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.