Road Trip: Virginia

Past the homes of Washington and Jefferson and following a route that felt as zig-zag as the battlefield fences that crisscross the countryside, my partner and I headed east from the beaches of Virginia to the border of West Virginia.

Much like the battlefield fence, constructed with no nails and no post holes, I travel light and prefer to travel with as few set dates and destinations as possible.

On this trip, I had two wants — to find my first American ancestor and to see Williamsburg.

Full disclosure? I’m a west coast guy, born and raised, a city boy from the megalopolis of Southern California. Virginia, like oh… eight or nine other states, cops the stereotyped view of being red-necked and hillbilly. Part of the flyover country between the densely populated northeast corridor and the West Coast.

Traveling teaches, and I learned I was wrong about Virginia. Very wrong.

America is blessed with natural, geographic wonder and dotted with an abundance of small towns. The state of Virginia is no exception. It is also home to the American past — from eight of the 46 U.S. Presidents to our original colonies.

With those thoughts in mind, I was looking forward to visiting Williamsburg, VA. part of the historic ‘colonial triangle’ in southeastern Virginia. Along with Jamestown and Yorktown, they say Williamsburg is a “must-see” original colonial settlement.

But first stop is breakfast and nothing says breakfast in the South like a Waffle House. Eggs over easy, waffles, grits, and my favourite — biscuits n’ gravy. Luckily, you can’t miss them. They are EVERYWHERE. I love going in just to hear the server holler “Hi y’all, welcome to Waffle House” as ya’ll walk in the door. It’s music to this city boy’s ears.

To outsiders, Virginia feels north, geographically, but Virginia is very much the South.

$5 breakfast eaten, it was on to Williamsburg. A place I was looking forward to, like those biscuits and gravy.

I hated it.

They’ve sold their soul to the tourism devil. After driving in what felt like circles, we finally found the visitor’s center where all the signs pointed towards the gift shops and all the staff pointed you to the ticket office.

“Can we get a map of the area?”

“We have walking tours. You can get tickets over there.” The volunteer said.

“We’re not here for long and would just like to wander around.” I tried again.

“Only walking tours allowed. You can get tickets over there.” And he pointed again.

Soon as I’d pulled off the highway, I couldn’t wait to leave. And so we did.

By the time we pulled in to Fredericksburg, I was refreshed. The town is everything Williamsburg isn’t. Sitting smack in the middle between Washington, D.C. (The Union capitol) and Richmond, VA (the Confederate capitol), Fredericksburg and its surrounds saw some of the heaviest fightings of the Civil War.

Tourists are more than welcome, but it’s a living town and life goes on as usual. The little visitor’s center tucked into a corner shop has free maps, and the volunteers will give tourists advice on the best streets to walk and the town’s history. There are no walking tours, no volunteers dressed in costume, no gift shops.

I loved it.

Culpepper is a similar town worthy of a visit, or if you’re staying in D.C., visit the suburb of Alexandria for a taste of these Virginia towns.

Making our way to the western half of the state and driving along the Shenandoah River Valley, we came to Staunton, our stop for the night and home of yet another U.S. President, Woodrow Wilson. It was also our jumping-off point into the hills and woods and on into Blue Grass Valley.

Blue Grass Valley lays along the Potomac River, butted up against the border of West Virginia, population: 144.

Following my paternal family tree to its roots, I found online history detailing generations back to my 5th great-grandfather, buried in “a family cemetery on private land which can be seen from Blue Grass Valley Road.”

We drove up and down that road three times. The scenery was stunning but damned if we could see a cemetery. The internet still doesn’t replace good old-fashioned knowledge and help and we stopped to ask an elderly couple on their Sunday morning walk.

“That cemetery’s on Abbie’s place, been there since before the war,” they said and pointed to a red-roofed house over yonder. Told us to drive straight ahead and turn right at the mailboxes.

I figured trespassing wasn’t looked on too kindly in these parts, but I saw no signs or purple paint so, with banjo music and stereotypes ringing in my ears, (I know, city boy stereotyping) I drove up to the house.

“Don’t move!” and “Get back in the car!” was all I heard as the screen door banged and a cousin, four generations removed, charged at us from the side porch. Surprised and, to be honest, looking for a shotgun at her side, I went with the “don’t move” command as I’d heard that first.

Once the ice thawed and the dog leashed and I explained I was family, all was well and we received a kind welcome.

The cemetery was in better shape than I could have imagined and amongst all the headstones, most of the names I didn’t know and most of which eulogised infants, I found my holy grail. The headstone of my first ancestor to claim a small patch of land in America and call it home.

With one of those few set dates mentioned above, we left the family plot behind and headed back to catch our flight, but had one more stop. Harrisonburg, VA. The hotel staff in Staunton directed us to a shop that sold many confederate paraphernalia.

Driving through the deep South in Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia, we didn’t see a single confederate battle flag. My partner in need of a confederate battle flag as a souvenir gift.

We saw them in Virginia. They were in shops, on front lawns, and the back of Chevys and Fords. Maybe being butted up against the Mason-Dixon line and the Yankee north, they take extra pride in being Southern.

The Crossroads Country Store, in the Shenandoah Heritage Market in Harrisonburg is the place to go if you’re in the area (or online) and need anything Confederate, but realise one thing: Yankee outsiders guffaw at shops like this, but once you look past the t-shirts and bumper stickers, you understand how real it is and how deep it runs.

The bookshelves in The Crossroads Country Store give a tourist a better grasp of that fact.

“Abraham Lincoln and Slavery: What Your Yankee Teacher Didn’t Tell You” Okay, I made that one up. But it’s not off the mark and many titles I wouldn’t comment on here.

Books such as “Rekilling Lincoln.” and “The Yankee Problem: An American Dilemma.” These are real.

We bought a souvenir confederate battle flag and then headed out of the South for our flight home.

Virginia is possibly the most beautiful state in the Union.

And I’d found more of my family. A small slab of stone can make you feel connected to generations in an instant.

Having never set foot in Virginia before, I felt like I was home.

So I’ve taken my family tree as deep as its roots reach within the United States.

My next stop — Germany and Sweden. Travel on.