A couple weeks ago, I pointed the car toward Winston-Salem to record a podcast episode with C. Elmon Meade.
And let me just go ahead and say it: it may never see the light of day.
We set up a little too close to a busy road, and the traffic noise didn’t just interrupt us — it devoured the entire conversation. Eighteen-wheelers barreling past like they had a personal grudge against my microphone. Classic me. Big vision. Questionable execution.
But here’s the silver lining — I talked Brandon into coming along, and we turned it into a proper overnight getaway. If you’re going to botch your own audio, you might as well do it with your favorite person and a change of scenery.
While we were there, we carved out time to explore Old Salem Museums & Gardens.
I would’ve bet money I’d been there as a kid. Maybe a school field trip? But when we hopped out of the car, I didn’t recognize a single thing. Not a building. Not a corner. Not even a vague “this feels familiar.” Either I made that memory up… or my brain has started clearing out old files to make room for new ones.
Apparently, it ain’t just me. A lot of people have never been. How do I know? When I posted photos on X, the number of people who thought we were in Massachusetts or somewhere up North cracked me up. Nope. That old-world charm? It’s sitting right here in North Carolina.
Old Salem is a living history museum that drops you straight into the 1700s Moravian world. And once you know their story, it hits even deeper.
The Moravians trace back to the 15th century in what’s now the Czech Republic, inspired by reformer Jan Hus. They were persecuted for their beliefs until Count Nikolaus Ludwig von Zinzendorf gave them refuge in the 1700s. From there, they built tight-knit, faith-centered communities like Bethlehem.
By 1753, they bought nearly 100,000 acres in North Carolina’s Piedmont from Lord Granville and named it Wachovia. That same year, fifteen Moravian brothers hiked down from Pennsylvania and founded Bethabara — the first planned Moravian settlement here.
Bethania followed in 1759.
And in 1766, they cut the first tree for Salem — the town that would become the heart of trade, worship, and daily life.
They laid it out around Salem Square in a neat, practical grid. Built the Gemein Haus (their community house). Raised the massive Single Brothers’ House — half-timbered and sturdy — along with the Single Sisters’ House. Workshops buzzed with potters, tailors, gunsmiths, bakers. It wasn’t flashy. It was intentional.
By the early 1770s, Salem was thriving.
Life revolved around faith, education, craftsmanship, and community. The church owned the land. At first, only Moravians were allowed to live there. It was structured, disciplined, and deeply communal in a way that feels foreign in 2026.
They were pacifists during the Revolutionary War. They hosted George Washington — he dined at the tavern in 1791 — publicly posted the Declaration of Independence, paid their taxes… but refused to take up arms.
They may not have believed in fighting wars, but they fiercely believed in education. Every Moravian child attended boarding school. If a family couldn’t afford tuition, the church covered it.
In 1772, they founded what became Salem Academy and later Salem College — one of the oldest boarding schools for girls in America and the oldest women’s educational institution still operating in the United States.
We grabbed tickets and wandered the streets.
It was February, so the gardens were in their winter posture — bare beds, orderly rows, evergreens standing loyal. No showy blooms. Just quiet structure. And somehow, that made it even more beautiful. We lucked out with warm weather too, the kind that makes you forget it’s technically still winter.
Interpreters were blacksmithing, baking, going about daily tasks like it was 1768. Woodsmoke drifted through the air. Somewhere close by, bread was rising. The whole place felt grounded. Unhurried.
Naturally, we stopped at Winkler Bakery — operating in its current location since 1807. We loaded up on baked goods, ate some right there on a bench, and packed the rest for the drive home. Absolutely zero self-control. And no regrets.
For lunch, we went to Bread of Heaven inside the historic tavern building (original site from 1784). I’ll be honest — the service was… a struggle. Bless their hearts.
But that Old Salem Classic Moravian Chicken Pot Pie?
I’d go back just for that.
No vegetables. No filler. Just tender chicken in thick, savory gravy under a flaky double crust. Colonial thrift at its finest — using the whole bird, wasting nothing. Sitting in that centuries-old building, eating a recipe rooted in that same soil, felt like more than lunch. It felt like participation.
Old Salem isn’t overwhelming the way Williamsburg can be. It’s smaller. More intimate. But it’s handled with such care.
What struck me most was the quiet.
Right in the middle of modern-day Winston-Salem — which later merged into its current form in 1913 — this pocket of history holds onto a slower rhythm. The hymns feel stitched into the woodwork. The craftsmanship still speaks.
I fell in love with Old Salem itself.
The surrounding city? Maybe not entirely my speed. I’m still more small-town backroads than traffic lights and breweries. But would I go back?
In a heartbeat.
Next time, I want to see it during the Christmas Lovefeast season — candles glowing in the windows, music carrying through the square, that Moravian harmony filling the air.
Have y’all been to Old Salem? Or is there another historic spot in North Carolina that gives you that same peaceful, thoughtful feeling?
Tell me where we should wander next!
