Pendleton, South Carolina - A Destination of True Adventure

I went to Pendleton SC recently. I won't bore you with the minor details. Not that I won't bore you. I may. But not with minor details. I promise you that much.


Night view of Lake Hartwell at Tiger Cove Campground



The experience (I say experience because journey sounds too spiritual minded, almost trite), at any rate, the experience began at Tiger Cove Campground on Lake Hartwell. It's a lovely place – wooded, clean, and at the time we went it was very quite. Ahh, wait, I said “we”. It's true. I had company, a lovely little vixen named Bella.

I call her a vixen because she teases me. She teases me mercilessly. She knows I love her and only her, yet she refuses to marry me. She says I'm quarrelsome, contrary, and argumentative. I disagree. She travels with me anyway. She showers me with affection. She even promises she is faithful. Still, she will not marry me, but more on that later – back to the experience.

Our campfire and view of Lake Hartwell



We set up up camp as soon as we arrived and as it grew dark we nurtured a fire to cook steaks on later. I prepared the steaks while the fire settled down enough to set a grill over. She, the vixen, my Bella, prepared the corn. We worked in silence with only the rhythm of the flames calling for us to complete our task. That is when we heard the melodic voice.

It started faintly, as if off in the distance, “Who will stand when I shall pillow in the earth this aching head,” and slowly grew louder, “Pensive by the drooping willow O’er my cold and lowly bed!” but still soft. Then, there he was. Perhaps it was the darkness, or maybe from gazing into the fire that made his appearance seem sudden. It could also have been the soft melodic voice. It could have been I was distracted by thoughts of my vixen. Nevertheless, there he was.

He carried a small bag slung over one shoulder and wore something like blue jeans that looked recently pressed with a gray shirt that appeared to be made of wool. His head supported a worn leather hat that differed only in shape from what he wore on his feet. His face looked soft. Soft like old leather gets soft, and darkened in much the same way. His face was expressionless, except around the eyes. They looked like the eyes of someone both sad and happy at the same time. But I promised not to bore you with details – didn't I?

My vixen, my torturer, spoke first. She always knows what to say. That we agree on. “We have an extra steak,” she said. He nodded, sat at the picnic table, and continued his song.

“There will be no tender mother, Aged sire nor constant friend; There will be no sister, brother, O’er my lonely grave to bend! O’er my lonely grave to bend!”

And there my Bella sat, relaxed as ever. Not in the least distressed. That is her problem. She doesn't know when to be distressed. I tell her, for example, that we aren't getting any younger. I tell her she needs to settle down with me, but she just looks at me, “I have more years than you,” she says, and smiles, relaxed, like at that moment, while the old man continued his song.

“Strangers then will heedless bear me, Where the stranger’s dust may lie; Yet the tribute none will spare me, Of a tear, while thus I die.”

The fire had settled. I placed the grill over it and started the steaks. Bella set the tinfoil covered corn in the coals. We tended it all as if nothing else existed, like the affair was a sacred ceremony. All while the old man sang on.

“They behold my lifestring sever, At the conqueror’s final blow; But the heart that’s breaking, never They its inward pangs shall know! They its inward pangs shall know!”

Then he suddenly stopped singing, just as the steaks were done. “It's by Hannah F. Gould,” he said. “It's called 'The Dying Exile.' I met her once. A lovely lady.”
 
From there the conversation flowed. We spoke on many things that evening, discussed many subjects. Bella made coffee after our meal and passed out cigars. I do love her for that. You should see how she handles a fine cigar. It's intoxicating. At any rate, I am sure you are curious about our conversation with the old man. I am leery of speaking on it now, in this piece. I am afraid it will bog down the flow. Go to this link to view more on our visitor and the conversation from that evening.


After our visitor left we decided to call it a night. The next day we made out for the town of Pendleton. We stopped first at The Village Bakery on East Main Street. We found much more than we expected.



Inside The Village Bakery

 

The first thing we noticed was the atmosphere. There was lively conversation all around, patrons smiling and laughing, and servers skirting in and out of various doors and back and forth from the baking area to the sitting area. The smell of fresh baked pastries and coffee filled the air. The décor was a seamless blend of modern and rustic, a combination that I have never seen combine in such harmony as it does in that place.



Bella and I were overjoyed. I know, I know it sounds trite, but it is true. We were ecstatic, and we were curious as well. We wanted to know more, so we asked, not believing our request would be granted of course, yet we asked anyway, to meet the owner.

  

Assorted pastries



The server was delighted by our request and returned with Barbara Rizzo who, with her husband Peter, owns the establishment. Barbara took us to a meeting room and explained how her husband started the business. They had moved to the area so she could attend Clemson University. Peter started the business in 2008, mainly because he wanted fresh bread and pastries for himself and his family and thought he might sell a bit in the process. However, almost immediately, their customer traffic hit 1,000 per week. What started out as something “just to do for fun” became a successful business overnight.

Everything is made from scratch, Barbara explained to us, even the fillings for the pastries. Well, I can tell you, after our conversation with Mrs. Rizzo, we were ready to sample everything in the display case.

 

Pecan Crisp



However, after tasting the Pecan Butter Crisp, which I mistakenly sampled first, I was unable to think of anything else. I was possessed by its flavor. I even wondered if it might contain a mind-altering substance. It was like heaven in my mouth. I began to reconsider my religious views at that very moment. I even asked Bella to marry me again. No, I begged her, but not before I had her sample the Pecan Crisp as well. I thought it might weaken her.

It almost worked. She closed her eyes after taking that first bite, flattened her hand on the table, and sighed. She sighed like a lover longing for her mate. Then I proposed. She smiled and giggled like a school girl – then she sent me away to buy another Pecan Butter Crisp. That devil!



St. Paul's Episcopal Church



Having had our fill of sweet treats and perfect coffee, perhaps even to the point of defiling ourselves, we decided to make our way to St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. Not for forgiveness mind you, forgiveness for our gluttony at the bakery or forgiveness for the events in the camper the night before, but out of curiosity. The church is very old, established in 1822, as is the surrounding graveyard, which has some graves older than the church.

 

My Bella has a morbid fascination with graveyards, especially older ones. She always wants to visit them, but I always resist taking her. She changes when we visit graveyards. She becomes agitated and snaps at me over the smallest things. Once she even threw her camera at me because my phone rang while she was taking a shot. Do you see my predicament? I must take her because she loves it so, I want to please her, yet I resist because it affects her so terribly. 





Graveyard at St. Paul's



I did enjoy this trip though. Bella only cursed at me once (I asked her to take a picture of the church steeple), and I have to say the graveyard was fascinating. Some of the graves were of historical significance, and there were many civil war graves. The founder of Clemson University is there as well as the man responsible for giving Stonewall Jackson the name “Stonewall”. Barnard Elliot Bee is his name. He died July 22, 1861 from wounds received in the battle of Manassas. He was 37 years old – my age! And there are many more of interest, but I promised not to bore you with details.

 

We spent at least two hours at the graveyard. There was so much to see – grave stones decorated with Celtic art, old family plots of wealthy plantation owners from Charleston, and the place itself was wooded and relaxing in an odd way. When my vixen was satisfied that she had taken enough photos, we made our way back to camp for a much needed nap (and a replay of the night before, wink, wink).

When evening came, we went to the local theater, The Clemson Little Theater. “The Trial of the Big Bad Wolf” was being performed. It's a small theater, yet cozy may be a better word. The lighting and sound were excellent. It was a fun play. Perhaps meant for a younger crowd, but fun nonetheless. My Bella and I laughed and enjoyed ourselves immensely.



Inside 1826 On the Green
 (From Cell Phone)



We carried the lighthearted feeling gained from the evening performance with us as we stopped by 1826 On the Green, a restaurant just up the road from the theater. Our server, Gasper, was either infected by our happy mood or fate simply matched him with us that evening. We talked and joked with Gasper like we would an old friend.

My vixen was beside herself. They had her favorites – fried green tomatoes and peanut butter pie. And that is exactly what she ate. You see, we wanted something light, so we ordered appetizers and dessert, along with coffee. I ordered the crab cakes and peanut butter pie. Everything was beyond delicious, yet it was also small portioned and expensive. But, to be fair, it is an upscale restaurant, complete with an amazing chef.

It was worth every penny. Worth it because of the flavors. Worth it because my lovely Bella, my vixen, excepted my proposal there! She said it was the aura of the restaurant. It made her feel as if she were in another era, another dimension. “It is ethereal,” she said. “I felt our horse and carriage would pull up at any moment and whisk us away to our plantation home in the countryside. I could see you helping me up into the carriage, and wrapping me in a blanket for the trip home. I knew then you would always love me and protect me.”

I asked her about my quarrelsome nature. She just laughed that laugh of hers, turned her head and raised her chin. “You'll do well not to quarrel with me Mr. Savage.” I must say, I must admit, I had little desire to argue with her. She had accepted my proposal, yet I felt, at that moment, I may have received more than I bargained for.

Written by Pyke Savage
Photos by Bella Starr

Click the below links for address and contact information on the places visited.

Tiger Cove Campground – Anderson SC

The Clemson Little Theater – Pendleton SC

St. Paul’s Episcopal Church – Pendleton SC

The Village Baker – Pendleton SC

For more information on Pendleton SC, go to

http://www.squidoo.com/pendleton

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