Finding a World of Art & Coffee

Posted on November 19, 2014 by mreilova

By Gina Apperson – 2014

A good adventure can only be fueled by coffee. As Dustin, Miranda and I began our journey in the foothills of North Carolina, inspired by the views of Blue Ridge Mountains and the changing leaves around us, one of our first stops in downtown Hendersonville was the coffee shop, Jongo Java. Coming off of Highway 64, we arrived on Main Street, where people were setting up tents for farmers’ markets and Hendersonville’s 55th annual Art on Main festival along the road. Jongo Java was easy to spot, with its lime green signage. We parked right in front of the shop, and walked in to get our first taste of the town.

I first started drinking coffee six months ago when I studied abroad in Spain and traveled around Europe. Since then, as quite the newbie coffee drinker, I tend to equate travel with coffee. I was excited to start our Highway 64 trip with a latte or mocha at Hendersonville’s first environmentally-friendly coffee shop. From what I discovered, Jongo Java not only had a good menu, but also an upbeat community vibe. From the outside, you could tell it was where the locals go.

When I first stepped into the shop, I was immediately inspired. Hand painted art dotted the walls, which were painted with different swirls of green, purple, orange and blue. Several groups of people sat at wooden tables, surrounded by different types of chairs including a yellow salon chair with a hair dryer attached. We first walked around the shop, which was pretty large with two main sections, one up at the front by the counter and one section in the back, where people were quietly working on laptops or reading. A large sculpture of a swordfish hung on a back wall with a stack of used books on a nearby shelf.

After taking a look around, I decided to try some coffee. Jack and Mariah were the two employees working behind the counter. Since I was unsure what to get (like I am at most coffee places), Mariah asked me what kind of flavors I liked. I told her anything with coconut, and then I found their “Tarzan” drink, a chocolate & coconut latte. I ordered it with almond milk, and Mariah looked for coconut shavings in the back of the store to place on top of the whipped cream foaming in the to-go cup. We chatted a little bit, and I learned more about the history of Jongo Java, which has been open for almost five years. Along with its fair trade, naturally grown coffee and espresso, Jongo Java also offers organic yogurt and smoothies made with local fruit. This appealed to me, and looking around the coffee shop, I also realized that the coffee and food isn’t the only fuel at Jongo Java.

Its atmosphere cultivates creative thoughts and a creative community. While Miranda and Dustin explored other spots in downtown Hendersonville, I felt content to sip on my coffee and talk to a retired couple from Florida in Jongo Java. Jack comes by to give them their regular Saturday morning breakfast order. They mention how they love the friendliness of Jongo Java-Jack always remembers their order. Not to mention, the dog-friendly outdoor seating area is perfect for them. This also means the world to Caroline, a young pet boutique owner, who sits at the bar area and orders a small dark coffee that morning.

Caroline is also a regular at Jongo Java, which is two blocks away from her business, Wag! Pet Boutique, which she started after college at Virginia Tech. She tells me about the other regulars at Jongo Java. Rachel is an artist. Tom is a writer. Bill is a musician. And Bob is a Wells Fargo financial advisor. They frequent the coffee shop and chat about all things from religion, to politics, from jokes to pure existence. Caroline notes the diversity in the group and the diverse culture of Hendersonville in general: people are from rural countrysides to suburban areas or southern cities. As we chat in Jongo Java, dads with their young kids come into the shop and older couples enjoy sitting in the sun by the plants in the window.

This may be my favorite thing about exploring Hendersonville: its authenticity. I felt welcomed in the coffee shop, into this community without borders, that embraces the unique, the different and out-of-place. This is the place where customers hang their personal coffee mugs on the wall. Art is accepted, whether its a drawing of coffee on a sheet of loose leaf paper or a canvas painting of bright honeydew-colored combat boots. Jongo Java is a jungle of stories, art and ideas that not only brighten the room, but energize its people. Spun in its web of artful treasures and coffee masterpieces, I not only sit in Jongo Java, I feel all of Hendersonville.

I leave Jongo Java empowered for the journey ahead. Dustin, Miranda and I take to the streets of Hendersonville, passing by multiple bear sculptures decorated for a charity auction. We see the streets full of art pieces as the cool wind blows. Then we get back into the car after we finish touring the farm and art markets. But before we head out of town, we drive two blocks away from Jongo Java to stop in the middle of the street in front of Caroline’s pet boutique. I jumped out of the car to take a peek inside. While I am not a pet person, it was interesting to see how Caroline set up her business out of college and to see how she turned a passion into a living community. A man named Ben was supplying homemade pet treats for the store and a variety of unique collars and pet accessories lined the walls inside. I thanked Caroline for all her help in making Hendersonville feel like home for the short time we were there.

Getting back in the car, I finished the last of my coffee and plugged in our next destination into the GPS on my phone. As we drove towards Bat Cave on Highway 64, my thoughts still lingered with scenes from Hendersonville. I found myself missing the coffee shops I discovered in Europe. Jongo Java would fit in perfectly with them. Its coffee served with a side of stories was my catalyst for living openly on our Highway 64 trip, welcoming the day to come.

Apple-y Ever After: Bat Cave’s Old Cider Mill and Gift Shop

Posted on November 19, 2014 by mreilova

By Miranda Allan – 2014

Bat Cave is the Old Cider Mill. The Old Cider Mill is Bat Cave.

Joann D’Ambra, who has been churning out apple cider and running the Applesolutely Gift Shop with her husband, John, for nine years, proudly boasts that “you’re in downtown Bat Cave in my store.” The D’Ambra’s shop sits perched at the bank of the Broad River (broad in name only; the river quiets to a sweet babble as it floats by), at the top of the town’s busiest three-way intersection. If Highway 64 takes you through town, you are practically required to stop in at the Old Cider Mill, especially if you’re not willing to brave the actual cave full of bats to which Bat Cave owes its name. There is simply no better way to pass a crisp October morning than watching John’s crew press apples and browsing through the goods in Joann’s shop.

When my team visited, the employees were in costume – for though it is the first week in October, Halloween comes early to a place called Bat Cave. In fact, bat décor can be found at any time of year. Faux-bats hang from the eaves and jack-o-lanterns peek out from behind the pillars of the old building. Dried ears of corn mingle with cartoon Draculas. A life-sized inflatable Batman perches above the “Applesolutely Gift Shop” sign. Fall and the apple season bring a special life to the store. The D’Ambras enjoy a busy season from spring to late fall, and then they receive a welcome respite in the winter months. I was very grateful for the opportunity to visit the Cider Mill during peak season. The shop wears its autumn clothes very, very well.

It was converted from a historic post office, and was renovated only to be consistent with codes rather than infringe on the integrity of the building. When the D’Ambra’s took over the Mill in 2005, townspeople voiced their concern for the building’s history. John and Joann were careful to respect their wishes. In fact, they proudly display a drawing of the original post office, which bears tribute to their efforts in keeping it alive. Joann also brought us out back to a storage room, where we were treated to the sight of the antique post office boxes. Originally used to sort mail, Joann now files one item from each batch of artisan goods that she sells. She likes looking back on the treasures that have brought color and art to her shop over the years. As an outsider looking in, the sheer volume of things in this dusty wooden grid floored me. Joann has represented many local artists in her time as shop-owner. She herself is a talented jewelry artist, drawing inspiration from seemingly insignificant materials such as a branch in the road or up-cycled aluminum.

Both the exterior and interior of the store are decorated from top to bottom with curios and memorabilia. Pages of descriptions could not do justice to the way goods burst forth from all angles, as if vying for attention. From under the porch a rainbow wall of apples greets visitors and within the shop, I lost myself among jewelry of Joann’s own creation, vintage wooden children’s toys, and canned preserves – all from local artists and farms. A closer observer might notice a jarred delicacy labeled innocently, “Pickled Baby Bat.” There’s no cause for alarm, however; the jar contains only a vinyl bat meant to keep shoppers alert. As Joann puts it, “I’m batty!”

John and Joann are more than shopkeepers; they are like honorary parents to the children of Bat Cave, a town of 176 people. Before they are even of legal working age, children come asking for work. Joann tells them she needs to ask their parents, but if they earn good grades and stay out of trouble they can someday operate the beloved apple press themselves. When their workers eventually grow up and move on, John and Joann are happy to be in attendance at their graduations and weddings. Though they do not have children themselves, the D’Ambra’s consider all the local children who have worked with them through the years to be their adoptive family.

Serena, a lovely young woman sporting a floor-length crushed velvet gown and sanguine contacts for Halloween, is one of these lucky youths. “They’re family,” she says of John and Joann. It’s plain to see the camaraderie and affection amongst the staff. Sure enough, I felt myself gradually being adopted and mothered in my time at the Old Cider Mill. The open-heartedness of the good people we spoke with was plain to be seen.

It would appear as if that goodness carries over into the inhabitants of Bat Cave. Visitors often ask Joann if she carries the many decorations from outside into the shop for safekeeping at night. Joann is happy to report that thieves have never given her any trouble. Locals respect that the D’Ambra’s establishment has given a name to Bat Cave, and anyone who has met the D’Ambra’s would never wish them harm. Stories like these make me a feel a little more secure; it’s nice to know that we share the world with some truly benevolent people.

This brings me to the cider-making process. The sight of bushels stacked on bushels of apples was lovely to behold. The cider press, an intimidating and fascinating beast of a machine, is fired up several times a day and visitors are welcome to watch. The staff all put in their hands (even a woman in an air cast!) to help make fresh cider out of only apples. That’s right: there is no sugar, no spices, no formula. Apples vary by juice content, sweetness, crispness, et cetera and each batch requires a different number of apples. Apple varieties peak at different times, and so any given batch of cider will reflect these unique tastes. No two batches are alike, but I can testify to the deliciousness of the cider I sampled. It tasted pure, like the mountain river that flows past the mill, and sweet, like the scent of October air. Only a Dixie cup of the D’Ambra’s cider was enough to turn me against store-bought cider for life. There is no parallel to fresh cider made from local apples. The leftover pulp from pressed apples is fed to cows on nearby farms, perfectly completing the circle of sustainability honored at the Old Cider Mill.

And what kind of apples do the D’Ambra’s prefer? John goes for the sweetly sour Jonagold apples, while Joann enjoys a sharp Mutsu.

A Night at Cedarwood Inn

Posted on November 19, 2014 by mreilova

By Dustin Swope – 2014

Just five minutes south of Hendersonville proper and tucked away in a network of quiet residential backroads, a collection of homestyle cottages await discovery by the weary traveler searching for a more authentic lodging experience. Plenty of people have a favorite lodge that they return to every season, but I’m here to say that the Cedarwood Inn and Event Room should be everyone’s first choice. I only had the pleasure of one night’s stay at Cedarwood Inn, but I can already tell that the mass-produced franchise lodging with towering neon signs just can’t compete.

The Inn sits on a plot of land about three acres large and features thirteen spacious rooms and five full-kitchen cottages, each with their own carport right outside the room’s door. On our visit, my two colleagues and I stayed in one of the regular rooms with a rollaway bed delivered for yours truly. We enjoyed a moment on the porch in front of our room before turning inside to find a delightful marriage of cleanliness and simple comforts.

The beds – all three of them – felt genuine and cared for, like that of a guest room in a home rather than overnight lodging. Coupling that with A/C that actually does what you ask it to (I’m looking at you, Holiday Inn) and the natural silence of mountain country, I dare say that I slept more peacefully at the Cedarwood Inn than I do most nights in my own apartment. Technology takes a supporting role rather than center stage, consisting of a modest, but modern mounted television, mini-fridge, and microwave – unless you also count the wi-fi, which you should because it’s shockingly fast and included with your room! Personally, we barely used the wi-fi because Cedarwood makes it so easy to have a perfectly nice time offline, but it was nice to know that it was there if we needed it.

Stepping out of your room at the Cedarwood Inn first thing in the morning is an experience all of its own. The wind rushing through tall trees and songbirds calling out to one another take turns breaking the sleepy quiet of the country. Crunch across the gravel to “the event room” where the front desk is and you find the shining star of the Cedarwood Inn – and no, I’m not talking about the exceptional home-cooked breakfast spread. Karen Orbaugh, the proprietor of the Inn, is one of the most sincere people one could ever hope to rent a room from. She spends 30 minutes or so preparing breakfast before it officially opens, but after that she spends the rest of her time sitting down and sharing breakfast with her guests. Forget comparing her to other lodging owners, Ms. Orbaugh is an exceptional hostess who completed my experience of Cedarwood as a home away from home… just a little better.

Whether it’s in-season or off, the Cedarwood Inn should be at the top of your list when visiting the Hendersonville area. True to their claim, my stay left me wishing I could come back “again, and again, and again.”

Blue Skies and Apple Butter

Posted on November 19, 2014 by mreilova

By Katie Stewart – 2014

As we merged onto Highway 64 to head to Taylorsville, one of the first things I noticed was how perfect the weather was. The best kind of day for a drive: Carolina blue skies without any clouds to block the warm sun. It was late October, but the dash read 74 degrees as we drove toward the orange and yellow-spotted mountains, the smell of campfire seeping through the car’s vents.

Our first stop was Deal Orchard’s, off of North Carolina Highway 16, where my first priority was to find some apple butter from the market. Gina bought a jar of apple butter in Bat Cave, but it had added sugar in it, something neither of us are a fan of. I made sure to grab a jar of freshly made apple butter with a “no sugar added” label on the lid when we arrived at the orchard. During our drive to Taylorsville along the straight, empty road, I bored Gina with a story about a realtor in my hometown who occasionally brings goodies to every house in the neighborhood. Every fall, I look forward to my favorite treat from him: apple butter. But this year he came by with pumpkin butter instead. To most, an equally good treat, but to me, a slight disappointment Oddly enough, when I told my mom that I bought apple butter she happily told me that our friendly realtor had come by the same day that we were in Taylorsville with a fresh jar of apple butter. He must have been feeling extra generous this fall, because he doesn’t usually come by twice in one month.

As we got closer to our destination, we reveled in the beautiful fall-colored mountains that had seemingly grown larger as we drove, and I was in still disbelief of the perfect weather we had. We lost track of how many times I said how great of a day it was, because I simply could no get over the gorgeous clear skies, the higher than average temperature, and the behemoth mountains looming over us, just out of reach.

We pulled into the parking lot of a modest white rectangular building, and when I got out of the car, I likely mentioned the perfect weather again. Sorry Gina. When we walked in, the market was crowded with customers looking for fresh apples of all varieties: Gala, Golden Delicious, Fuji. You name it, they probably had it. Each type of apple was labeled with its taste – sweet, tart, mild tart, extra sweet – and marked with its best use. Many of the apples are great for both eating and cooking, but some are better for just one or the other. For example, Red Delicious apples are “excellent for eating” and the dark, almost plum-colored Arkansas Black apples are best for cooking. The market also sold jams, preserves, butters, mixes for bread and muffins, cookbooks, and the largest sweet potatoes I have ever seen.

After standing in line for a few minutes with the long awaited jar of apple butter, we asked the woman behind the counter what she could tell us about the orchard. Deal Orchards was started by her grandfather, Brack Deal, and has been passed down through the family for three generations.With the help of a mule, Brack and his wife, Belle, cleared 15 acres of land in the Brushy Mountains to make way for their apple trees. Since then, the orchard has been expanded and replanted, but one of Brack Deal’s original trees still stands on the sloped land of Deal Orchards.

I have a personal appreciation for family-owned businesses, and I especially like learning how they were started. So many family businesses have stories of modest beginnings that reflect hard work, determination, and persistence. I like this story in particular because it reveals the possibility of continuing and improving family businesses through many generations. Today, Brack’s son Lindsay, and his son Alan run the orchard. They grow, harvest, and package the fruit grown on Brack’s land, while Lindsay’s wife and daughters manage the market nestled between mountains and the sprawling orchard.

As we left Deal Orchards, apple butter in hand, we looked across the street and saw rows and rows of apple trees lining the mountainside. I again spoke of how unbelievable the weather was. It was a beautiful day for enjoying this rural part of North Carolina that often goes unnoticed. Driving off with apple butter in the backseat, we smelled another trace of campfire and I watched as the mountains behind us slowly became smaller in the rearview mirror.

A Scoop from the Ice Cream Man

Posted on November 19, 2014 by mreilova

By Katie Stewart – 2014

In downtown Mocksville, Gina and I found a brightly painted ice cream shop called Scoops. Inside, one man stood at the counter, a football game played on the TV, and a couple of teenagers played air hockey in the arcade in the back. Monte, or the “Ice Cream Man” as one younger customer called him, immediately greeted us and offered samples of his many ice cream flavors. Gina went with two flavors, coconut and double vanilla, and I decided on strawberry. While we ate, Monte showed us his toy moose that dances and sings “Moves Like Jagger.” Monte is a toy collector, and he has some of his collection on display on a shelf above the picnic-style tables in his shop. He seemed to know everyone that came into the shop, except us of course, which I guess is why he referred to me as “Miss Strawberry” as we were leaving. The Ice Cream Man promised that if we return he will remember us, and we hope to take him up on that bet.

Scoops Ice Cream Shop

Canter Closer Tiny Dancer

Posted on November 18, 2014 by mreilova

By Taylor Logeman – 2014

It was a magical place.

I’d never seen anything like it. An impossibly enormous equestrian facility, with the rich smells of manure and fresh leather wafting throughout the freshly cut lawns. Dozens of indoor arenas covered a vastness that stretched for several acres. Riders were clad in expensive showing habits – smart top hats, gold-buttoned jackets, tailored breeches, and shined black leather boots. And their steeds, no doubt of the finest breeding and bloodlines, brushed to perfection, their riders having spritzed Showsheen to glisten their manes and tails, sported the best quality dressage equipment. Vendors from near and far had campers set up selling merchandise from horse health products, to brand new tack, to clothing of all styles for riders.

Eliza and I hadn’t even planned to make the visit to the Bob Martin Agriculture Center. The first time we’d heard about it had been a mere half hour earlier, at the end of our “officially unofficial” tour of little Jamesville by the mayor himself. Eliza and I had asked the mayor what was worth checking out in Williamston, a neighboring town of Jamesville, and without missing a beat, he mentioned the active equestrian industry. In fact, he added, there was a dressage competition going on right then, and that we should definitely head over to watch it.

It didn’t take long to find. We first passed the town’s community college, which also boasted a quality equestrian program and riding facilities. An employee gave us simple directions that even we couldn’t butcher, as it was located just down the road. It certainly wasn’t difficult to spot: an enormous sign assured all visitors that they had indeed come to the right place. A long, fenced driveway flanked with freshly mowed stretches of lawn beckoned them down the path. The largest arena greeted newcomers at the entrance, and many others quickly came into view once the road veered right. Then the animals came into focus – greys, chestnuts, bays, and roans – then their riders. Considerable parking space, yet a minimum number of vacancies, implied that this was clearly a well-attended event.

Since I was a little girl, when I first began riding, scenes such as this one were my dream. I’d ridden competitively until high school, and continued forward in college. Though my preference was (and still is) the adrenaline-based style of cross-country competition, any experienced rider, no matter what their preference, holds high regard and appreciation for the discipline of dressage. Originally a French form of riding, like ballet, it involves a great deal of proper training and gracefulness, during which the horse beautifully yields to the rider’s every aid. Even several of the terms of movement are French: piaffe, renvers, pirouette. In fact, it is a practiced often referred to as “Horse Ballet.”

Needless to say, the entire experience was breathtaking. To start, it was a beautiful day, the weather without flaw. The horses were so incredibly well trained, acquiescent to seemingly every request of their rider. An air of professionalism and competitiveness settled firmly in the atmosphere, evoking excitement in even the greenest of spectators. If this was your discipline of choice, this was the place to be.

The further we walked, and the longer we stayed, the more that truth was confirmed. For instance, I spoke briefly with a woman named Lisa, who was volunteering at the snack bar in the main dressage arena, and like everyone else we’d encountered, spoke with a thick Southern drawl. And from our brief conversation I was given a glimpse into the value of this industry in this tiny North Carolina town…

This facility is much more sought out than I’d assumed. Lisa shared that the Bob Martin Center hosts competitions of all sorts throughout the year – not simply dressage. Western style (for the less knowledgeable, picture cowboys herding cattle), English style, barrel racing, dressage, show jumping – anything one could imagine that was horse-related, they had it.

Furthermore, the center attracted a major pull with out-of-towners – even out-of-staters. Riders seeking higher competition from as far as California, even Canada, traveled to this little town for this big horsey hot spot. I pressed further, asking Lisa if this meant that the town’s economic activity heightened considerably, to which she answered emphatically and affirmatively. In other words, this center alone, which surely was a tremendous investment on the town’s part, was more than paying for itself. Because of its presence and impact, the town enjoyed a great deal more liveliness – not to mention money – from foreign visitors. What was previously a glimpse of life along the great Highway 64 was now a point of great interest for a very specific but passionate niche.

Piering Over the Edge

Posted on November 18, 2014 by mreilova

By Eliza Williams – 2014

The sand squishes between your toes as the cool, crystalline water engulfs your feet. The waves retreat and emit a soothing sound as the shells and rocks along the shore are rolled back out to sea. Is the relaxing atmosphere of the beach not everyone’s dream? After our 8-town tour off of Highway 64, Taylor and I relished in the fact that we were now strolling along the seashore in our final destination: Nag’s Head. Ice cream in hand, we ambled our way to the 1,000-foot-long Jennette’s Pier. A staple among locals and visitors alike, the pier is constantly packed with beach-goers, fishermen and other folks trying to catch a glimpse of the surfers down below. Luckily for us, the weather was definitely cooperating with us on our visit. We climbed the steps to the main entrance of the pier; however, we opted not to pay the entrance fee of $6 and simply stood by the entrance so we could look down at the surfers that freckled the water that day. Enjoying our ice cream (my Key Lime Pie flavored cone was an absolute highlight of my day), we reveled at the talent of the surfers below as they swooped in and out of the barrels of the waves. The swells were better than we could have hoped for and they kept us entertained for quite some time. A man next to us struck up a conversation and we explained our class assignment and purpose of our trip to him. As we chatted, he stood with a large Nikon camera in hand, snapping photos of his son out in the water. A Virginia native turned California local, his son had moved to the West Coast to pursue his career aspirations, as well as his passion for surfing and being in the water. After a decent amount of time, we decided we should head out and explore the coastal beach town more. We sauntered back to the car, refreshed and satisfied with our leisurely afternoon on the pier, but we hadn’t made it half way back before a pack of surfer dudes asked us if we needed a ride. Politely, we declined and thanked them. “Alright, ladies. Hang loose,” one with luscious blonde locks replied with a swoon-worthy smile.

Meeting an Old Friend in Robersonville

Posted on November 18, 2014 by mreilova

By Kyle Lynch – 2014

Carol’s Home Cooking sat right on the edge of the town of Robersonville, if you want to call it a town. With a total area of only 1.2 square miles, you are out of Robersonville as quickly as you went through it.

Carol’s was the local eating hole, known for their classic home cooking and friendly service. As I ordered my meal of fried chicken (my waitress said it was the best in North Carolina), I started chatting with my neighbor at the table next to me.

James was an older man, most likely in his early 70’s, who was born and raised in Robersonville. He said most people in town his age had been in Robersonville their whole lives, and it was apparent when every person who came into Carol’s seemed to be a relative or best friend of somebody already enjoying their southern comfort food.

Growing up on a farm on the outskirts of Robersonville, James lived the “regular life” of a boy in a small town: up early to help on the farm, off to school, back to the farm. In his free time, he played baseball on a local field that no longer existed, but James would tell you it was “right down the road there.”

It seemed like everything in Robersonville was “right down the road there,” according to James. He told me about Ann’s House of Nuts, which was of course, right down the road. The factory opened in 2002, a date he didn’t think twice about. Ann’s is an international company, and their website claims to be the number-one provider of trail mixes in the United States. Their factory in Robersonville holds the largest oil nut roaster. This fact allowed James to tell his “Robersonville has the biggest nuts in North Carolina” joke, one he had clearly told hundreds of times yet always seems to make him chuckle. There’s nothing like an older man with a child’s humor.

While Ann’s was the only real big business around Robersonville, it had only been around for less than fifteen years, a smaller part of James’ life in town.

For years before Ann’s came to town, there were local businesses that were passed down from generation to generation, something James said has stopped in recent times. He talked about the old drug store and local supply shop that no longer existed but were once run by men who James described as if they were his best friends. Everyone James knew was a “good man” or a “friend of mine.”

I couldn’t tell if that was the norm for a small town like Robersonville or if James was just truly the most popular guy around.

As I finished up my meal (the chicken lived up to the hype) I felt like I had just gotten the old “Back in my day” speech from my grandfather. And that was the type of guy James was, the town grandfather that everyone loved to listen to.

Sweets Off Main Streets

Posted on November 6, 2014 by mreilova

By Jenna Hokanson – 2014

The old, creaky floors, red candy buckets and candies and toys from the 1940s bring a whirlwind of nostalgia when you open the door to The Candy Factory. Located in Lexington, the factory is the perfect place to satisfy your sweet tooth. Whether you prefer homemade fudge and chocolates, or are in need of a bite of your favorite childhood candies, this is the place for you. Just look for smiling customers and the red and white, striped pig outside. You won’t want to miss it!

http://www.lexingtoncandyfactory.com/

Surprise Vineyard Stop

Posted on November 6, 2014 by mreilova

By Jenna Hokanson – 2014

While I was in the Saxapahaw General Store, I purchased a muscadine wine that looked delicious and was made locally from Benjamin’s Winery! I love the local products and was so excited to try it. On our way out of Saxapahaw toward Jordan river, on our left we suddenly see a sign with a familiar name!

It was Benjamin’s Vineyard! I was so excited about this since I had just purchased the wine. On the outside there were beautiful rows of muscadine grapes, clearly used for their wines. On the inside of the cute, white house they had made into a store was the wine tasting section where they provided 4-5 wines to taste for a small price. Because it was near closing time, our group took a quick walk through the grapes, tried a couple, and left with smiles and cute pictures in the vineyard. The wine was delicious and I recommend anyone with a sweet taste for wine to try it.

http://www.benjaminvineyards.com/