Welcome to Wellfleet Cape Cod 
Wellfleet - Cape Cod2010 Population: 2,750 |
This Wellfleet, Cape Cod Business Page is Sponsored by
ATLANTIC OAKS CAMP GROUND
Atlantic Oaks is a modern campground with a long list of conveniences which have been custom-tailored to meet the needs of RV’ers. Large, wooded, pull-thru sites are not only equipped with the full hookups which you would expect, but also include cable TV. Amenities include clean modern restrooms, free private hot showers, wireless high speed Internet service, a laundry, and LP gas sales. Our new 5,000 square foot multi-purpose building, shown above, is now open. There's also a playground, store and security gate for the convenience and enjoyment of our guests.
Our campground is ideally situated, in the Town of Eastham, only a half mile from the National Seashore Visitor Center and just twenty miles from Provincetown. Bay and ocean beaches are nearby and the Cape Cod Rail Trail actually touches the back of our camp!
While staying here at Atlantic Oaks, you may choose from many attractions in the area. These include playing in the surf at the National Seashore, swimming in the calm waters of the Cape Cod Bay, or bicycling any portion (or the entire length!) of the renowned Cape Cod Rail Trail.
There are other nearby recreational options; take a whale watch trip from Provincetown, charter a fishing boat or launch your own from Rock or Wellfleet Harbors. Excellent restaurants, gift and antique shops are all close by, along with mini golf, the famous Wellfleet Flea Market and the Cape’s last drive-in movie theater.
3700 Route 6, Eastham, MA
phone: 508-255-1437
map / details
| Salt, Sand, and Solitude at Head of the Meadow Friday July 18, 2025 |
| There's a special kind of quiet that only exists at Head of the Meadow Beach. It's not the silence of isolation or the kind that makes you check your phone to make sure you didn't go deaf. It's a coastal hush, a conspiratorial whisper between sea and dune that says, This spot? Yeah. You found it.
And today, Sadie and I really found it.
The adventure began, as all great summer days do, with that signature crescendo of boxer engine growl from our '82 Porsche 911SC as we left Glocester behind, the morning light bouncing off the hood like some kind of celestial blessing. We were cruising southeast with no real destination?until Sadie, barefoot in the passenger seat with one leg tucked up, nonchalantly said, ?Let's go somewhere less obvious today.?
Now, Sadie's ?less obvious? usually means a hidden gem, a best-kept-secret kind of place that doesn't involve fighting for towel space with six different family reunions and a Bluetooth speaker blasting Pitbull. She pulled up the map on her phone, tapped twice, and said, ?Head of the Meadow. Trust me.?
I didn't question it. The woman has an internal compass that can find peace in chaos and espresso in any zip code.
We made it to Truro before noon. The road to the beach snakes gently through the lowlands?sandy stretches of pine scrub, kettle ponds, and cottages perched like aging lifeguards among the dune grass. You'd miss the turnoff if you blinked. And that's the point. We pulled in, paid the modest fee, and found a parking spot without needing to offer a blood sacrifice. Promising start.
Once you step past the split-rail fence and hit the path over the dunes, it's like you've crossed into a painting. The sand at Head of the Meadow is almost blond, with just enough specks of shell and pebble to keep it textured underfoot. The beach stretches long and lean, bracketed by dunes that stand like stoic sentries on either side. The sky overhead today was a painter's dream: blue as cobalt, rimmed with the occasional puffy cloud like a careless brushstroke.
We picked a spot about fifty yards from the next nearest group?just enough for privacy, not so far that it felt like castaway territory. The umbrella went up, chairs went down, and Sadie immediately cracked open her book like a ritual. I pulled my shirt off, kicked back, and simply listened.
And oh, the ocean.
Here, it sounds different. The waves don't just crash?they speak. They roll in slow, like a conversation you want to eavesdrop on. No lifeguards with whistles, no kids throwing sand grenades, no inflated flamingos drifting into someone else's vacation photos. Just water and wind and time slipping past like a shadow.
We swam. Well?I swam. Sadie dipped in up to her shoulders, shrieked at the cold, and retreated like a Bavarian sea otter with strong opinions about Atlantic temperatures. I, ever the stubborn one, dove in and let the salt burn away the stress lodged in my shoulders. It's the kind of cold that snaps your soul awake. The kind that shakes loose all the nonsense.
Later, we picnicked?grapes, some turkey wraps from home, and those sour Haribo gummy worms Sadie keeps ?accidentally? packing. She fell asleep afterward, stretched out in the sun like some kind of sea nymph, book face-down beside her, sunglasses barely clinging to her face. Her hair was tied up in a knot that had started off elegant and had now collapsed into chaos. I watched her chest rise and fall and thought, This. This right here is the marrow of life.
I walked a bit down the beach during her nap?barefoot, alone. I found rusted remains of old shipwrecks that claw their way up through the sand like forgotten stories. There's history here, if you pay attention. Long-lost schooners from the 1800s that met their end on sandbars and never left. The Cape doesn't let go of its ghosts easily.
Eventually, the tide began to roll in and the shadows stretched across the beach like lazy cats. We packed up slowly, deliberately, neither of us in any hurry to shake the sand off our feet.
For dinner, we didn't even talk about options. We just drove. Somewhere near Wellfleet, we found a small place that looked like it had been there since Prohibition and never felt the need to update the signage. Inside: low ceilings, creaky floorboards, oysters so fresh they might've still been contemplating the tide, and a lobster roll that dripped clarified butter down my wrist in the best possible way. Sadie ordered clam chowder and claimed it was ?the best so far this summer.? High praise from a woman who doesn't hand out compliments lightly?especially to shellfish.
As we made our way back across the Bourne Bridge, top cracked open, windows down, the last light of day fading into that golden, syrupy Cape Cod hue, I reached over and grabbed her hand. She squeezed once?wordless, content, sand still on her knees and sun on her cheeks.
Days like today don't announce themselves. They don't show up with fireworks or perfect plans. They just unfold, quietly, like a shell opening in warm water.
And if you're lucky, you catch one.
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| Air-Cooled Engines and Oyster Bliss: A Day on the Cape Thursday July 17, 2025 |
| Some days unfold like a slow jazz record?no rush, no urgency, just mood and movement. Today was one of those rare July gems, when the to-do list gets replaced by a to-don't, and the only agenda is to chase sunlight and salt air. My wife and I took the 1982 Porsche 911SC out for a spin?not just a spin, mind you, but a full, open-throttle escape to the arm of Massachusetts: Cape Cod.
That car?my old black 911?runs like a dream but makes you earn it. No power steering, no cupholders, just raw mechanics and unfiltered noise. It rattles and hums and smells like gasoline and nostalgia, and it connects you to the road the way few things in this life still do. Sadie climbed in wearing big sunglasses and a linen wrap dress that fluttered dangerously in the coastal wind, looking like something out of a 70s Riviera photo shoot. I tossed a beach bag into the back seat, said a little prayer to the air-cooled gods, and we set off.
We hit Route 6, windows down, wind howling through the cabin, Springsteen humming on the Blaupunkt, and all the tension from the week evaporated somewhere around Sandwich. I always forget how quickly the Cape makes the rest of the world feel optional. The trees change, the houses lean in close, and the sea starts to flirt with you from beyond the pines.
We spent most of the day at Coast Guard Beach, one of our usual haunts. It's alive this time of year?families staking out their plots like sun-kissed homesteaders, teenagers performing the ancient mating rituals of Frisbee and volleyball, and the ocean roaring like it still has something to prove. The water was cold enough to make your teeth clack, but invigorating in the way only New England water can be. Sadie swam with that slow, confident grace she always has?methodical, unbothered, like she owns every inch of the sea she touches. I waded in, took the plunge, came up laughing, and forgot about work entirely.
After enough sun and salt, we decided it was time to dry off, shake the sand out of our shoes, and trade swimsuits for something slightly more civilized. The 911 was waiting for us in the lot, still warm, still perfect. I gave it a pat on the hood like a loyal horse, and we pointed its snub nose toward Brewster.
Dinner was at The Brewster Fish House, a spot we'd heard about for years but somehow never made it to. Tucked into the heart of town, it looks modest from the outside?almost too unassuming. But like any seasoned New Englander, it keeps its brilliance tucked under a weathered exterior.
We were seated promptly by a young host with a surfer's tan and a poet's vocabulary. The room was small but intimate, filled with muted laughter, flickering candles, and the scent of butter and sea. It was one of those rare places where the acoustics are soft and the vibe says you're welcome here, but don't ruin it.
We started with Wellfleet oysters?plump, briny little beasts that tasted like they were shucked by Poseidon himself. They arrived perched on a bed of crushed ice, accompanied by a mignonette so perfectly acidic it could have cleaned a scalpel. Sadie raised an eyebrow at the first one and simply said, ?That's dangerous.? Which, from her, is high praise.
For mains, I had the pan-seared halibut, served over a bed of sweet corn risotto with a charred scallion butter that made me consider licking the plate. Sadie opted for the lobster tagliatelle?handmade pasta tangled with claw meat, spring peas, and lemon zest in a light saffron cream that could've seduced a nun.
The wine list leaned toward coastal whites and small-batch reds, and our server recommended a crisp Albariño that paired so well with the food I started writing mental thank-you notes to the winemaker.
Dessert was a shared plate of house-made panna cotta with macerated strawberries and basil syrup. The kind of dessert that makes you close your eyes involuntarily and remember that life, when you let it, can still astonish you.
We lingered a little after the check came. Not because we were waiting?just because neither of us wanted to leave. You know that feeling when you're full, not just in the belly, but in the soul? That.
The drive home was quiet, dark, and utterly peaceful. The 911 purred along Route 6 like it knew the way by heart, headlights slicing through the mist like they were born to. Sadie rested her hand on my thigh, head tilted toward the window, the air thick with salt and contentment.
We didn't say much. Didn't need to.
Sometimes a good meal, a cold sea, and a roaring old car are enough religion for one day. |
| Fieldwork Week Six: Drawing Thursday July 17, 2025 |
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Thanks again, Ryan, for the great photo!
I'm re-reading Edmund White's marvelous book, The Flâneur, in which he writes:
?And no wonder Paris, land of novelty and distraction, is the great city of the flâneur ? that aimless stroller who loses himself in the crowd, who has no destination and goes wherever caprice and curiosity directs his or her steps.?
I've been thinking a lot about these fieldwork sessions and how they're different from my actual fieldwork. I think it has something to do with aimlessness and the limitations of destination. I'm happiest when there's the possibility of unanticipated encounter, and I feel listless when I set out for a place.
Last week, we set out for a place and I made a few drawings. It felt like a plein air class, rather than an exercise in curiosity. I want to see things in a new way.
In any case, I made some drawings on Hamblen Island. Not sure they're leading me anywhere.
This coming Saturday, I want to walk and look and discover!
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Fieldwork Saturdays in Wellfleet: Organized by Pete Hocking & AMZehnder Gallery
This summer, we're inviting creative people ? including visual artists, photographers, writers, and others ? to join us for community fieldwork sessions in Wellfleet on Saturday afternoons from 2:30 ? 5 PM. This is not a workshop and there will be no instructor. Spending time in a place, looking deeply, taking notes, and allowing the place to soak into memory allows one to bring meaningful experience into the studio ? and to ultimately work more intuitively. The sessions are also designed to strike up conversation and relationships among Outer Cape artists. You're invited to look, to draw, to paint, to photograph, to take notes, to write ? and especially to connect with other creative people in our incredible community. These sessions are free and you're welcome to join us as your schedule permits. Come for one session or all sessions!
We'll meet at AMZehnder Gallery at 25 Bank Street at 2:30 PM on Saturday and we'll conclude the start of Gallery Night at 5 PM.
Questions? Contact phocking@gmail.com |
Next Wellfleet Cape News Update at 9:30 PM EST
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