March 3, 2003

The Woodfield Inn was built in 1852, the oldest operating inn in the state of North Carolina. It was said to be haunted with Capt. Morris’s ghost, who was stationed there during the Civil War with his confederate soldiers. His room, with dark, masculine decor in blues and golds, was on the third floor. But he was a nondiscriminatory, equal-opportunity ghost and was said to make his presence known in many parts of the inn. He liked to sit on people, they said. Make it feel as if their legs wouldn’t work. And a scent of cherry pipe tobacco was known to appear and disappear at mysterious times. I peeked into his room, nicely furnished with a fireplace and comfortable chair. I wondered if ghosts liked to sit in front of a fire and feel the warmth ooze through their vapors.

I didn’t choose Capt. Morris’s room, or the one known as the Secret Room, which had a trap door to a space below the floor where valuables were hidden from Union Soldiers. Instead, I chose the Peony Room on the top floor in the far corner for its light and view of the English garden and gazebo. Surrounded by soothing green and mauve tones, and I could hear birdsong from the grassy hillside just outside.

Innkeepers Wayne and Rhonda Nelson, who purchased the inn in August of 2002, had done a beautiful job redecorating the rooms, many of which had fireplaces. Two were spacious family suites, another a bridal suite. Each room was different, and all were wonderful. If Wayne Nelson’s name sounds familiar to music fans, it’s no coincidence. Wayne is bass player and lead vocalist for the Little River Band. Away for a concert the night I was there, I did not get a chance to tell him how much I enjoyed both his historical inn and many years of fabulous music from his band.

The eighteen elegant rooms were not the only treats at this historic getaway. Chef Michael Atkinson whipped up some mouthwatering dishes in the Garden Dining Room, as I found out when I feasted that evening on sautéed chicken breast with lemon, wine, garlic, and capers, served with an absolutely fantastic medley of fresh vegetables. Presented on a square, contemporary dish, which provided a fun contrast to the historic surroundings, this delicious meal gave me a chance to sit peacefully and look out over Woodfield’s twenty-three acres of blooming gardens. It was a culinary and visual treat combined. I regretted knowing I would only be staying one night, faced with other menu choices such as potato-crusted crab cakes, blackened mahi-mahi, and Maine lobster. Seafood was a specialty, though meat-lovers could be tempted with filet mignon, rack of spring lamb, or pork medallions with shitake mushrooms and slivered almonds.

Hours later, the inn was very quiet. I was the only night owl there, the California girl who felt it was only nine o’clock, when by East Coast standards it was midnight. But then I heard footsteps in the hallway. Perhaps another guest was on this floor? Or was it Capt. Morris’s ghost coming to pay his midnight respects? I tiptoed to the doorway and cautiously looked out. The hallway was empty.

A cool mist floated across the Blue Ridge Mountains in the morning, hovering above the gazebo and stretching across the gardens. I had a good hour before breakfast to lean back against pillows, wrapped in high thread count linens, and ease into the day.

If I had thoughts of going easy the next morning after my evening splurge, those thoughts were dashed when I sat down to a complimentary breakfast. On a sage satin placemat with swirls matching the leaves outside my table-side window, landed a plate with a Belgian waffle topped with vanilla bean ice cream, banana slices and rum raisin caramel sauce, served with slices of Applewood smoked bacon. Okay, so there was an option for a granola and fruit cup meal instead, as well as some divine-sounding huevos rancheros and other egg dishes. But I’m not one to pass up a waffle.

After breakfast, I settled into one of many rocking chairs on the front veranda and took in the view, the same view that travelers have enjoyed for over 150 years. Blue Ridge foothill vistas, nature trails, soothing downslope of green grass, woodside pavilion below: all enjoyed by guests for many years before my own arrival. It was no surprise Woodfield Inn was a popular choice for weddings and corporate functions.

 Before leaving, I checked email, then reluctantly packed up and headed into Flat Rock and on into Hendersonville, just three miles away.

 I popped into Hand in Hand Gallery, located next door to the Wrinkled Egg, home of Flat Rock Bakery and the delicious Caribbean root stew I’d had upon my arrival the day before. It turned out the Wrinkled Egg was housed in a building formerly known as Peace’s Grocery from 1890 to the early 1980s, a regular destination of locals.

Also representative of the community activity on this block for so many years, Hand to Hand Gallery was packed with stoneware, paintings, stained glass, and other works of art by local artisans. Owners David Voorhees, who makes wonderful floral pottery creations, and Molly Sharp, who adds inspired jewelry selections to the mix, were both present and very welcoming. I enjoyed browsing and visiting. David and Molly had created a gallery that felt like more than just a shop offering quality art. On this particular morning, it felt like a calm resting point before continuing on my way.

All in all, Flat Rock was a breath of fresh mountain air. I never did see the ghost of Capt. Morris at Woodfield Inn, and I wasn’t able to purchase all the goodies I found at the Wrinkled Egg and Hand in Hand Gallery. But there’s always something else waiting ahead, down the highway, when experiencing life on the road. I finally pulled myself away and headed out.