by Eric Barton | March 17, 2025
The Barnsley Resort: North Georgia’s Charming Southern Escape
Tucked away in the North Georgia hills lie the ruins of a storied Southern estate and The Barnsley resort that took its place.
My wife, Jill, chose the prettiest of horses, Honey, with a coat the color of custard pie and a streak of white down her nose. A blond mane cascaded on both sides of Honey’s face as if the mare had an Instagram following to consider. Honey took up the rear as we turned onto trails through the Georgia hills, dropping into rocky streams and clopping over wooden footbridges. Hooves rustled leaves, an ancient sound.
If there’s a more peaceful way to spend an afternoon under cloudy skies, I haven’t found it. The ride set the tone for most of the weekend I spent at the Barnsley Resort in North Georgia, which sits at the edge of the Appalachians. I’d come here to find out if the storied resort’s recent $6.2 million renovation lived up to the buzz that made its way to my hometown of Miami and whether the icon has managed to hold onto the history and Old-World elegance it has become synonymous with. It’s hard to tell from photos whether the resort would feel more like a Disney creation or, in this case, an authentic slice of buttermilk pie.
To find the place, it’s about an hour northwest of Atlanta and a six-hour drive from the Panhandle, passing defunct farms, front-yard car collections and palatial homes for city commuters before arriving at Barnsley Resort’s guard gate. Under big oaks, the Barnsley’s 3,000-acre property lies out like a village with a series of 39 charming cottages. Its car-free promenade feels like a centuries-old town square.
Follow the main path, and you’ll end at the ruins of Woodlands, once a palatial estate built in the 1840s by cotton magnate Godfrey Barnsley. The plan was that he and his wife, Julia, would raise their children in the cool air of land once sacred to the Cherokee. Ten thousand acres splayed out beyond the 24-room mansion’s manicured gardens. Yankees trashed it after a Civil War skirmish on the property. A tornado ripped it apart in 1906. Then, a murder and tales of ghosts landed like a hill country fog rolling in after a day’s rain. Ruins of the Manor House sat unloved on farmland until a resort rose around them in the 1990s. Now the remains stand like a series of brick monoliths, with the fireplaces still lit for events, and you can let your imagination picture its antebellum grandeur as you wander the creaky planks.
Here’s everything you need to know before visiting the Barnsley
Not far from the brick structure, Jill, our dog, Finn, and I stayed in one of the duplexes, a comfortable place with no fewer than three porches, a wood-burning fireplace and a view of the firepits in the square where families toast marshmallows at night. Last year, the Barnsley spent millions to update the cottages, which sti beyond its 55-room inn situated near the entrance. Charlotte Lucas Design out of North Carolina oversaw the renovation. Our cottage was decorated in dark woods, rich hues, heavy furniture and a field-stone fireplace, which evoked the elegance and tradition of a stately Sea Island, Georgia retreat. I asked about the exterior paint colors (for that someday-country home we’re all planning for) and wasn’t disappointed by the choices: dried thyme, sage and Roycroft bronze green. The patios and doors, they’re charwood-stained.
On the first night, we had our splurge meal at the Rice House, featuring lengthwise-cut fried okra and a filet served on fine china (the Rice House has since closed, making way for a new restaurant). There’s a more casual restaurant near the Jim Fazio golf course, along with a new outdoor Biergarten, where families and their doodles get cozy by the big fireplace.
After our horseback ride, I headed a few miles from the Barnsley’s front gate to the Beretta Shooting Grounds, which features a 1,000-yard gun range and two sporting clay courses, where bright orange shards polka-dotted the grass. I jumped into an ATV with Jesse O’Kelley, a seasoned guide who led me down a path of trampled grass and through a field of straw. Two dogs, Skittles and Sky, worked to flush quail as O’Kelley translated their deft movements to this city boy—stop and point, flush and fire just above the tree line.
It was the most Southern thing I had ever done, shooting quail in the Georgian hill country, before heading back to meet my wife and dog at the Biergarten for a bourbon, straight-up. While I was dressed in a Vuori polo and my nicest Banana Republic jeans, I noticed one gentleman in a Stetson hat and cowboy boots and another in a tweed sports coat that made me wish I’d dressed better. That is part of the appeal of traveling to a place that’s unlike back home: wishing you were more like the salty fisherman on Eleuthera or, in this case, more genteel, more Southern.
That night, a party formed by the firepits with a group from an elevator company. Families stayed past bedtime to point out stars. The WiFi was out, and complaints over missed text messages turned into listening to the firewood crackle. The best of moments.
