Shelton Vineyards

Three months ago, we had planned to attend an event at Shelton Vineyards, a 1000-acre estate in Dobson, NC, organized by Our State Magazine.  I only recently learned that the Yadkin Valley in North Carolina has become an increasingly well-known area for growing wine and for wine tours: “You don't have to fly five hours and spend thousands of dollars to experience fine wines and scenic vineyards. The Yadkin Valley lies in the Piedmont and Foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Experts in the disciplines of Viticulture and Enology have compared this area to France’s Burgundy and Italy’s Piedmont.” 

Unfortunately, our plans were disrupted when Hurricane Ian blew through North Carolina, and not being eager to drive four hours in hurricane-force rain, we cancelled and took a partial refund – a rain check, you might say.  Winston-Salem is not very far from Dobson, and Martha had organized a visit to the vineyard which featured a wine tasting, a stay at the only Hampton Inn in the country with a wine bar, and a New Year’s Eve dinner and party at the vineyard’s Harvest Grill restaurant and The Barn.  We had avoided most of the heavier rain the previous day, and the drive to Dobson was an interesting one through a part of rural North Carolina we had not yet visited, a little south from Mt. Airy and Pilot Mountain, and through Elkin, where we stopped for lunch at an interesting place called Angry Troll Brewing, located in a huge building that was formerly a tobacco barn, wand here the pizza and beer were equally good.

I noticed that all of the wait staff were wearing identical T-shirts, which said that the brewery had an intriguing claim to fame.

The hostess explained to us that the major business in Elkin prior to the brewery (aside from tobacco, I presume) was a blanket factory, which no doubt went the way of so many textile industries in the south which closed down, leaving behind huge abandoned buildings and dying towns.  Elkin had done pretty well for itself, it seemed, and it did not hurt that it was also capitalizing on the Wine Tour industry.  It had a pretty little downtown area and Main Street with some nice shops.

We drove north from there through increasingly dense fog to the Hampton Inn in Dobson, where we boarded a shuttle to the tasting room a couple of miles down the road.  Our driver, Lynn, was a laconic older man born in the area who looked like he had grown up growing tobacco and who seemed to know the roads like the back of his hand.  The tasting room was in a beautiful building surrounded by 120 acres of vines, the oldest ones planted in 1999, and a friendly young lady gave us a tour of the facilities before we went in for a tasting.

We sampled the wines on a “wine tree,” which is something we had never seen before, five glasses arranged like a circular staircase on a little stand.  The wines were very good, especially an Estate Cabernet Sauvignon, and all of the grapes were grown on-site.

We returned to the hotel to freshen up, and then Lynn one again showed up to drive us and several other New Year’s Eve couples to the Harvest Grill for dinner.  It was very good, accompanied by a Shelton Vineyards wine, and beginning with an amuse bouche, a small plate containing those time-honored good-luck foods:  pork belly, collard greens, cornbread, and black-eyed peas.

After dinner, the shuttle bus arrived and took us to The Barn, an event venue that for tonight was filled with New Year’s Eve decorations, including nets in the ceiling holding at bay dozens of “2023” balloons ready to drop on revelers below at midnight.  It has been a long time since we made it ‘til that hour, however, and so in a little while we were again standing outside awaiting Lynn, whose arrival was a welcome one, and we returned to the Hampton Inn, grateful that Lynn knew these roads well because the fog had grown thicker and thicker as the evening progressed.  On the way, Martha heard Lynn receive a text message, and becase we were in the front seat and it was written in very large type (was Lynn far-sighted?) she was able to read it:  You hauling them drunks?  We were by no means drunk, having left the festivities early, but we were thankful that Lynn was driving.

Back in our room, we celebrated a tradition we began several years ago, reading through all of the comments we had taken turns writing on our little blackboard in the kitchen for 2022, ending with, “The Ocean is Calling.”

Happy New Year!

The Ocean is Calling

The Ocean is Calling, I wrote on the little blackboard in our kitchen – the final entry for 2022 as we prepare to embark on a journey to Atlantic Beach once again for our winter “Sabbatical.”  This will be our eighth year in an oceanfront condo, the first six of them staying in Martha’s Aunt Lizette’s place where she graciously allowed us to stay during that time when being out of doors in Highlands becomes something of a challenge.  The temperature at our house was 3 degrees on Christmas weekend, and 5 below zero in Highlands, resulting in many broken water pipes.  It is not a good idea to run in such extreme temperatures for any runner, and the older this runner gets the more he feels the cold.  I have photographic evidence of runs in the snow and the cold, when ice crystals formed on my beard, but those days belong to the past. 

Atlantic Beach is between 15 and 20 degrees warmer during these months, which means that on most days we can get outside and run or hike, or simply walk on the beach, and stay fit.  There is also a very good fitness center here with a swimming pool, weights, and yoga classes.  More importantly, it is a true Sabbatical for us, a time to grow closer to each other and closer to those vast elemental forces all around:  the wide south-facing ocean (which allows us to see both sunrises and sunsets), the tides, and the weather.  It is also a time to read and reflect and write.  The television is never turned on, unless there might happen to be an Insurrection or an Impeachment, both of which we hope to avoid this year.  I have written a lot of poetry out here on the edge of a continent, where there seem to be fewer interruptions.  And of course, this often-dormant blog revives itself, too, an opportunity to share with my few followers the wonders of a winter beach:

On a winter beach, sparsely populated,
The surf is too cold for children’s toes,
The children of summer with their little plastic pails.

The west wind sings and stings with sand.
A surf fisherman is bundled against the wind,
Anchored to the sand like his rod augur.
An old man is sweeping his metal detector softly
Side to side, listening intently through earphones,
Fishing for that bright hidden ping of surprise,
Up above the knee-high scarps, searching.
A lost wedding ring, a locket, a piece of silver
In the storehouse of the deep sand.

This year, we decided to take our time getting to Atlantic Beach, extending a journey of less than 500 miles to more than 900.  We also decided to leave a day earlier than planned because of an approaching weather front and heavy rain.  So on this first day we drove only as far as Winston-Salem, where we arrived early enough to spend some time in Old Salem. 

I even had time to walk up to “God’s Acre,” the Moravian graveyard near Salem College, where in keeping with Moravian beliefs all of the grave markers are exactly the same, as indeed all of us are when we leave this world – the egalitarianism of the deceased.

We stayed at our favorite safe harbor, the Historic Brookstown Inn, a converted cotton mill which is within walking distance of Old Salem and features irregular floors and heating systems, huge wooden beams and columns, and ancient brick walls. The Inn also features a tabby cat named Sally, who hitched a ride in a moving van and traveled cross-country years ago and (her owners having been located by the chip in her ear and having no objection) decided to take up the post of Hotel Cat.  On our last visit here just after Thanksgiving, the elusive Sally was nowhere to be found, but this time she made an appearance and reluctantly posed for some photographs, pretending not to notice the photographer, although welcoming the attention of two teenage girls who stroked her and cooed at her.  Typical cat behavior.

Williamsburg Turkey Trot

Five hundred miles may seem like a long way to drive for a mere 5-K race, but we have been enjoying traveling to Turkey Trots these past few years to celebrate Thanksgiving.  We have “Run with the Turkeys” in Winston-Salem, Greensboro, and Lake Junaluska.  I don’t know where I first heard about this race – it may have been while visiting Colonial Williamsburg after running the Richmond Marathon several years ago – but it sounded appealing, and we have not been to this beautiful, historic city in a very long time.

Martha had signed us up last summer so she had ample time to arrange for accommodations in a little place called the Fife and Drum Inn, which promised to be very close to the starting line.  And, better yet, she was able to reserve a table at the Williamsburg Winery for Thanksgiving Dinner, a place which we have enjoyed on previous visits.  We especially remember one magical afternoon going to a wine tasting there and then having lunch in the Gabriel Archer Tavern across the courtyard, watching the rain outside from a window seat.  It is always surprising how we remember in such vivid detail those special moments in our lives.

Five hundred miles is a long way for us to drive all in one day, so we stayed half-way both going and coming at one of our favorite safe harbors, the Historic Brookstown Inn in Winston-Salem, just on the outskirts of Old Salem, a former cotton mill with high ceilings, uneven floors, and a heating system that is not always operational.  The Brookstown was already decorated for the holidays, with a miniature village set up and wreaths and garlands in the dining room.

The Inn also features a tabby cat named Sally, who hitched a ride in a moving van and traveled cross-country years ago and (her owners being located by the chip in her ear) decided to take up the post of Hotel Cat.  Sally can usually be found curled up in the most comfortable chair in the lobby, or dozing in the sun high on a wooden beam in the courtyard, but alas she could not be found on this visit.  Here's the little sweetie on a previous visit.  "You weren't thinking of sitting here, were you?"

We arrived in Willliamsburg on Wednesday and found our room, one of only nine, at the top of a steep stairway above a shop in Merchants Square.  The George Washington Room was very nice, decorated with colonial furniture, although a little on the small side, as indeed it would have been in colonial times.  Proprietors Billy and Sharon were helpful and informative.  “Where is the Blue Talon Bistro?” we asked, the location of the starting line, and Billy pointed across the street.  In fact, we learned that the street immediately outside the Fife and Drum was the location of both the start and the finish, as convenient as any race we have ever run with the exception of the Rocket City Marathon in Huntsville, where the starting line is also right outside (although farther than in this case) and the finish line chute takes you directly into a corridor of the host hotel and the post-race food and drink.  And let me say, by the way, that there is nothing better after a marathon, when the stomach can be as shaky as the legs, as warm vegetable soup.

We found an Italian Restaurant a block away, La Piazza, and enjoyed our customary pre-race pasta dinner, then walked around Merchants Square a little to shake off travel stiffness.  The wide pedestrian streets, with its little cafés and outdoor tables, reminded us of Paris, except that the buskers (a very nice fiddler and a saxophonist) were playing Christmas carols from each end of the street.

I awoke ahead of the alarm to an unusual sound, as if someone were dropping silverware into a drawer. Practicing my Tai Chi on the rooftop patio next to the dining room, I found that volunteers were already setting up portable steel fencing on both sides of the road below me, and the starting line and clock were being installed.  The race was capped at 2500 runners, so we decided it would be smart to get close to the start on this narrow street, hopefully in front of the walkers, children, dogs, and strollers that can be more hazardous to a runner than potholes and manhole covers.  We warmed up, placed ourselves close to the start, and enjoyed the lively camaraderie of runners preparing to take part in a Turkey Trot, which I learned have become the most favorite race in the country, with over a million people participating in some 800 races.  There were families everywhere, and some of the runners were wearing turkey hats and other outlandish attire.  Such fun!

Despite the large number of runners, we both got off to a good start.  The weather was just perfect, the sun had risen in a bright blue sky, and the roads were flat and smooth with the exception of a narrow dirt road around the Capitol Building halfway through the course.  By that time most of the jockeying for position had been completed, with children darting back and forth, strollers sailing perilously past, and walkers in the middle of the road, all enjoying the race for the Fun Run it really was and thus oblivious to the usual rules of running in a serious road race. 

And there we were, running right down the middle of Williamsburg, past Bruton Parish Church and Chowning's Tavern and all the little shops and pretty colonial houses, then returning to run up both sides of the Palace Green to the Governor’s Palace, before finally making a loop around the campus of the College of William and Mary and coming into the finish line.  I had been hoping to break forty minutes, but was pleased with a time of 40:10, especially when we found the course was 3.16 miles long; had it been the correct length I would have finished in 39:30, by my calculation, and for Martha to have shortened her time of 31:39 to 31:02.  The lines for the post-race food and drink were congested, but I managed to find my way to (of course) the beer tent and enjoyed a complimentary plastic cup of cranberry lager, surprisingly delicious for 9:30 in the morning.  There were also delicious croissants, and many, many wonderful prizes being raffled off by the owner and the chef of the Blue Talon Turkey, who had organized the event.  We did not win any prizes, and we did not expect to win age-place awards in a race of this size, but Martha later found that she had finished in an impressive fourth place among 40 in her age group.

Thanksgiving Dinner at Williamsburg Winery was as delicious as we had anticipated, and afterward we returned to Merchants Square to shop and graze on light appetizers at the Blue Talon, where we were able to thank the owner for a flawlessly-organized event.  “We enjoy it!” he said, and he genuinely had seemed to enjoy calling out the awards and raffling off the prizes with good humor.

The next morning it was raining, but not very heavily, so we had Williamsburg mostly to ourselves, a lovely place to be on a rainy morning.

 I took many photos along the way, and we especially enjoyed the creative wreaths on the houses and shops.

We enjoyed a light lunch at Chowning’s Tavern, built in 1766 by Josiah Chowning, which featured a flight of beer (have I mentioned how good beer tastes after a race of any length?) and a Crock of Cheese with “good bread,” and pickled vegetables.  A talented fiddler in colonial garb played some lively jigs for us on a fiddle and on a fife. 

 
By that time the rain had stopped, and we returned to Merchants Square for some Christmas shopping.  Martha asked me to check out possible places for dinner, but I had not had much success until I spotted a sign for a seafood restaurant one block farther on.  It was starting to get dark as I stood outside Berret’s Seafood Restaurant and Taphouse Grill, and one look at the menu posted outside convinced me that it would be perfect for us.  I approached the hostess and asked if she had any table for two for this evening.   “Sorry,” she said, consulting the iPad in front of her.  “The only thing I have is at 6:30.”  I said that was later than I wanted but would check with my wife.  Then I discovered a message on my phone from said wife with a picture of Berret’s sign saying, “This looks great!”  I called to give her the bad news.  “That’s OK,” she said.  “I got one at 5:00, the last one except for 6:30.”  Like minds; like appetites.

The seafood was fresh and delicious – grilled oysters, she-crab soup, crab cakes, oysters Rockefeller, and shrimp.  Have I mentioned how good seafood tastes after a race of any length?

On Saturday morning, after packing up and bidding farewell to the Fife and Drum, we literally walked across the street to Wren Chapel in William and Mary and enjoyed a 10:00 a.m. organ recital by the organist at Bruton Parish.  The organ and the intimate space married perfectly together, and the historic organ moved to this chapel in the 1970s, with only one manual and no pedals, filled the space beautifully.

I talked to the organist after the concert and told her that my Dad had once told me he had played the organ at William and Mary, which would have been in perhaps 1939 or 1940 when he had been stationed in the Navy at the base near Scotland Neck during World War II.  It was apparently not the same organ that had been in that space at the time, but the connection was a powerful one, and it made me remember him and my Mom, both long gone now, who had met at Scotland Neck and been married in Elizabeth City, and the Thanksgiving dinners of my childhood, which I had thoroughly enjoyed even without the benefit of running a Turkey Trot beforehand.

We returned via the Brookstown in Winston-Salem (still no Sally), and on Sunday morning we heard another very fine organ while worshiping at the Home Moravian Church in Old Salem on this first Sunday in Advent.
 

We sang "O Come O Come Emmanuel," and we listened with hope and appreciation to the beautiful language in the Moravian liturgy for Advent:

"We long for you to inspire
all the nations and peoples of the world
to turn to cooperation and nurture
rather than to hatred and destruction."  

And that wonderful scripture from Isaiah:

"They shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war anymore.”

Amen.

Autumn Breeze 5-K

Last year’s Autumn Breeze 5-K took place on October 4, and although Martha took first place in her age group and I took second in mine, no photos survive of us standing at the finish line afterward beaming proudly.  That’s because we were huddled with all of the other runners under a tiny tent in a downpour that began almost as soon as we began running the race.

“Anyone who was here last year, raise your hands,” our friend and co-race-director Anthony called out at the start of this year’s race, and several hands went up.  We looked around at all of the other proud veterans of insane weather conditions last year who had lined up in light rain, listened to Anthony describe the course and thank the sponsors in great detail while it began raining harder and harder, and decided that we were already wet so we might as well do this thing. 

As if to make up for last year’s horrendous conditions, this year it was clear and cool, just perfect for a race on one of the most beautiful courses we know about.  We both lined up close to the starting line because there was no chip timing, and almost immediately began climbing up a slight incline (which would mean a fast downhill finish).  Despite the paved surfaces, there was plenty of uneven terrain, especially in the final mile where roots had swollen the asphalt pavement on the greenway trail.  But whenever I could, I glanced to the side at the picturesque Tallulah River.  We crossed several bridges, one of them a swinging bridge that swayed underfoot.  The leaves were just beginning to turn.  It was a very beautiful race!

I passed a man with a bright red shirt and double knee braces in the first mile who I thought could have been in my age group, and then he caught up to me again and we began talking.  He said he was 79 – “Ah, not in my age group!” I said – and he told me that a man up ahead in a white shirt was 82 years old, and he thought he might be able to overtake him.  He pulled away from me gradually, and ultimately both Red Shirt and White Shirt finished ahead of me. 

I had wanted to finish in under 40 minutes, but as I approached the finish line I knew that would not be possible.  Still, I was happy with a time of 40:54.  I had run my best, and that is reward enough.  This is one of those races where they hand you a numbered card as soon as you leave the finish chute, and I wandered around for a few minutes before dutifully filling it out with name, age, gender, time, and home town.  When a young lady hung it on the big age-group board behind her, I was surprised to see that I was No. 1.  I looked over at the Female 65-69 group and found Martha’s name on the top, too, in a time of 30:50.

 So it was an especially rewarding day at Tallulah Gorge, and we celebrated at a place called The Edge Café and Bar, located just up the hill from where the race had finished, in the old Visitor’s Center which had been vacant for several years.  It turned out to be a very nice place – good food and good beer – and we sat outside watching children throw frisbee and play corn hole on a wide lawn and climb on a child-sized climbing wall.