Burgaw has blueberries, Fayetteville has dogwoods—and Wilmington? Wilmington has azaleas. You’ll find them everywhere: in Oakdale Cemetery, Forest Hills, downtown, and all around Greenfield Lake. It was that last spot, in fact, that sparked the idea for the very first Azalea Festival.

Back in 1934, Dr. Houston Moore helped transform Greenfield Lake from a neglected swamp into a landscaped city park. Moved by the beauty of those blooming azaleas, he later became one of the driving forces behind the festival’s founding.

What started as a small celebration of gardens and Southern charm has blossomed into a week-long event with parades, concerts, art shows, and one of the best street fairs around. These days, it draws hundreds of thousands of visitors each spring.

When I moved to Wilmington as a kid, it quickly became something I looked forward to every year. Back then, the street fair stretched down Water Street. Folks shagged in front of the federal courthouse while bands played live music all weekend long. Azalea Belles lounged on the lawns of historic homes in full antebellum dress, and the whole city felt like it had bloomed right along with the flowers.

This year, I wanted to recapture a little of that childhood magic—so I grabbed Bug and headed to the Port City to see if the Azalea Festival is still as incredible as I remember.

We rolled into town just in time to catch the tail end of the parade. And if you can’t tell—Mama had herself a blast. (Seriously. Look at that smile. 😂)

After the parade, we walked over to Hell’s Kitchen for lunch—one of my all-time favorite spots in downtown Wilmington. We loaded up on appetizers: their Bang Bang Shrimp are top-tier, but the real star? The beer-battered fried mushrooms. I’m telling you right now—they are the best you’ll ever eat.

Once we were good and full, we wandered over to the street fair. And I’ll be honest—I was shocked. It’s no longer down by the riverfront. And while I tried to keep an open mind, my heart sank a little.

There were still plenty of vendors—hundreds, in fact. I saw booths with shark teeth, beeswax candles, handmade jewelry, and local wines. I treated myself to a beautiful pearl necklace and stocked up on Beach and Barn t-shirts.

But the food scene wasn’t what it used to be. The bands were gone, too—unless you count the one tucked away in the beer garden. No live music echoing down the streets. No shag dancing on the Alton Lennon Federal Courthouse steps. No Azalea Belles in sight.

I mean, I had fun. I even got a hug from what I’m pretty sure was Chewbacca’s long-lost cousin. But this wasn’t the Azalea Festival I grew up loving.

And it got me thinking—when did we decide that change automatically equals progress? Because sometimes, it doesn’t. Sometimes it’s just change. And not all change is good.