ABSTRACT
We fled Washington. Like a stone whirling at the end of a sling, we spun off the beltway, out of the dormitories and the preserves of bureaucracy, south and west towards the Blue Ridge Mountains. Warrenton lies forty-five miles from Washington, close enough to reach it, far enough to be left in peace. A turn off U.S. 29 took us straight into town, bypassing the bypass with its new motor city. We had no idea where Fauquier High School might lie, but we wanted to sneak a look at Warrenton before we hunted it. A hill led up towards the white spire of the Fauquier County courthouse and a free municipal parking lot. We got out, walked around and looked around. To our regret, we had only a few moments for a glimpse of the old hotel, once a tavern where General McClellan took leave of his officers during the Civil War, and the statue of Chief Justice John Marshall, a native son of Fauquier County. We had not been long in Warrenton before we were told, and told again, that the government had made a survey a few years back to pick the most pleasant places to live in the United States. Of the seven that were found, Warrenton was the only one east of the Mississippi River.
