The meal at The Phoenix was normal up until a swarm of twenty men between their mid-twenties and mid-life crisis wearing matching outfits—head to toe—enthusiastically banged on the front window outside and swaggered into the restaurant drunkenly. They looked like too-old fraternity guys in their red letterman jackets with white tank tops with a black mustache on the front peaking out underneath. Some had actual mustaches. On the back of the jacket was their logo: their name, Pisgah Thunder, bolded in white and blue on top of a black lightning bolt. Short jorts (jean shorts) showed off way too much of their hairy legs; on some you could even see the tan line on their thighs. To complete the outfit, they all wore white crew socks with yellow stripes at the top, white sneakers, and a bright red sweatband around their head.
They were boisterous, and the room loved it, hollering and whooping at the guys as they shimmied, gyrated, and pumped their fist around the restaurant. These men were part of a “local Semi Synchronized Man Dancing Troupe” from Brevard, NC. From observation of how they erratically pelvic thrusted to imaginary beats, the phrase “semi synchronized” seems generous. As a charity group, they dance to raise money for the Boys and Girls Club and “dance because [they] were born to.”
After dancing for a few minutes around the tables, the troupe exited to a “thunder” of applause. Although not to be upstaged by the jeering diners, the men tapped on the windows again and danced without a care past the restaurant, embarking on to who-knows-what. Our normal meal had become much more interesting. We had no idea that we were getting dinner and a show!
Funnel cake, pumpkin bread, fresh local honey, and frog legs were all available for purchasing and eating at the 20th Annual Franklin Pumpkin Festival. This festival is famous for the pumpkin roll, where residents and visitors buy a pumpkin to enter in a race to see what pumpkin can get down the hill in one piece the fastest.
There is so much to do during this festival. Various local organizations and businesses set up under tents lining the streets. People walk around with their children and dogs, both often dressed in costumes. Hot beverages are sold at the general store, which is where we stopped before venturing into the crowd. There were food trucks, local baked goods, and artisan dips and butters sold in various booths. One man was selling honey from his personal bees. Sam and Molly bought honey sticks and I decided to try a quick taste of the sourwood honey, which wasn’t actually sour. Local craftsmen displayed their wares in their tents. There were hand knit scarves, hand-made jewelry, pottery, paintings, and more.
Tents of local vendors line street during Franklin Pumpkin Festival.
Food and pumpkins were not the only attraction on the streets of Franklin on this day. There was plenty of entertainment available. Music blasted from speakers at the gazebo on the green. There were bouncy houses at one end and pony rides at the other. Molly and I debated asking for a ride (each pony could hold about 180 pounds) but two children were waiting, and we needed to look like adults. There was also a dog costume contest, where local pups dressed in their Halloween best to win a trophy. My favorite was the Golden Retriever dressed as a lion. There was also a dachshund in a hotdog costume, a tiny Chihuahua dressed as Woody from Toy Story, and a Pitbull mix dressed as a dinosaur.
The pumpkin eating contest was our last stop during the Franklin Pumpkin Festival. There were two heats: a kid’s heat and an adult heat. The announcer handed ponchos out to each contestant (for cleanliness) and they piled mounds of whipped cream on top of each pie. The contestants had only a minute to eat as much pie as possible and then the pies were weighed to see who ate the most. The winner of each heat won $20. During the kid’s heat, there was a tie! The announcer pulled another $20 out his own wallet so they both could get the prize.
The Pumpkin Festival was everything that we hoped for and more. We wished we could have stayed longer, but Highway 64 was calling and we had to head on to Highlands for lunch.
Dani, Molly, Christian, and Sam pose at the Highway 64 sign on the border of NC and TN.
Our day began at 8:00 am with a quick stop in Dunkin Donuts. With our stomachs full of coffee and breakfast sandwiches (two in Molly’s case), we pulled onto I-40 to start the 300 mile journey to Murphy, North Carolina in the Great Smoky Mountains.
It took about an hour for Molly and Sam to fall asleep in the back seat, leaving Christian and me to watch the road. As miles passed by, the temperature began to drop from a cool 55 degrees to a brisk 37 degrees. It was the coolest it had been all month, with the average heat hovering in the mid to high 70’s all month long. Drops fell from the sky for minutes at a time, but nothing of any concern as my trusty Hyundai Elantra cruised down the road.
The mountains rose out of the ground, welcoming us as we approached Highway 64. The Smokies are much more inviting that other mountains, specifically the Rockies. The Rockies look exactly how they sound: rocky. They are full of harsh edges and steep slopes. Grays and browns make up the landscape of the western mountains range, but this is not the case of the Smokies. The trees erased all the sharp edges, making them look cushioned and soft. You could not even see the ground through the thick covering of fall foliage that hadn’t yet let go of their branches. It was such an amazing sight, watching the trees burst into color as we drove closer and closer to the mountains. The leaves in Elon hadn’t changed yet, even though it was late October. The unnatural heat of the season prevented autumn from emerging at school. It was a welcome change.
As we drove closer and closer to the mountains, the trees became leaner, taller, and more closely packed together. Their branches reached up towards the sky, like sunflowers, trying to break through the thick coverings provided by their fellow trees. Fir trees appeared more and more along the side of the road. Sam and Molly woke up as we reached our exit and the excitement was palpable. We were all ready to get to Murphy for food and to finally be on the highway that we had heard so much about these past few months.
Our exit onto Highway 64 appeared towards Hendersonville appeared to the left after about three hours of driving. The road was similar to I-40 for a long while, until about another hour had passed. We were finally in the mountains. The road wound around the mountains, up and down, making some of my passengers feel relatively car sick, but the views were worth the stomach pain. While I have never lived in the mountains, I couldn’t help but feel like I was back in Connecticut. The fir trees were fewer, and the roads narrower, but the bright oranges, reds, and yellows brought the same sense of autumn. Handmade signs advertising boiled peanuts, homemade jams and jellies, as well as local honey were scattered along the side of the road. Ramshackle stands for selling these wares seemed closed, even though it was only early afternoon on a Friday. It only took about an hour and a half to pull into Murphy, right across from the town hall. It was finally time to start our research.
Driving on public roads might be one of the ultimate ambiguous activities. For some people, driving means mind-numbing boredom and shifting around in the driver’s seat trying to figure out which butt cheek is more asleep. For others, driving isn’t just boring, is a stress-filled chore that took all the fun out of their sixteenth birthday. I don’t fall into either of these camps. To me, driving is something that I like to do. I volunteer to man the helm all the time for road trips because I find a strategy game in it. It’s a challenge to see which drivers can predict the ebb and flow of traffic best, stuffing one another in the slow lanes and surging ahead one car link at a time. On surface roads, I paint smooth lines and clip apexes through turns, take the longer way home for the high-speed S-curves, and I think any driver with a pulse likes to let their car clear its throat every now and again.
But alas, I do the heavy majority of my driving at home, in central Florida, where speedbumps pass for changes in elevation. Here in North Carolina, I don’t usually have an excuse to take my car much farther than the grocery store. Every once in a while I’ll get a taste of what real elevation feels like when I make the drive down I-40 to Raleigh-Durham International, but it’s all bittersweet to me. I know that this state has roads that dip, climb, and pivot with the best of them, but I’ve never had the opportunity to experience them first-hand. That is, of course, until my fellow travel writers and I scheduled a visit to Hendersonville, North Carolina.
Finding our way off of Highway 64 and through Hendersonville to the local inn that we’d booked for the night, I was already having a good time behind the wheel. In the part of Florida that I’m from, there just aren’t many reasons to not lay the roads out in a clean, systematic, boring fashion. Growing up in that driving climate for twenty years, I was having about as hard a time playing it cool in the foothills of North Carolina as my co-pilots were trying to understand why I was having such a good time with it. We arrived late at night, and at the tail-end of a four-hour haul, there was only so much enthusiasm I could muster for the roads that brought us off the highway and into town, but I was enjoying myself.
Our morning started at 6:30am, dead-set on making it up to the top of Laurel Park’s Jump Off Rock to see the morning sun wake the valley up. The crisp mountain air and a supreme home-cooked breakfast courtesy of the Cedarwood Inn had our travel writing team in high spirits, so we plugged in “Jump Off Rock” in the GPS and took off. The drive started out innocently enough. We make our way North towards Hendersonville, realize we’re going the wrong way, spin around, and now there’s a little excitement in the car. We needed to make it back into Hendersonville by 8:00am to stay on schedule, but we didn’t want to tag the precipice and immediately leave – That just isn’t what travel writing is about. To be honest though, this whole ‘Jump Off Rock for not-sunrise’ plan was my idea, and my teammates had been good sports waking up early enough to make it happen. Now I was feeling the pressure to see that it wasn’t for naught, and that meant making up for lost time.
Just a few minutes into our 20-minute drive, we get clear of traffic lights and it’s just us, the road, and the rare stop sign. We start climbing, slowly at first, but then the road does a few dips and lifts that cut our line of sight to less than a hundred yards. A few more minutes of driving and the road comes to hug the side of the mountain. A few lofty banked turns, and now I’m awake. Climbing and winding, I’m powering through hairpins and letting the back tires slide out just a little at the exit because I know the elevation will cause a compression effect that’ll bring the car back under control. I catch hear door handles being grabbed, bags shifting around in the back seat, and a hushed “Oh! Okay.” I check myself, remembering that I’m driving with two other students that’ve never been in the car with me before this trip. They’re nice girls and I don’t want to make them uncomfortable, so I apologize. I lie and say that that was all I wanted to do. But then, another happy surprise. The girls say that it was fun, just that they weren’t ready for it. With their blessing, I dropped back into a low gear and resumed my waltz with the road to Jump Off Rock.
Don’t get the wrong idea, this drive wasn’t about speed or fishtails, leaving smoky rubber scars on the mountainside, and it wasn’t a race. From Cedarwood Inn to the mountain top, I always left 10% of what the car could’ve done untouched. As far as I’m concerned, roads this pretty deserve only smoothness and composition to match. I wouldn’t take my dad’s birthday bourbon to a frat party, and I wouldn’t waste that trail pretending I was a stunt driver in the next installation of the Fast and the Furious series. No, a road like the one to Jump Off Rock can only really be appreciated by drivers offering grace and emphasis to match, and that’s exactly what I aimed to do.
The phrase “the grass is always greener” has never failed to boggle my mind. As humans tend to always want the things that are out of grasp to us, the things that we aren’t used to seeing every day. For instance, I cannot count on one hand how many times my friends and I have agreed to switch hair for the day. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve grumbled to myself about eating the same granola bar every day for a week, or how many times I’ve stared at my closet with “nothing at all to wear.” Yet all of these thoughts when looked at deeper remind me that while I may want what others have, others also want what I have. The Highway 64 project has reminded me of how important it is to notice how green your grass really is.
I’ve never been one to hate the place that I come from. At the same time I would say, I’ve never been one to love where I’ve come from either. This is likely due to the fact that I get bored far too easily and that I am often so busy dreaming about the places far beyond that I miss the gifts right under my nose. To be honest, the Piedmont has it’s qualities I could do without. I often disagree with some closed mind sets, and sitting around catching’ catfish is not my idealistic way of spending my morning. However, as we visited several towns along the way through the Piedmont of North Carolina, I found where my love does lie.
My love lies in the cities. I spent a summer working in Raleigh, NC during my college career, but who knew until this trip what I was missing in terms of cultural experiences. Not only did I have some of the best “upscale” home cooked food I have ever had, but the city offered a Multicultural Festival in which I sunk my teeth into the world that I have constantly thrived to know. I never knew that such a world could be so close. Not to mention the architecture of downtown, the tall buildings, and busy streets remind me of my own very mini New York City- which I love so much.
My love lies in the art. Because I feel I became bitter with the lack of everyone’s appreciation for art in my town, I forgot to realize that it is a staple in many people’s lives even if it’s not in everyone’s. Pittsboro, NC was the town I fell in love with at first sight. The mural on the wall outside of our parking spot- glass pieces,colored and mixed in with shards of mirrors, I saw myself in this mural and I saw myself in this town. After speaking with the owner of a local art shop, I found that art was indeed alive in this area and it was protected by those who desired to preserve it.
My love lies in the culture. Upon entering college, I never realized how unique the south truly was. I don’t mean to say I didn’t notice the thick drawl in the accents of my neighbors, or the fact that rebel flags are stilled deemed “appropriate” in some areas of my town. I mean to say that I never thought of how specific the south is in food, in manner, in religion, in relationships, and in the view of the world. While the south often is associated with being less progressive than other areas, I can appreciate the part of the south that is slow for the reason of letting themselves simply live. I don’t do that enough. I don’t just breathe in the crisp air and “shoot the breeze” on the porch. I admire that culture.
My love lies in the beauty. Driving along Highway 64 with a guest artist from London, he watched the streets and the trees with such delight. Saying how much he loved the little picket fences and how gorgeous the sky was on what seemed to me an ordinary road. It was in this moment that I realized I was not seeing something. My eyes had been fogged by being spoiled with beautiful towns my whole life. I was not seeing the gorgeous canvas that I was blessed to belong to. The oranges, reds, cobblestones, old bricks, trees and birds upon birds singing… the weather changing the feeling of each town on a daily basis-never expected and certainly never boring.
My love lies in the people. There is such a thing as “southern charm.” There is such a thing as going out of your way to look out for someone, to talk to someone, and to joke with them as they check out at your grocery line. In this area, humans interact, which sounds like what all people across the world should be doing, isn’t that what we’re made for? To grow not around but with one another? I appreciate talking to people I don’t know and learning about their lives. I appreciate that a lot people in the south take the finer things in life as the best things in life. I admire it because my materialism often shadows those thoughts. I often get frustrated that someone is walking too slow on the sidewalk of my small town, but I must keep in mind that they are living instead of rushing through life.
And lastly…My love lies in Home. There was a feeling I noticed as I approached the end of my trip, our last stop was my home: Lexington. It’s a lot like falling in love. Often the person who we should love the most and need to love the most is right in front of us. We tend to take them for granted until it’s too late. We tend to expect them to always be there, that we don’t realize the gifts they have provided us every day. As a senior, leaning toward my last journey before adulthood, I see home differently. I’ve always believed that home is mostly in the people around me, but living in the same house my whole life, it’s hard to not look around Lexington and feel guilty for the time loving it that I missed out on. However, one must realize that each place that touches us, touches us in a way that sticks.
I am thankful I made this trip, I am thankful that I made this trip now. Because now, before I head out I can take another look at the grass and be thankful that it is so very iridescently green. Every part of my 21 years in North Carolina has molded me into the person I have become and has changed the way I view those around me and the unique qualities that make our culture, our culture. Every time I come back I can take in that Carolina skyline, the rolling hills, the scent of the burning leaves, the vinegar in the BBQ sauce, the “how many times can this person call me sweetie?”, the door holding, the y’all speaking, and the love. All the love in one place.
And I can know that home will always be there.
No matter where I am, I’ll be “gone to Carolina in my mind”.
Driving into the quaint town of Pittsboro, we immediately swerve into a parking spot outside the historic Chatham County Courthouse. The Victorian-style building, with a three-layer cupola, marks the beginning of downtown Pittsboro. Before making it to the downtown shops we stop, mesmerized by artwork on the first building of the strip. Though still under construction, there is a beautiful mosaic of flowers that has been crafted with shiny pieces of mirror. As we are admiring the artwork, two women walk by, one of whom stops to chat with us. Cindy Edwards, a Pittsboro native, tells us about the town’s priority of preserving its history, emphasizing the displays of public art, which further enhances its charm.
Our first indication of this tightly knit community is in sitting down to dinner at S & T Soda Shop, a downtown restaurant that Cindy noted as one of her favorites. Upon opening the menu, we begin reading about the history of the Soda Shop, stumbling across the restaurant’s special acknowledgement of Cindy Edwards, one of the founding proprietors. Pittsboro’s community culture shined at S & T Soda Shop, where everyone seemed to be on a first name basis with each other, frequently moving from table to table to visit friends. Though outsiders, we were warmly greeted at the door and graciously taken care of by our young, energetic waitress. Not only was the service good, but the sandwiches, burgers, and milkshakes were a perfect combo.
Leaving S & T Soda Shop we wandered to a side street to explore the Food Truck Rodeo, another event that many locals recommended. The Rodeo boasted an assortment of food and drink options spanning from the Carolina Brewing Company to sub-sandwiches, and mini donuts to Italian ice, there was certainly something for everyone. Hosted by the Pittsboro Roadhouse General Store, the Rodeo was set up in a parking lot where people gathered at tables, enjoying their Saturday evening with good friends and good food.
After exploring the Food Truck Rodeo, we wandered back to Hillsboro Street, which runs through the heart of downtown Pittsboro, and stopped into a woodshop and an art store, both of which boasted many interesting crafts.The local artisans emphasized the fact that Pittsboro prides itself on small businesses, but expressed concern for an incoming development, something that Cindy and our waitress at S&T Soda Shop had also mentioned during our conversations. This concern, we soon realized, is one that is shared by many Pittsboro natives. On four different occasions, locals brought up displeasure about a new 7,000-acre technology park currently under construction. While Pittsboro is currently home to about 5,000 residents, the new development, dubbed as a “Live-Work-Play” community is expected to bring an estimated 55,000 people to the area. Local residents, restaurants, and shopkeepers all expressed concern about this influx of people and how it might drive out small local businesses or on the contrary, stimulate too much demand. The development also poses a threat to Pittsboro’s small-town, tight-knit community atmosphere. While the project has already been approved, one thing is sure: it will be nearly impossible to ruin Pittsboro’s innate charm, because the community will fight to preserve its historic, small-town atmosphere.
Leaving Pittsboro as the sun set over the Courthouse, we were smiling ear to ear. Because we had never heard of Pittsboro before, we journeyed to the town with very low expectations. However, our preconceptions could not have been more wrong. Of all the towns we visited for the Piedmont Region of Highway 64 project, Pittsboro was easily our favorite. We were enchanted by the welcoming community, talented artisans, tasty food, and historic buildings. Just minutes away from Raleigh and Chapel Hill, this gem is a must see for anyone living in or traveling through North Carolina.
After a long day of traveling, all anyone ever wants to do is go home. Our group had spent all day exploring the exciting downtown of Raleigh, and by the time four o’clock rolled around, we were ready to hit the road. But we didn’t actually leave the city until four due to our apparent inability to find our parked car.
Entering what we believed was our parking garage, we were slightly perplexed when we entered the second level and the vehicle was nowhere in sight. Assuming that we had the location wrong, the four of us wound our way up the next few levels, searching for missing car. When our searches proved fruitless, we stood in the middle of the road, staring at each other, and trying to backtrack in our minds.
Finally, Jenna remembered that before entering the parking garage, we had not passed the blow up dancing man that was flailing around in front of the convention center where the International Festival was being held. Laughing at our stupidity, we descended the stairs (well, took the elevator if we are being honest), and trekked over to the second parking garage on the opposite side of the building.
Sure enough, the car was sitting right there on the second level, where we knew it was parked. Thankful to finally get off our feet and start the drive home, we piled into the car and turned on the GPS to get directions home. Keep in mind; it is now 4:30 as we exit the garage. The drive to Raleigh took us approximately one hour, so we were anticipating it taking roughly the same amount of time to drive back. I had a meeting at six pm that evening, but at that point, I was not concerned about making it back to campus in time.
So, we are driving along, chatting about the things we saw and the people we met in Raleigh, when we turn a corner on the road and were greeted by a sea of brake lights. The four of us let out an audible groan as we slow to a complete stop on the highway. None of us had accounted for any type of traffic, given that it was a Sunday. Glancing at the GPS, we watched as the minutes until arrival crept upwards as we slowly inched down the road.
After many groans and rolled eyes, the traffic began to move again. Trying not to freak out, I tried not to look at the GPS, knowing that our arrival time had to be past six. Naturally, I had to look to know how bad it was. Due to the traffic we had encountered, we were now supposed to arrive at 6:15 pm. Since I was the one driving, and I was the one who had to be somewhere at six, I made the executive decision to take matters into my own hands and get us back to campus before six.
After looking around for a speed limit sign, we couldn’t find a limit that was posted. I promptly accelerated and began the race against the clock. A large portion of this drive was on an empty, one lane road, which allows us to fly towards Elon. But of course, there was the occasional car out on a Sunday drive, which would force us to slow down until it was safe to pass them. Generally speaking, I am not a very aggressive driver, and I had never passed anyone on a one-lane road before. But we were on a mission, and no one car was going to be the reason we would fail. I proceeded to pass car after car, with a few of these times potentially being questionable decisions. The adrenaline and the fear brought on by taking our lives into my own hands several choice words to be used throughout the drive home.
Naturally, since we were in a hurry, someone needed to go to the bathroom. It’s just one of those life things that is required to happen. So, we pulled into a random gravel parking lot of a Mexican restaurant, and Jenna and Miranda raced inside while Kelley and I impatiently waited for them to emerge. When they popped back out, they were out of breath and laughing at what happened inside. Explaining how they didn’t say a word to anyone inside, but simply darted to the back of the place to find the restroom. And naturally, it was a strange bathroom and the light switch was located outside the one-person bathroom, which presented a struggle for the two of them.
We pressed onwards, racing against time, until we were forced to slow to 35 mph behind an old, beat up pick up truck. With the road winding through a small town, we were unable to pass this truck due to the oncoming traffic. My knuckles grew white and I nervously began to rock in my seat as we crept through the town. Eyes searching for a quicker route, we decided it would be the most efficient to just stay on the road until we reached the main highway. When our turn finally appeared, the engine whined as I pushed the gas pedal to the ground.
The final few miles literally flew by and we sped off the highway, racing towards campus. With ten minutes to go, I quickly dropped off the rest of the group members and raced to change for my meeting. After all the drama and law breaking, I ended up being two minutes early. But hey, I got to experience living on the edge for a change.
There’s something in the aroma of fresh roasted coffee that calms the soul and opens up conversation. Sure, the caffeine helps too. But the atmosphere of coffee shops with the smell percolating through the air has an energy all of its own. As the barista expertly creates the perfect consistency of foam on top of a cappuccino and swirls a leaf or heart into the top, everything seems to move at the perfect pace. Frantic, calm, organized chaos. Along with the chatter and commotion, the serenity and the relaxation, comes an air of friendliness (most of the time, at least).
In coffee shops in the mountains of North Carolina, all of this positive energy and friendliness is heightened. When we entered coffee shops for our daily coffee fix and conversation opportunity, we were always greeted with a warm smile. From the ritzier atmosphere in Highlands to the more small-town, mountainous setting of Cashiers, we experienced a wealth of opportunity embedded within the local coffee shops.
Immediately after finding a parking spot along the two-lane, shop-lined main road in Highlands, we headed to Bucks Coffee Cafe. I was determined to get advice from the locals about what not to miss. The cozy rustic atmosphere, heightened with the white walls, comfy leather chairs, and faux taxonomy throughout, provided what I was sure to be the perfect place to get the “insider scoop”. We made our way up to order, apparently already giving off our “outsiderness.” The man behind the counter was in his early 30’s, born and raised in the mountains. Before we had a chance to order our drinks, paying our way into a position where we could pester the employees with questions, he asked us what we were doing in Highlands.
Our explanation of the project proved amusing to him, soliciting a response of Oh, and you expected to find a lot to do here? Well, I guess we should have realized that we would probably not be given the extent of advice we might have been hoping for. Using his sassy comment to segue into asking for things to do, we prodded him for a bit more information. He talked about the shops along the street and the bars in the area. And that was it. The woman who entered in behind us, donning worn combat boots, jeans, and a t-shirt from local bar “The Lost Hiker” reiterated the suggestion of where to go.
In many situations, this would have been enough. But, between the coffee and the mountains, the conversation kept going. The barista called over his friend, who gave almost the same answer, but went into more detail of what to expect drink-wise and clientele-wise in the various bars. Okay, I began to think, we seem to have an accurate picture of the area now. Their eagerness to actually help us find something we were excited to do, coupled with their amusement at our probably unsatisfied expressions, continued the conversation for a few minutes more.
When our cups were empty and our insides warmed, we thanked everyone for their advice and headed out in search of dinner. As we were leaving, the barista hollered towards the door, “We’ll see you all tonight at The Lost Hiker around 11:00!” With a smile and a wave, we all exited, sharing looks insinuating our agreement that we would not, in fact, see them at the bar. We knew that all of our travels would lead us to our beds before then, but we were grateful for the wealth of time and advice.
The next morning we woke up and drove to Cashiers, with even less of an idea of what to do in the three hours we had allotted ourselves. As we entered the town on our beloved Highway 64, we saw antique shop after antique shop lining the road. Unfortunately, they all seemed to be closed since it was a Sunday. Unsure of what to do, we arrived at an intersection in what seemed like the center of the town, and saw it—another Bucks Coffee Cafe.
Hoping we could get the same eagerness to provide information on activities in the town (and get a nice steaming cup of coffee), we decided to go in. This coffee shop boasted the same art from an artist local to North Carolina mountains and had the same white walls and the fake taxidermy, but it was even larger and cozier than the one in Highlands.
Immediately intrigued by both the commotion of people within and the eclectic mix of items scattered around, I paused and surveyed the place. The rustic feel with the wooden tables and central blazing fireplace was enough to warm anyone’s heart and brighten their day. The taxonomy and art added to the cabin-esque atmosphere.
When it was my turn to order, I asked the barista, who seemed to be just a bit older than me, if she had any suggestions of things to do with only a couple hours. Similar to the experience in Highlands, she did not think we would be entertained as tourists, explaining that there’s really not that much going on. The man making my chai latte added in that it would be a shame if we missed the High Hampton Inn Apple Festival. I thanked him for his suggestion, and once again banked on the coffee atmosphere to allow for my continued badgering.
“We actually went to a Bucks Coffee Cafe in Highlands yesterday, I didn’t realize it was a chain,” I shared, hoping for clarification on how many exist. He informed me that these were the only two and that we just happened to get them both back to back, a happy accident. People pass through frequently, but the coffee shop is constantly populated with locals gathering with friends to chat or working on their laptops. Finally, we were directed to the flyer with the details of the apple festival just up the road, and we were off. Once again, we were grateful for the advice and satisfied that our experience in the town would not be lacking of anything that we absolutely needed to see.
So thank you, Bucks Coffee Cafe, for both being an activity and a piece of insight into these mountain towns and a hotbed for ideas of the best activities to do in the area.
From the friendly, conversational shop owners to the business models of many stores, it is clear that Franklin is more than just a small town—it is a community. Most of the antique and consignment stores actually benefit one of the local non-profit organizations, as explained by the woman who volunteered at an antique store attached to the Franklin Historical Museum. This antique store has four separate rooms full of items whose profits go directly to the museum to fund the acquisition of items and the museum’s upkeep. This business model is not abnormal in Franklin, as it is necessary to compensate for the large wealth-gap in the town. Even the vegetables growing on the plant outside the antique store are for the community to share. It is impossible to visit Franklin and not feel that tangible sense of community.
A gem nestled in the mountains along Highway 64, Murphy is full of rich history and distinct artisan culture. Beyond its unique people and traditions, Murphy is all the more special for holding a Guinness World Record! Murphy is closer to six other state capitals than to its own. In the 350 miles it takes to get to Raleigh, a driver can reach the capitals of Georgia, Alabama, Tennessee, South Carolina, Kentucky and West Virginia. This capacity provides for a unique mix of visitors and locals alike, who contribute to a culture that is particularly Murphian.
The start of eastbound Highway 64, outside of Murphy.
