The next day, Charlotte wants to show me more of her hometown. The countryside is beautiful, sun shining, t-shirt warm, and for lunch we stop in at one of the nearby wineries known for it’s garden seating, Jefferson Vineyards.
It was here back near the start of the 1800s that he was the first in the US to grow grapes, and though the vineyard was only re-established around 30 years ago, it does hold a particular historical note.
The place is very pretty, staff exceedingly helpful and the wine enjoyable – particularly delicious whilst reclining like some dilletante on one of the long lawn chairs.
My discussions with the staff, who readily admitted to working in an incestuous industry, led to a handful of recommendations of places to visit, particularly in the fine art of alcohol consumption.
Charlottesville is tantamount to the cider capital of America, with numerous cider works adorning its green hills. One of them, Albemarle Cider Works, grows somewhere in the vicinity of 200 different varieties of apple, and they are passionate about conserving some of the more heirloom strains.
They are holding an annual 5 mile run starting from, and ending at, their property the following day, so there are banners and marquees everywhere. They have a comprehensive list of ciders – and the tasting paddle is a monster – small 2 oz pours of 9 different recipes. It’s one of the more interesting tastings I’ve had, and whilst incredibly enjoyable, I have forgotten the effect cider tends to have on my plumbing, which will rear it’s head an an inopportune time later that afternoon.
The other craft cider works is Castle Hill Cider, a venerable manor set in lush green surrounds. With white fences and narrow roads, it reminds me of the horse farms in Kentucky. It is also a notable wedding venue, and there is a rehearsal dinner planned for that evening, but it doesn’t impact my visit. Once again the staff are exceedingly warm and talkative, in fact one of the brewers happens to be pop in and I end up chatting to him about all things cider related for a good 30 mins before he excuses himself to get back to work.
The story I’m told is fascinating, Castle Hill are a real craft/micro/artisan producer – they go as far as fermenting in Kvervi, essentially huge clay pots holding 7000 or so gallons buried in the ground. I’m entranced and intrigued, particularly as their range of ciders is undoubtedly the best I have ever had.
A couple of “locals” come in – actually they are a DC couple who have bought a place in the outskirts of Charlottesville to retire in, and most weekends make the couple of hour drive and get away from the big city. It’s a little like a timeshare sea change I suppose. They are brilliantly engaging, both ex Air force, work in the Pentagon, and I suspect he is relatively senior as in conversation with his wife he does mention briefing the Joint Chiefs!
They give me a few pointers for DC, and as I’m about to leave, the server grabs a keychain bottle opener and gives it to me as a memento. It’s a small but friendly gesture, and completely in line with the relaxing, welcoming, peaceful vibe of both Castle Hill and the wider Charlottesville.
It’s time to locate an overnight park, and in leading me back to the main part of town, Garmin takes me down scenic, narrow backroads that sometimes diminish to a point where only one car can travel.
And it’s here that my imbibation of crushed apples reminds me of a fact I should have remembered and taken care of before I drove off. I grit down, shake a leg, bop around in my seat, all to no avail. The need for relief clamours louder and more persistently, until I have no choice but to pull over before the dam walls explode and shatter.
Unfortunately this is a one car width section of road, but I have checked my mirrors and no-one appears to be behind me, or coming from the opposite direction.
Necessity must, so it’s hard on the brakes (difficult to manage in my particular state of need) and I jump out. No time to waste, I pop the trousers right there. The relief is exquisite, and consumes me in its splendour. Shoulders dropped, eyes closed, chin raised I enjoy the moment. Unfortunately during the somewhat lengthy task, a car has arrived from around the bend and is now upon me.
A fact I do not realise until there is a friendly (I hope) toot of the horn to stir me from my reverie. Startled I look up, turn in the car’s direction, whilst not stopping the flow of the river. I can only imagine the reaction within the car as I hastily turn, will the dam walls back into place, and jump back in the car.
Chagrined, Charlotte and I shuffle off to the right, the opposing driver shuffles to the left, and we inch our way past each other. As my drivers window passes theirs, I’m given a quizzical lift of the eyebrow by the driver, whilst I notice his passenger is still happily chuckling.
