Briann Mehfoud Real Estate Group w/ Twiddy & Company

09/23/2026

If you’re not already aware, Wanchese, North Carolina, is a fishing village steeped in heritage, tucked away on the southern end of the quaintest of little islands, Roanoke Island.

It’s where I grew up.

More than that, it’s the place that made me.

When I want to name a pet something quirky like Moon, I know it’s because Wanchesers have always had an affinity for names that make outsiders furrow their brows and say, “Can you say that again?”

It’s probably the reason I’m rarely very serious, and why I find such utter delight when my friends start making fun of one another in that old, familiar way that sounds almost offensive to anyone listening in, but is somehow deeply endearing when you know the language.

It’s why I love horses.

It’s why I love a good summer storm when I simply cannot take one more day of sweltering heat.

And it’s why I absolutely adore the electricity in the air before a fall nor’easter.

This is by no means scientific, but I have come to believe, probably because my Daddy believed it, that Wanchese sits in some peculiar little geographic sweet spot that almost beckons storms toward it. As though the village owns them. As though somehow, they belong there and nowhere else.

Daddy would explain that because we sat northwest of Oregon Inlet, sandwiched between the Croatan and Roanoke Sounds, we could get afternoon thunderstorms that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Storms that, somehow, nobody else could see. Not even our neighbors in Manteo or Manns Harbor.

Before one popped up, Mama or Daddy would holler, “Go grab the clothes off the line!”

And once the laundry was safely inside, we would settle ourselves onto the swinging chair on our front porch and watch it roll in.

I couldn’t begin to tell you how many times my father and I sat on that porch together, watching a storm arrive with fury and drama and then disappear almost as quickly as it came.

Those are some of my favorite memories.

Now I live on what the locals call “the beach,” north of Wanchese in Southern Shores. But I can still feel that same electricity in the air before a good nor’easter.

In the fall, I love the way the leaves begin to swirl around the front yard.

I love that sudden crispness in the air that wasn’t there just a few hours before.

I love that I can hear the ocean unfurling itself onto the banks of the Atlantic from my front porch, even though I’m a solid mile or two away.

And when the storm finally arrives?

I love that, too.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m sorry for the tourists whose beach week gets ruined. I’m sorry for the homeowners who planned to drive down for a few precious days to escape the busyness of life. I’m not insensitive to the fact that a good coastal storm can wreck even the best-laid plans.

But I also think storms bring with them opportunities we sometimes fail to notice.

If you like to bake, this is your chance.

If you enjoy a good pot of chili, fire up the stove.

Dust off the board games or the cards and sit down with your family for a night of belly laughs.

Put on some old clothes, head down to a beach access, stand in the wind and rain at the edge of the world, and watch the sheer might of Mother Nature as the ocean swirls and pitches and throws everything she has toward the shore.

Feel that cool breeze after an unrelentingly hot summer.

Read a book.

Hell, write a book.

Ignore the crab pots for a little while, even though you know they’ll be tossed around and you’ll have to go hunt them down later.

Dock the boats. Put out the fenders. Secure the lines. Bring in anything that might blow away.

Do all the things we coastal people know to do.

And when all the preparation has passed, maybe have a cold one at a local dive.

But mostly, settle in.

Let the storm give you permission to stop.

To rest.

To listen to the wind howl through the trees and the ocean roar in the distance.

To sit a little longer with the people you love.

Because soon enough, the wind will quiet.

The clouds will break.

The sun will show her face again.

And we’ll step outside, pick up the branches, find the crab pots, straighten what got knocked sideways, and go right back to living.

That, too, is the way of things here.

There is something beautiful about knowing the storm will come.

And something even more beautiful about knowing it will pass.

That is the rhythm of this place.

And it is one of the many reasons I will always love our treasured Outer Banks culture.

09/22/2026

Big changes are coming to the appraisal process, and if you’re buying or selling a home, they’re worth knowing about.

The way appraisers work, what they’re expected to consider, and how certain property details are evaluated is evolving. That could have a real impact on how homes are valued and how deals move forward.

I break down what’s changing in the reel, and why I think buyers and sellers should be paying attention now rather than after it affects their transaction.

The details matter. The preparation matters.

09/17/2026

September on the Outer Banks has always felt a little different to me.

The light starts to soften. The mornings feel just a touch cooler. The ocean is still warm, the days still feel like summer, but there’s this quiet little shift that reminds you fall is coming.

It’s one of those times of year when I find myself noticing this place all over again.

The salt air. The evening light. A beach day that still feels like July, followed by a night when you suddenly want a sweatshirt.

I love every season here for different reasons, but September has a way of making the Outer Banks feel especially beautiful.

Maybe it’s because it feels like summer giving us one last long, slow exhale. 🤍

09/11/2026

Growing up on the Outer Banks, there really wasn’t much healthcare. And when I say there wasn’t much, I mean there was none.

When I was a toddler, I developed a fever of over 104 degrees. My parents drove me to Dr. Wright, whose office was in Jarvisburg on the Currituck mainland. According to them, he saw me in the middle of the night, put me in an ice bath, patched me up and quite possibly saved my life. I’m fairly certain he was the only doctor around for miles in those days.

As time went on, Dr. Holt opened a family practice in Manteo, and eventually urgent care came to the beach. Many years later, the Outer Banks Hospital was built.

But even today, the Outer Banks isn’t exactly known for its healthcare. When I work with clients who are considering moving here later in life, I’m always honest with them about that. If serious health issues arise, there is a good chance they will find themselves making the drive north to Chesapeake, Virginia Beach or Norfolk for the level of care they may have been accustomed to elsewhere.

Those of us who grew up here barely think twice about it.

Driving an hour or more for something important has simply always been part of life.

So today I made that familiar trek north to Norfolk to see my husband, who recently underwent his fourth knee surgery.

But sometimes, as is so often the case in life, the little things along the way become the story.

As I drove the quiet, rural stretch of 168 toward Virginia, I came upon a fire department with enormous ladder trucks positioned on either side of the highway. Suspended between them was one of the largest American flags I have ever seen.

It stopped me in my tracks. Or at least emotionally it did. I may or may not have shed a tear.

My mind immediately went to September 11 because, after all, that is today’s date.

Then, a little farther up that same stretch of highway, I encountered a massive procession of police cars, fire engines and motorcycles, lights flashing and American flags flying.

And suddenly this ordinary drive to the hospital didn’t feel ordinary at all.

I was in my last year of college when September 11 took the world by utter surprise.

I was old enough to understand that something terrible and historic was unfolding, and the memories of that day are etched into me. I remember where I was sitting. I remember how I found out. I remember watching the images on television and knowing that the world had just changed.

But I don’t think I was old enough yet to fully understand the weight of it.

Life has a way of teaching you things that age alone cannot.

Now I have lost people I love.

I have sat beside my grandfather as he died from cancer, so when I think about the families who, years later, sat beside loved ones suffering from illnesses linked to the toxic dust and smoke of that day, I understand that kind of helplessness in a way I couldn’t at 21.

Now I am a mother.

So when I think about the thousands of children who lost a parent on September 11, I understand the magnitude of that loss differently too.

And maybe that is one of the strange things about getting older.

The events themselves don’t change.

But we do.

We gain enough life experience to finally understand pieces of an event that our younger selves simply couldn’t.

I also remember what happened in this country after September 11.

We were grieving. We were frightened. We were angry.

But we also came together.

American flags seemed to hang from every porch. People checked on their neighbors. Firefighters and police officers were treated like heroes because we had been reminded, so painfully, of exactly what they were willing to risk.

There was a feeling of patriotism that reached into nearly every corner of the country.

I miss that.

Not the tragedy that caused it. Never that.

But the sense that, despite all of our differences, we still belonged to one another.

Sometimes it feels as though our country has lost its way. We argue with strangers through screens. We assume the worst of people we have never met. We allow disagreements to become contempt.

And yet, I don’t believe the old American ways are gone.

Maybe I notice them because I have always been a little old-fashioned.

I see them in wide-open fields where we still ride our horses.

I see them at rodeos when people stand, remove their hats, bow their heads in prayer and place their hands over their hearts for the national anthem.

I see them when someone brings dinner to a sick neighbor.

I see them when communities line highways with flags.

I see them when fire departments raise an enormous American flag over a country road simply because some things deserve to be remembered.

I think those parts of America are still very much alive.

We just have to notice them.

I know I’m a real estate agent, and this isn’t really a real estate post.

I grew up on the Outer Banks, and this isn’t entirely an Outer Banks post either.

But perhaps that is the point.

Life is bigger than our jobs.

It is bigger than the towns we came from.

And there are days when it feels appropriate to lift our eyes beyond our own little corner of the world and remember that we are part of something much larger.

So today, on an ordinary drive from the Outer Banks to Norfolk, I was reminded of September 11.

I was reminded of the people who left home that morning believing they would return that evening.

The children who waited for parents who never came home.

The husbands and wives who never got another goodbye.

The first responders who ran toward something everyone else was desperately trying to escape.

And the families who have carried those losses for twenty-five years.

I hope we honor them not only by remembering how they died, but by remembering how precious the lives we still have truly are.

Love your people.

Know your neighbors.

Put the phone down sometimes and look at the person sitting across from you.

Be grateful for the freedom to speak your mind, worship as you choose, build a life, raise a family and disagree with one another while still belonging to the same country.

And when you see that American flag flying over a quiet country road, take a second to really look at it.

Because sometimes the old American ways aren’t gone at all.

Sometimes we’ve just been moving too fast to notice them.

09/10/2026

No big announcement. Just your periodic reminder that if you’re thinking about buying or selling on the Outer Banks, I’d love to help. 😂

09/07/2026

There is something about an oyster 🦪 roast in the fall, and if it benefits our 4-legged 🐾 friends, I say, even better! Come on out to Roadside Duck-Obx on October 2!

Roadside Duck

Join us at the Roadside Oyster Roast, a gathering partnered with Savannah's Angels from 2 PM to 5 PM where animal lovers and oyster connoisseurs come together to enjoy fresh NC raw or roasted oysters, crispy hushpuppies, and hearty Hatteras-Style Chowder.

09/07/2026

I like to imagine what Labor Day felt like years ago, back when the truly legendary Outer Banks spots like The Casino, The Carolinian, and The Arlington were still around.

I’ve heard countless stories from that time from my parents, who moved here from Great Bridge and Elizabeth City to work as teenagers in the mid to late ’60s. Before them, my grandparents on my mom’s side lived in the lost lumber town of Buffalo City, and on my dad’s side, Hatteras.

That was nearer to the time of the true “Nags Headers,” who would spend the entirety of the summer in Nags Head, only to make their way back to their homes in Albemarle County, northeastern North Carolina, and southeastern Virginia for the winter.

Before that, at the start of summer, this sort of Southern aristocracy would pack up food, supplies, and their families and escape to the old Nags Head row of unpainted cedar shake homes for the season. I imagine those houses open to the salt air, porches full of people, children running barefoot, and whole families settling into the rhythm of a summer that felt almost separate from the rest of the year.

That was also a time when my father’s mother would have started the journey south from her home in Virginia to take the sandy, and at times treacherous, path to Hatteras to see her parents. Loaded up with fruit for the local Coast Guardsmen, they knew they would have gifts to share when their vehicle inevitably got stuck somewhere along the way.

I’ve been told the Coast Guardsmen were always happy to oblige the barter, as their monthly rations often ran low on fresh produce.

By the time I was born at Elizabeth City Hospital, which was the closest hospital to our home in Wanchese in my birth year of 1979, things had changed, but not that much.

Labor Day meant summer was truly over back then.

Restaurants closed for the season. Stores like the infamous Galleon Esplanade shuttered for the winter. There was a finality to it.

The traffic thinned. The cottages emptied. The beaches grew quiet.

Locals had the beach back, along with the then very popular Roanoke Island.

In those days, most year-round residents did not live on the beach. They were not interested in “building their castles upon the sand”. That’s why so many of our government buildings are still there today.

So if those of you who are newer to our area have ever wondered why you had to drive to Manteo to Island Pharmacy to get your license plate, now you know.

In any case, until the ’90s, and perhaps even into the early 2000s, Labor Day was the official end to what many hoped would be an endless summer.

It’s only now, in this crazy world that never seems to slow down and smell the roses, that our worn-out labor force has to press on and endure the short-staffed shoulder season because all of the college kids have returned to school.

And let’s face it, with the rise of Airbnb and the decline of full-summer beach box rentals, that workforce was already stripped to the bone.

Restaurants will struggle on. Storefronts will stay open. They’ll get by with skeleton crews.

They’ll work seven days a week. They’ll clean beach cottages. They’ll service pools, stock restaurants, and make the trek from Elizabeth City and the Currituck mainland all the way up to Carova to keep this place running.

And finally, sometime after October, they will rest.

Winter will come, and the Outer Banks will feel a little more like the one from my childhood, even though it will never be exactly the same.

And sure, I enjoy the fruits of progress. My husband builds houses, and I sell real estate. We wouldn’t make it without this longer season that now starts earlier in the spring and ends later in the fall.

But I would be disingenuous if I didn’t remember the old days when Labor Day would come and the island would feel a little lighter, almost as if it could rise up out of the sea for us to enjoy again.

That was our true local summer, when the fall was gentle, the breezes would come, the beaches would empty, and we could reconnect with everyone we had been missing all summer while they were elbow-deep in three-compartment sinks or out on the winding roads taking care of the people and places that keep this little stretch of sand going.

There was something about that time of year that felt like exhaling.

The noise softened. The light changed. You started seeing people you hadn’t really seen all summer, even though they lived only a few miles away. The beaches belonged to no one and everyone again. The air felt cooler. The roads felt wider. The whole place seemed to settle back into itself.

So if you’re here visiting, if you own a home here, or if you’ve only lived in this area for 20 years or less, I hope you’ll hear this in the spirit it’s intended: not as a complaint, but as a little piece of Outer Banks history and a love letter to the people who have carried this place through generations of change.

Say thank you. Return your grocery cart. If dinner takes a little longer, enjoy your drinks and your friends.

And understand that this place has changed enormously in a very short time, while the people who keep it running are still learning how to carry a season that lasts much longer than it once did.

That’s the way things were.

And this is the way things are.

Photo courtesy of the Outer Banks History Center, State Archives of North Carolina.

Twiddy & Company Premier Sales
Briann Barrick Mehfoud

09/01/2026

One thing that surprised me when I compared this year’s Outer Banks market to last year?

The larger-home segment is moving.

Sales of 7–8 bedroom homes are up more than 75%, while average days on market dropped from 114 to 74.

At the same time, overall residential sales are nearly flat year over year, which is why I don’t think this market can be described simply as “up” or “down.”

It’s becoming more segmented, and buyers are paying close attention to value, condition, rental potential, and price.

If you like keeping up with Outer Banks real estate and life here on the Banks, follow along.

BriAnn Mehfoud | Twiddy & Company REALTORS®