most are traditional, upscale, family-style dwellings. House-rental agents whom we found attentive to our requests were:

Preferred Properties, 76 Easton St., Nantucket, Mass. 02554; tel. (508) 228-2320, fax (508) 228-8464.

The Maury People, Inc., 35 Main St., Nantucket, Mass. 02554; tel. (508) 228-1881, fax (508) 228-5377.

Congdon & Coleman, 57 Main St., Nantucket, Mass. 02554; tel. (508) 325-5000, fax (508) 325-5025.

Nashaquisset Village Rental, 7 Nashaquisset Lane, Nantucket, Mass. 02554; tel. (508) 228-0625, fax (508) 228-8147.

Two top-picks among local inns are:

The Wauwinet Inn, Wauwinet Road off Polpis Road, tel. (508) 228-0145, generally considered the island’s finest and usually booked solid in summer, so make reservations well in advance. Located on its own beach, with 35 rooms and the excellent Topper’s Restaurant. In-season rates are $290-$690, double.

The Jared Coffin House, 29 Broad St., tel. (508) 228-2405, is the granddaddy of inns in the town center, with a first-class restaurant, Jared’s, and more casual Tap Room for lighter meals and drinks. In-season rates are $85 single, $135 double, and up.

Where to eat: The Club Car Bar & Restaurant, Main Street, tel. (508) 228-1101; dinner for two about $60 without wine. Topper’s at The Wauwinet Inn, tel. (508) 228-8768; dinner for two about $70 without wine. The Lobster Trap, 23 Washington St., tel. (508) 228-4041; dinner about $25 for two. The Chanticleer, 9 New St., ‘Sconset, tel. (508) 257-6231; dinner for two about $80 without wine. The Espresso Cafe & Bakery, 40 Main St., tel. (508) 228-6930, serves European-style coffee, fresh muffins, breads, and light meals.

Other recommended eateries: American Seasons (eclectic American food), The Hearth at The Harbor House Hotel (seafood specialties), The Company of the Cauldron, Obadiah’s Seafood, India House, and The Brotherhood of Thieves.

Things to do: Roger Young’s Walking Tours, a two-hour stroll around quaint downtown streets, $10 per person; tel. (508) 228-1062 for reservations.

For whale-watching from mid-July through September, contact Yankee Fleet, tel. (508) 283-0313 or (800) 322-0013.

The Nantucket Historical Assn.’s visitor’s pass for admission to 12 museums and historic sites is $8 adults, $4 children; tel. (508) 228-1894.

The island’s movie palace, The Dreamland Theatre, 19 South Water St., has entertained generations since 1906, when it began with silent films and an overworked piano player. Phone for current films, as they change every 1-2 days; tel. (508) 228-5356.