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I told you I was on the Northern Neck of Virginia over the weekend. I ran out of time to tell you about it. It was a great trip. Jake and Cecilia have a vacation place on a creek down by Kilmarnock, the largest of the municipalities that with Irvington and White Stone compose the tri-city area of the Neck.

Getting there is half the fun. I arced off the madness of I-95 at Fredericksburg, and jumped on the Historyland Highway and pointed the Mercedes east. The strip malls and stoplights sprawl from the highway, but it is not very long until the road opens up in broad fields, the trees in near full fall color.

There are three main peninsulas that adjoin the great bay and the rivers that run into the interior- The Potomac and the Rappahannock being the ones that bound the Northern neck, with the Chesapeake Bay.

(Northen Neck of Virginia, highlighted in crimson. Matches the politics, and always has. Image courtesy Wikipedia.)

It is where America began. With all respect to the Pilgrim Fathers and Mothers, they were new arrivals. John Smith was here as a captive of the Powhattan Indians in 1608; the Pilgrims didn’t show up for another dozen years.

Robert ''King'' Carter once owned nearly all of this lovely peninsula, including 300,000 acres, composed of 48 separate plantations on the Northern Neck. He also caused the building of the road that would become the Historyland Highway, straight for the most part, right down the middle of the peninsula to expand the lines of communication between his holdings.

Bobby Lee knew this place well. He was born just off Route 3 at Stratford Hall. The Estate was built at the time King Carter was dying by one of the legendary Lees- Robert-, who owned 16,000 acres, and fired the bricks for the Hall right on the grounds from the rich red Virginia clay.

This place was, for nearly two centuries, where things happened in America. With the exhaustion of the soil by tobacco cultivation, there was also the impetus to push constantly westward. After the troops were gone and the Confederacy vanquished, the Neck sank into a gentle sleep, and that is why places like Stratford Hall still exist.

The estate was owned- briefly- by Revolutionary War hero ''Light Horse'' Harry Lee, Bobbie's father. Harry might have been a good warrior, but had no head for business and lost the place to creditors. When the family left the place, young Bob ran back to his bedroom and gazed up at the iron backing to the fireplace in his bedroom, and said goodbye to the cherubs that fly still in bas-relief on the back.

I showed them to my own boys, years ago, but I don't know if they remember. Further down the road is George Washington’s birthplace, and a few miles beyond that, the place his mother was born.

It was a great drive down, and we enjoyed the view from the deck and some very strange football games, including a bizarre win by my alma mater that contained more 130 total points on the scoreboard. When the games ran out of time, we went to dinner in White Stone.

Each of the three towns have distinct personalities. Irvington is intellectual, White Stone is martime, and Kilmarnock agricultural and mercantile.

We were intending to dine at the Seven Sins Martini Bar in the former elementary school but it was dark and silent. Of the three 'upscale' restaurants in the Kilmarnock-Irvington-White Stone area, Seven offers the best value for its food, and drink. We thought a bout The Tides, but Jake said it was much more expensive and sometimes spotty on service. He suggested Nate's Trick Dog, which has the coolest bar, great home-made potato chips that are put out as a bar snack and is generally a riot in progress on the weekend.

Doris was holding down the whole bar in a flurry of petite blonde activity that was a marvel to behold, and her martinis were outstanding.

They were so outstanding that when we arrived back on the Creek after dining I realize my jacket was still slung over the stool at the bar and Cecilia kindly offered to drive me back over to retrieve it, since it was going to be an early morning on the road and I would not be back this way for a while.

Coming and going, we went past Christ Church, which is Robert “King” Carters last big project. I saw the sign flash by in the headlights of the Hubrismobile, which Cecilia drove with aplomb.

There is darkness at night on the Neck that is profoundly deep. No light pollution, as there is in NoVa, and the critters can jump out of the woods onto the road. A six-point buck startled the crap out of me on the way down, thinking what the massive animal would have done to the fine German grillwork.

Nearby, I knew there were the ruins of Rosewell Plantation, whose manner house burned in at the beginning of the last century, but whose ruins still stand in romantic decay. They have excavated the foundation of Corotoman, which was the King’s principle residence, and the center of the Neck’s colonial universe.

We retrieved my jacket and passed Christ Church again on the way back. “King” Carter is there in the Churchyard, with his second wife. Between the two women to whom he was wed, he sired fifteen children. The King lived in large scale in all respects. The Church and it is worth a stop, if you get a chance.

In fact, I was so impressed by it that I made the place a regular stop to stretch my legs on the way from Norfolk and the schoolhouse at Damn Neck.

I will tell you more about that, but I am out of time this morning and will get back to the Church and Mac’s story tomorrow after refueling this evening at Willow.