These days the main product of the town is “charm.” Blue Ridge is where charm goes to reproduce, like trout swimming up an Appalachian Mountain stream to spawn. You can’t swing a dead Oncorhynchus mykiss (assuming you can hold on to it) without hitting a charming restaurant, a charming boutique or a charming scenic rail route choo-choo train.
Read MoreBefore I set out on a trip, I always look forward to taking the back roads. But then, when I’m in the car, I find myself fighting the urge to JUST GET THERE. On back roads I feel guilty for “wasting” time by taking the scenic route, and on the interstate I feel guilty for not stopping to smell the Rose’s Discount Stores that inhabit so many little towns’ historic districts.
That’s the beauty of guilt: it folds up nice and compact, fits in your pocket or at least in your head, and goes everywhere. EVERYwhere.
