Escaping to North Carolina

It has been 16 years since I last wrote properly about travelling. Back then, the purpose of these writings was to keep friends and family updated on where we were in the world and what we were doing. Looking back now though, I remember really enjoying the process of documenting the trip. It gave Katie and I a chance to relive our experiences, recalling the details, the interesting people we met, the beautiful scenery, and the paths we took. And, of course, choosing the best photographs to help tell the story.

Since then, while we’ve travelled plenty, no single trip has felt quite “big” enough to justify writing about it. At the end of each trip, Katie would dutifully post a carefully curated selection of photographs to Instagram and Facebook. And while these looked amazing, they lacked something: the context, the little stories and details that made those trips so interesting in the first place.

So, after a recent escape to North Carolina, I thought I’d give this writing lark another shot. Perhaps this will be the first of many posts about interesting places and experiences. Perhaps I’ll discover that I no longer enjoy the process quite as much as I remember. Either way, I rather like the idea of having something more than a collection of photographs to look back on in another 16 years.

Why North Carolina?

The trip coincided with the boys’ mid-term school break. Katie had taken them to Mexico for a few days with a colleague and her son (a “mum and sons trip”), and I was a little jealous of them heading off somewhere new and exciting. I needed a trip of my own.

I’ve been visiting North Carolina for work for many years, and it’s a place that has really grown on me. The people, the scenery, and the climate all have a certain appeal. Autumn is a particularly beautiful time of year in North Carolina, with the changing colours and cooler temperatures offering quite the contrast to Bermuda.

It seemed like the ideal opportunity to relax, spend some time outdoors and properly explore a place I’d previously only experienced in passing, usually while occupied with rather more serious(ish) work commitments! With a few days to myself and no particular obligations, I decided to head west into the mountains, find a little cabin, and spend some time hiking and exploring.

A Rebel without a Cause

The flight from Bermuda to Charlotte was smooth and on time. After collecting my luggage, I headed straight to pick up my rental car. I was unusually excited about this for two reasons. Firstly, I’d managed to check in online, meaning I could skip the inevitable queue at the rental desk and head straight to the garage. This was something of a novelty, as I’d never realised it was possible with a foreign driving licence. Secondly, I’d rented a 4x4 pickup truck. An entirely unnecessary extravagance, given that I had approximately two miles of “off-roading” planned (spoiler: a normal car would have been absolutely fine), but I’d decided to treat myself.

When I arrived at Enterprise, I was the only customer there. A lady was waiting, glanced briefly at my phone and, with considerably less enthusiasm than I was displaying, said, “There are two trucks at the end. Keys are in both. Pick whichever you want”.

Needless to say, I picked the biggest one. A RAM Rebel. I threw my luggage in the back, connected my phone and headed for the exit.

That evening, I was staying with my colleague Renee. It meant driving a couple of hours in entirely the wrong direction for the mountains, but I was looking forward to sharing a glass of wine and putting the world to rights. Renee has two dogs, Levi and Lucy. Levi is rather territorial and had to stay in his crate while I was there. Every time I moved, he’d erupt into a frenzy of barking and bared his teeth at me.

A Rather Grand House (and a Tiny Little Cabin)

The next morning I got up and was immediately greeted by an un-crated and rather wild Levi. Renee ushered him back into his crate, where he calmed down somewhat, and I was able to enjoy a delicious (?!?) mushroom coffee with vanilla creamer (also made from mushrooms). I thought this was the most random thing, but the very next day I saw the exact same stuff in the general store near where I was staying in the mountains.

Renee headed off to work and I took a quick shower before hitting the road myself, keen to escape before Levi could terrorise me any further. I stopped at a local café Renee had recommended for breakfast. They had a lovely selection of pastries and, fortunately, normal coffee made from beans rather than fungi.

I knew I wasn’t going to be hiking that day, but I’d have an afternoon to fill once I’d made the drive towards the mountains. Renee had suggested visiting Biltmore House, which was about an hour from where I was staying.

Biltmore is the largest privately owned home in America, built over 125 years ago, and was apparently used as the home of Richie Rich in the classic 1994 film starring Macaulay Culkin.

It’s an incredible place, although to me it felt more like a hotel than a home. Not simply because of its enormous scale, but because it was built with entertaining in mind. The house itself is some 175,000 square feet, with over 250 rooms, and sits on an estate of 8,000 acres (originally an astonishing 125,000).

It’s run rather like a National Trust property in the UK, although the $150 entrance fee was a little eye-watering. Admittedly, that includes access to various parts of the estate, a self-guided audio tour and a wine tasting, but still!

The audio tour was very good. It was informative, with different people talking about different parts of the house, so you weren’t listening to the same voice droning on throughout. Not having Katie or the boys with me meant I could take my time, read all the little information boards and explore at my own pace. The three of them aren’t particularly interested in this sort of thing.

The highlight for me was the library, particularly its magnificent fireplace. George Vanderbilt was an avid reader and amassed a collection of some 22,000 books, of which he apparently read more than 3,000.

In these old houses, you rather expect to find lots of paintings, usually portraits of former “lords of the manor” by artists you’ve never heard of. Biltmore certainly has its fair share, but amongst them were four paintings that genuinely surprised me: two landscapes by Monet and two portraits by Rembrandt.

I wanted to make sure I reached my cabin before dark, so unfortunately I didn’t have time for the wine tasting. The place I was staying was primarily an RV park, with a handful of cabins dotted around the site. The RVs were enormous things, some looking as though they must have several rooms inside. Certainly nothing like the little caravans you tend to see in the UK.

My cabin was called Black Bear. After arriving and settling in, I headed out to the local Walmart for some supplies and then to a Mexican restaurant across the road, recommended by Antionette, the wonderful Vegas-born proprietress.

Hawksbill Trail, Linville Falls, and John-of-John

It’s much cooler in the mountains than it is further east around Raleigh. While I was perfectly cosy under the blankets in bed, I needed my coat to enjoy coffee and breakfast outside the cabin.

It was a short 25-minute drive from my accommodation to the Hawksbill trailhead, the last mile of which was unpaved and therefore “justified” my decision to rent an enormous 4x4 pickup truck.

The trailhead was busy, but despite the walk being only 3.5 km, and passing people heading both up and down, it never really felt crowded.

The walk itself was steep and winding, with sections where you needed to use your hands to scramble up the rocks. At the top, there are two main viewing areas. Turn left for one, right for the other. I didn’t know it at the time, but the viewpoint on the right is considerably more dramatic, and I was glad I’d headed left first. I spent half an hour or so at the summit, taking in the views and enjoying my audiobook.

After making my way back down, I drove to Linville Falls, one of the main attractions in the area. The car park and trails were considerably busier here, largely because the falls are relatively accessible.

The paths were crowded with visitors taking a rather more leisurely approach to walking than I was, and I was thankful to get onto some of the more challenging trails where things were quieter.

The falls themselves were very pretty. I managed to walk all the different trails, covering another 7.5 km, and saw them from several perspectives, including high above at Erwin’s View and down below at the Plunge Basin.

That evening, I had dinner at a local restaurant called Louise’s. It was busy and served homely Southern food. I ordered the ham steak (a poor man’s gammon), with mashed potatoes and green beans.

I’m not convinced it was the best thing on the menu, but according to my waitress, Sierra, it was a popular choice. Then again, whenever I asked her about anything on the menu, her response was much the same: “I don’t eat that, but a lot of people order it.”

It turned out to be a rather interesting dinner.

There was a short wait to be seated, and the group shown to their table just ahead of me consisted of six bikers. I knew they were bikers because I’d watched them arrive on their Harley-Davidsons.

While waiting for my food, and again after I’d finished eating, I was reading John of John by Douglas Stuart. One of the waitresses, Danni, came over and asked about the book. I explained that it was about a father and son on the Scottish islands. She told me about some of the books she enjoyed, and we had a nice chat.

One of the bikers must have overheard our conversation.

As they were leaving, a man with a grey beard reaching almost to his belly button, wearing a plaid shirt and dungarees, approached my table.

“I see you’re reading a book about John. I’m a preacher,” he said in a Southern drawl.

“A different John. A Scottish one.”

“Do you believe? Are you born again?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Are you willing to read something with an open mind?” he asked, handing me a pamphlet entitled The Romans Road to Salvation.

I’m glad I was friendly with him. It turned out we were staying at the same campground, as I bumped into him again barely ten minutes later.

A Day in the Blue Ridge Mountains

The next day was bright and sunny, although still very cool in the early morning. Before the trip, I’d planned for this to be my “big hike” day, with the 8 km Boone Fork Loop as the main event. However, on the recommendation of Richard and Marcy, who were staying in the cabin next door, I decided to start with a short 2.5 km walk from the campground down to a small waterfall.

It was a pleasant, peaceful walk, passing a neighbouring property that was both a wedding venue and a trout farm. I’d brought a flask of coffee with me, which I enjoyed by the waterfall. It was lovely to set my own pace for a few days.

Richard, a touring bluegrass musician, and Marcy were packing up to leave when I returned, and I wished them well for their journey home.

The Boone Fork Loop wasn’t as steep as either the Linville Falls trails or Hawksbill, but what it lacked in climbing, it more than made up for in perilous stream crossings. Some involved stepping stones, while others appeared to consist of little more than a random collection of fallen trees. Needless to say, I didn’t finish the hike with dry feet.

Unlike the previous day’s hikes, Boone Fork was less about climbing and more about the changing scenery. The trail passed through open meadows and woodland, accompanied by the sounds of waterfalls, gently flowing rivers, and gurgling streams.

Towards the end, part of the trail passed through a campsite. The weather had been fantastic throughout the trip, about as good as you could hope for in autumn, but I was still rather glad I’d opted for a cabin instead of a tent. It was considerably more comfortable, and I’d avoided having to buy all the extra equipment that camping would have required.

The trail started and finished at a picnic area, where I ate a sandwich I’d made that morning before driving the short distance to Blowing Rock.

Blowing Rock is a quaint mountain town full of gift shops, museums and coffee shops. It was a lovely place to wander for an hour or so, and I even managed to find a couple of gifts to take home.

Perhaps the most unexpected highlight of the day, though, was the drive to and from the hike and the town.

The Blue Ridge Parkway is stunning. It reminded me very much of Route 1 in California, which Katie and I had driven in 2018, around the time we discovered she was pregnant with Joshua. I stopped at several of the overlooks along the way to admire the views, which seemed to stretch on forever.

Dinner that evening was at the Pedalin’ Pig, a BBQ restaurant recommended by Antionette. It was very good, although not quite as good as the place we’d visited in South Carolina.

Back at the cabin, I lit a campfire and toasted some marshmallows.

From Mountain Trails to Fairgrounds

Another cold start to the day, and I took myself back to Louise’s for breakfast. It seemed like the sort of place that would do a better breakfast than dinner. I was wrong. Well, that’s harsh. It was fine. I needed to kill some time as I couldn’t check out before 9am so I took my book (John of John, again) and made sure to sit by the heater.

I was sad to be checking out. I’d really enjoyed my time in the mountains and felt sure I’d be back. Perhaps I was seduced by the fantastic weather I’d had, or perhaps it was simply the change of pace from normal life. Whatever it was, I really felt at peace there.

After saying goodbye and checking out, I hit the road for another long and uneventful drive back to Renee’s house. I stopped for coffee along the way, making sure I could get something made from beans rather than mushrooms.

We spent some time trying to convince Levi that I wasn’t a threat. The breakthrough came when we went outside to play fetch in the garden. He still had his moments, and I’m sure he’s forgotten me by now, but after that we were firm friends.

At about 2pm, Renee, her son Jack and I headed to the North Carolina State Fair. I was very excited about this, although it was quite a transition from the peace and tranquillity of the mountains. Levi had done his best to prepare me for the change of pace. From what I’d read online, it sounded rather like an English county show: a collection of people taking agriculture and heritage very seriously, mixed with children on fairground rides and teenagers getting drunk. It didn’t disappoint.

The highlights for me were twofold: the vegetable competitions, particularly the giant vegetables and the awards for the “best” specimens, and the bizarre things available to eat. The giant pumpkins were extraordinary.

As for the food, the highlights were the Krispy Kreme burger and the Dill Pickle Sub. I’d apparently developed a theme for the things I wanted to try: replacing bread with something entirely inappropriate. Why use a perfectly good burger bun when two glazed doughnuts will do the job? And what’s the point of growing enormous cucumbers and pickling them if you’re not going to hollow one out and stuff it with five different Italian meats and cheese?

We spent a couple of hours wandering around, taking in the sights, before heading back to Renee’s house.

That evening, we had some wine and put the world to rights, while trying to stay awake long enough to watch the NC State football game and catch a glimpse of her eldest son, Glen, who’s a student coach.

They were playing Stanford in California, so the game didn’t kick off until 10:30pm. We think we saw him, and just about managed to make it to the end of the first quarter. NC State were losing 14–0 by that point, so we called it a night.

Home Again

The journey home was thankfully uneventful. I returned the enormous truck, caught my flight back to Bermuda, and was greeted by two very excited boys when I walked through the front door. As much as I’d enjoyed the peace and quiet of the mountains, it was lovely to be home.

Looking back, it was a fantastic few days away. I managed to do everything I’d hoped to do, enjoyed some beautiful scenery, met some interesting people, and ate some rather questionable food. I certainly hope to return to the mountains of North Carolina one day.

And I’m glad I’ve taken the time to write about it. As I said at the beginning, it’s the little stories and unexpected moments that photographs don’t always capture. If nothing else, I’ve enjoyed reliving the trip while putting this together.

Hopefully it won’t be another sixteen years before I write the next one.

Photos

Some more photos from the trip.