Real estate ... and a surprising choice ... takes priority as we return home

A bit over two weeks ago, we left a cold, wet England, feeling more like March than late May.  We returned to high summer.  Skies were sunny, the air was warm, we drove home from Heathrow with the roof down and I spent the last afternoon of my vacation in the hammock in the garden, thankful for the geniuses at Amazon who invented the sunlight-defying Kindle.

That was the last bit of calm for a while, because life's getting interesting.  It's not just the return to work which, now that I'm more than a month past my last chemotherapy treatment, will need to be approached without excuses, short days or drug-induced sluggishness.  No, it's the very big business of buying and selling houses.

We finally got a buyer for the place I inherited from my mother.  Scans of initial paperwork emailed back and forth between Baltimore and St. Louis during holiday, and now it's full steam ahead for a closing in about two weeks.  A solid offer for that house in hand, we're now legally able to make our own offer for a home here.  Which is exactly what we did at lunch today.

You may remember the start of my house hunt and my strict criteria for the village where I'll sink my roots ... someplace with a high TQ (thatch quotient).  I haven't written since on the topic, but we have been busy managing a spreadsheet of ideal house features and setting up the initial mortgage.  Most weekends before we left on holiday found us house hunting, and we'd developed a tidy little list of possibilities.  Within those picturesque villages of my last blog entry on the topic, the price point that was our furthest stretch tended to throw up four bedroom places built in the late '70s or early '80s with some nice gardens.  Pretty close to what I grew up in, really, but without the basement, half the garage and four times the price.   Location, location, location.

And then we threw TQ, gardens and charm out the window for square footage, value for money and the convenience of the new.  

The new marital home of the Basingstoke Bencards, on which we made an offer and were accepted earlier today, is so new it's still a brick shell standing amidst scaffolding on a muddy lot piled with construction material.  It's in a high density, modern development that was a farm field just four years ago.  No thatch, no duck pond, no ancient church or pub within a stone's throw.  What possessed me to give up my fantasies of village life and pottering in a big garden?

Money, for one thing.  The new house ... which is bigger than anything we saw before it ... is £150k below our target price.  My perception was that modern English housing meant cramped rooms, shoddy quality and bad design.  This three-story, detached, townhouse-style home has a great floor plan, lots of nice little design touches and a dream of a kitchen, clearly designed by someone who understood people who love to cook.  The rooms are a good size and filled with light, an impression enhanced by doors between rooms on the ground floor that close to maintain heat but have large glass panels to give a sense of openness.  The master bedroom is a two-room suite, the main guest room has its own en suite bathroom, Piers can have a sizeable "man cave" in the third bedroom on the top floor, and I get my own office in a studio with separate entry over the two-car garage.  

The development, Sherfield Park, is remarkably attractive for new construction.  The designers were clearly influenced by the streets of Bath.  Though you'll never mistake it for a Jane Austen film set, the curving streets, classical porticos and architectural detailing create a pleasing neo-Georgian continuity.  The developers have also taken a lot of care with landscaping, providing playing fields on the development's edge, a pond and wildflower meadow at its heart (which our new bedroom windows look over) and other green spaces.  Best of all, beyond the confines of the development it's still farm and forest.  Though the same distance from Basingstoke as the place we're renting, the surrounding area is far less developed.  And given that the woods to the north are a Ministry of Defence training facility, it's not likely that it will be.

Nothing needs to be replaced or upgraded, and everything is state of the art.  Great insulation.  Efficient, double-glazed windows.  Built-in kitchen appliances and alarm system. Computer network, communications and TV cabling laid into every room. No doubt influenced by the huge expense of renovation required to sell Mom's 40-year-old house, and the money I've had to dump into my 200-year-old cottage, charm has been trumped by efficiency in the face of reality.  


And if you really want to talk reality:  that price difference means a much smaller mortgage payment every month, which means we still may have some discretionary income for travel and nice restaurants.  Which will continue providing stuff to write about.  See ... I'm doing this for you, dear readers.

All this gain does not come without pain, of course.  The houses are cheek-by-jowl.  The garden is small and overlooked by other people's windows. It's very much a housing development, not a village ... though there is a community centre and an area set aside for shops in the future.  As a mixed development following modern government guidelines, there's housing at every price point.  No well-heeled, comfortably prosperous and exclusive Hampshire village here; we'll be near the top end and we expect plenty of young families with children (not a positive on our list, children mean noise) and some social housing (aka welfare assisted).  But there is a proper village, Sherfield-on-Loddon, a mile and a half up the road.  Which means a pub and a small shop within walking distance.   I've even spotted a church steeple, connected to what seems to be a manor house hidden behind high brick walls.

All in all, the balance is a happy one.  All systems go for a move in late August.

Durham's Arrowhead Inn takes us back to honeymoon luxury

I'd always heard that American B&Bs were different from their British counterparts.  

British bed and breakfast started as staying in someone's spare room as a cheap alternative to a hotel.  And though the scene's gotten more sophisticated, and more expensive, I wouldn't send visitors here to a B&B if they were looking for high end luxury.  In the USA, I'd heard, B&Bs were more like up-market boutique hotels, with prices to match.  I can now, with a great deal of sybaritic satisfaction, confirm that observation.

The Arrowhead Inn, just north of Durham, North Carolina, is a lot closer to the magnificent places we stayed on our honeymoon than any B&B of my experience.  The surroundings were exquisite, the room palatial, the food gourmet and the service exceptional.  And the price?  The $235 a night we paid for our room was far more expensive than most American hotels ... more than triple what we paid at Massanutten, where we started this trip ... but about what we pay for that advantageously priced hotel room at our club when we stay up in London.  All things are relative.  

Arrowhead's not an everyday sort of place, but if you want to treat yourself, this is great value for money.  In fact, it's is so wonderful I'd consider it a destination in itself.

The house dates back to just before the American revolution.  Its white clapper board siding, porch with two-story white columns and gracious gardens with the requisite magnolia trees make this a small but perfect southern mansion.  Though the interiors are decorated with respect to tradition, the place doesn't show its age.  Everything is show-home tidy, in pristine condition and in achingly good taste.

We stayed three nights in the Brittain Room, which had to be the biggest and ... I suspect ... the most opulent of the seven rooms in the house.  (There's an eighth option in a snug but luxuriously furnished log cabin in the garden.)  The square footage of our Arrowhead bedroom was about the same as the footprint of my entire cottage in Berkshire. 

 It was dominated by a king-sized four poster with mattresses so high, steps were available to get into bed.  There was a fireplace with two wing backs in front of it, a jacuzzi tub in the corner and a TV and VCR hidden away in a mahogany wardrobe.  A sliding glass door led out to our own private deck overlooking the gardens.  And of course, there's a big, beautifully decorated bathroom with a large shower.

If we got tired of all that, there were plenty of public areas in which to lounge.  The space beyond our room door was technically the entrance hall, by merit of the front door at one corner, but it had another fireplace and was furnished as a sitting room.  At the back of the house was a formal dining room leading into the "Keeping Room", a big wooden extension with tables for breakfast on one side and seating around another fireplace on the other.  A door here led out to a shady patio with tables, chairs and an outdoor stove/firepit for cold nights, and beyond that a lovely garden with perennial beds, winding paths, a gazebo and a dedicated court for that old fashioned game of pitching horse shoes.

The innkeepers, Gloria and Phil Teber, live across the garden in a neo-classical outbuilding that adds to the view, gives them privacy and contributes to the overall feel of boutique hotel rather than houseguest quarters.  They make a great team, Gloria friendly, considerate and primarily front-of-house, Phil cooking up delightful stuff in the kitchen and occasionally popping his cheerful frame out to say hello.  

Between them, they seem to anticipate your every need and lay out all the thoughtful touches that make the place so luxurious.  In the room, there's a candle beside the jacuzzi, snacks packed in cellophane and ribbons in a little basket on the desk and a stereo with iPod charger next to the bed.  In the Keeping Room, they lay snacks out on the bar every afternoon, the fridge is filled with complimentary bottles of water and cans of soda, and there's a wide collection of DVDs to borrow for that player in your room.  Next to the back door, a basket of sunscreen lotions, in case you want to soak up some, but not all, of that southern sun.

Beyond the decor, the innkeepers and the little touches, the food sets Arrowhead apart.  The night of our arrival, we'd arranged for Phil to prepare his five course chef's menu for us, choosing from several possible main courses (in advance, by email).  We dined alone, by candlelight, in the Keeping Room, overlooking the garden and enjoying a great wine from Gloria's list.  You don't have to make special arrangements for special food, however.  Breakfast is a gourmet experience.  Unlike the typical British B&B, where every institution from Lands' End to John-o-Groats does essentially the same fry up, Phil comes up with a different option every morning.  After your compote of fresh fruit and your first coffee, you might get pancakes, eggs benedict or grilled bananas besides crepes stuffed with sweet cheese.

With all this to enjoy, you won't be surprised to learn we didn't wander far.  This part of the holiday, after all, was about resting between all that sightseeing and the return to the real world.  Durham is a vibrant small town and there's plenty to do.  We met a friend of Piers' in the American Tobacco District, now a buzzy area of restaurants and bars just next to the minor league Durham Bulls ballpark, continued our Civil War exploration at Bennet Place (see the entry before last), wandered around the Sarah P. Duke gardens and had a successful afternoon at the local outlet mall.  But really, all we wanted to do was hang out at the Arrowhead.  And so we did ... lounging in the hammock in the garden, steaming in the jacuzzi or snuggling down in that magnificent room with wine and movies.  The vibe was so much like South Africa's Birkenhead House, we felt like we were on honeymoon again.  It was just what the doctor ordered.  Quite literally.

And now, officially, it's back to the real world, and life as normal.

Vidalia, Milton Inn, Old Ebbitt Grill: Local delights, historic venues, old friends make dining special

About half the meals of this trip took place at the dining tables of the friends with whom we were staying.  Thanks, Trey and Di, for that stunning Kobe beef and for teaching Piers to make s'mores.  And Uncle Joe, you haven't lost the touch on the ribs, even though you've been away from St. Louis for decades.  For most of the rest, we took the cheap and cheerful option while out and about.  Cracker Barrel became a trip staple, delivering dependable, tasty food at a good price.

All of which allowed for a few splurges.

Vidalia, in Northwest Washington DC near Dupont Circle, is a restaurant that could go head-to-head with any Michelin star spot in the UK.  Its chef, Jeffrey Buben, says his food is "original American with a subtle southern influence."  Certainly menu items like shrimp and grits, Cheerwine jelly (Cheerwine being a cherry-flavoured soft drink from the Carolinas) and those sweet, mellow Vidalia onions give the place a distinct local flare.  But in elegance, presentation and delicacy of taste, this is a long way from your classic comfort food.  And in price, too.  A five-course tasting menu with good wines and 20 per cent service still came in at under £100 a person, cheaper than the equivalent in London.

Going for the tasting menu requires the whole group's buy in but, unlike tasting menus in Europe, this one allows you to choose your five dishes off the a la carte menu rather than being presented with the chef's set menu.  With five of us, that meant we saw much of the menu and more than a few forkfuls were shared across the table.  Popular dishes were seared Hudson Valley foie gras with rhubarb, spicy peanut praline, black pepper biscuit and the aforementioned Cheerwine jelly; lump meat crab cake with kale, savoy cabbage, smoked ham and creole mustard butter; those shrimp and grits ... with Vidalia onion, spinach, ham, tomato and a shellfish emulsion; and stuffed Beaver Creek quail with foie gras mousse, new potatoes, dandelion greens, pork jowl, blueberries and a citrus bourbon jus.  Great wine pairings, thanks to the sommelier, came from California and Oregon.  The dessert menu is gorgeous, turning classics like pecan pie, chess pie and s'mores into elegant plates of delight.

Another memorable meal in the capital came at the Old Ebbitt Grill, probably less notable for the food than for atmosphere and history.  It's the city's oldest saloon, founded in 1856 and the haunt of the political elite ever since.  Most famously, President Ulysses Grant wandered over from the White House frequently to hang out at the dark, ornately carved bar and smoke plenty of his famous cigars.  The rooms are mostly late 19th century, wood panelling, painted ceilings and heavily framed paintings, though it's all a bit at odds with the modern building around it; the interiors were moved here in the early '80s when the site of the original was torn down.  

It was soon after that move that Robert and Carol Zedler brought their daughter Allyson and her two friends, Dianne and Ellen, here for dinner during a whirlwind visit to DC.  Twenty nine years later, and here the three of us were again, meandering down memory lane and treasuring a friendship as durable as Old Ebbitt's reputation.

Up in Baltimore, the Milton Inn hosted our big night out.  A fieldstone house built almost 300 years ago, the place sits on the main road north and was a critical stopping point for all kinds of famous travellers.  It's been a restaurant since the 1940s, its rural location (about 45 minutes from the city) and colonial-style interiors make it a particularly picturesque spot.  The menu here is a bit more classical haut cuisine, though there are still local touches including the ubiquitous Maryland crab.  I started with the chef's award-winning crab soup, heavily laced with sweet chunks of meat, and had more of the crustacean in the Maryland Crab cake that sat between the fillet and the hollandaise sauce of my main course.  Three courses and wine here was about the same price as Vidalia, so you're definitely paying for the history and the atmosphere.  But you get what you pay for ... the candlelit historic interiors make for a spectacularly romantic and intimate night.


Back downtown in Baltimore's Inner Harbor, an honourable mention must go to the Rusty Scupper.  It's the kind of place you find in any upscale waterfront development in the States:  modern, glass-walled, menu heavy on seafood with a few steaks thrown in, big bar.  Great views, and arguably the best crab cakes we had in Maryland.  I've borrowed this photo from their web site to demonstrate how the breading in a proper crab cake is no more than the glue that holds it all together, with the pieces of meat retaining their individuality.  We were lucky enough to catch soft shelled crabs in season, and the sandwich they served me ... the whole crab battered, deep fried and placed between slabs of soft bread with lettuce, tomato and mayo ... was decadently tasty.

Leaving Baltimore, we headed south for the final part of our holiday, a bit of quiet recovery in a particularly luxurious B&B.  But that's another story...

Finding my inner confederate on the Civil War trail

Until very recently I was far more interested in, and knew much more about, the English Civil War of the 17th century than the American one of the 19th.  Blame those sexy Cavalier hats and bucket top boots.  Sure, I knew the basics of my native conflict.  I had visited all the Lincoln sites in Springfield, Illinois, on multiple school trips and was dimly aware that a German-born ancestor fought on the Union side.  I was just never that captivated.

Nor did I ever think of myself as from the South.  The reply of most English people, when discovering I'm from St. Louis, is:  "oh, you're Southern".  I patiently explain that Missouri was a border state, and St. Louis likes to think of itself as highly cultured and cosmopolitan, identifying far more with the East Coast than anything below it.

After this trip, I'm re-thinking all of that.  North Carolina, Virginia and Maryland are steeped in Civil War sites.  The more I saw and learned, the more interested I became.  And as I looked at the culture around me, I began to realise that my home town's assumption that columns added sophistication to the front of every house, my aunt's nickname of "Sis", my grandmother's panoramic plantation-scene wallpaper in the dining room and my mother's insistence upon having a magnolia grandiflora in front of the house was ... well ... Southern.  This holiday was turning into a voyage of discovery, accompanied by a soundtrack of Alan Jackson and the taste of buttermilk biscuits.

The Civil War stuff started creeping in as we drove from the Shenandoah to Washington D.C.  The names on the map evoke major conflicts:  The Wilderness, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville.  My husband the Brit knows even more about the American conflict than I do about the English, and spent most of the drive talking about it.  (Helped by the fact that he'd been here before, on a trip with Army mates studying military history and strategy.)  Piers spins a good a good battlefield tale, and as we approached Washington I was ready for more.

Time for Ford's Theatre (already discussed in the 18.5.12 entry), where the set-up to the climax of Lincoln's murder is the long, horrible story of conflict, explained well in the basement museum.  I hadn't remembered that Lincoln's entire administration was spent at war.  Seven states seceded between his election and inauguration, and the poor man was assasinated just five days after Lee surrendered, but before the entirety of the Confederate army had laid down its arms.  That's one hell of a tragedy.

Just outside of Washington we visited Manassas, or Bull Run, site of two battles.  The first was the war's opening of the war, when nobody was taking it seriously, both sides thought it would be over quickly and civilians drove out from Washington to picnic and watch the action.  By the second go-round, the bloody and grim reality had set in.  Piers is particularly fascinated because the first conflict was fought looking back to old-fashioned Napoleonic strategy.  Just 13 months later, new military technology had changed battle tactics completely.  (This may sound boring, but if you're walking around with him, it's actually pretty cool.)  Even without the benefit of your own private military expert, you'll get drawn into the story through the displays and films in the visitor centres and the information boards around the fields.  And if you're not into the battle, it's a lovely walk through fine landscape.  

I was interested enough to email Dad as soon as we got home.  Was that ancestor of ours here?  Yup.  Great-great-grandfather Martin Scherstuhl.  Born April 1, 1839 in Wahlen, Germany, died March 6, 1933 in St. Louis.  Joined Company E, 2nd Regiment, New Jersey Infantry on May 28, 1861.  His first battle was at Manassas three months later.  He was back for second Bull Run in August 30, 1862.  After learning so much about those battles, and the others, I wondered just what kind of a man my ancestor was after the war, and how scarred he must have been from seeing all that death.  I'll never know, but the statistics lead to some dark imagining.

Having seen the beginning of the war in Virginia, we saw its end in North Carolina.  Lee's surrender is what most people know about, but much of the Confederate army was still active under General Joseph Johnston.  He and the Union General Sherman met at a small farmhouse called Bennett Place that happened to be half way between their two encampments.  Today, it's a visitors'  centre, a couple of log cabins, some monuments and woodland in suburban Durham.  

In a humble house borrowed from the resident farmers, the two generals ignored the politicians, treated each other as gentlemen and hammered out the definitive peace that actually ended the war.  The visitors' centre and guides do a fantastic job of bringing this little-known story and its central players to life.  As an indication of just how successful those negotiations were, Sherman and Johnston became lifelong friends.  Sherman died first.  Johnston attended the funeral in the pouring rain, refused to put on his hat in a mark of respect to his friend, and followed him to the grave days later thanks to pneumonia.  

While drinking in all this history, I was also enjoying the style of the people around me.  Laid back, cheerful, welcoming and gracious.  From Virginia ham to biscuits and gravy to cornbread to red velvet cake, I was thinking how much I liked the food.  (Pushing aside, for the moment, the reality that only a day spent in a field picking cotton was going to justify the combined calorie and fat count.)  Those wide porches, porch swings and columns make for a stunning house, I thought.  By the penultimate day of vacation, while laying in a hammock under a massive magnolia dotted with waxy flowers the size of a toddler's head, I raised my Kindle towards the B&B's WiFi and downloaded "Gone With The Wind."  Really, it had to be done.  If only there had been some nice house boy in white gloves to bring me a mint julep, the scene would have been perfect.

I'm glad that my great-great-grandfather fought to preserve the Union.  I think I now have a bit more of an idea of what the other side was fighting for, and an appreciation of the good elements of Southern cultural differentiation that have been preserved.  And I'll now admit it:  the American Civil War is really interesting.  Even without the impressive hats.

Two days in Baltimore pack a cultural punch

There's no tour guide like a passionate local.


Baltimore was the next stop on our trip, where we were given the royal treatment by my Aunt Marian.  Originally a St. Louis native (she was my Mom's dearest childhood friend), her family moved here more than 30 years ago and now she's a stellar ambassador for the place.  We had just two days of sightseeing, but we seemed to pack in a week's worth.

Our favourite discovery was undoubtedly Hampton, a colonial mansion just north of Towson, in suburban Baltimore.  When it was completed in 1790 it was the largest private home in America.  Its crowning cupola, which the family said was modelled on the dome of their distant relatives' place Castle Howard, is a pretty good indication of their aspirations to grandeur.  As is the sprawling estate and village of outbuildings and slave quarters on show today (though the current grounds are a fraction of what the family once owned).  It was the first building taken under the wing of the National Park Service for its architectural significance.  In addition to being impressive, it's also free.  You even get a detailed private tour from volunteers who really know their stuff.


The interior is a walk through decorative styles of the United States' first century.  The whole place was closed for three years in the middle of the last decade to allow a major restoration.  It's more re-creation, really, with wallpapers, window treatments and upholstery in the "style of" rather than the original.  The effect is stunning.  Ground floor rooms capture specific periods from colonial to high Victorian, with colours so crisp and vibrant you expect the owners to pop in any minute.  The Federal period dining room with panoramic "scenes of Paris" wallpaper made me swoon with decorating envy.  Upstairs, they're still raising funds to complete the bedrooms but what's there now equals what you can see in many English National Trust houses.


Second best, and a far better known site, is Fort McHenry, just beyond the downtown area on the harbour.  It was while watching the shelling of this fort from captivity on a British ship that Francis Scott Key wrote the Star Spangled Banner during the War of 1812.  There's a good little museum here to that oft-forgotten conflict.  There's a dramatic film about the circumstances of Key's composition that ends with the anthem playing and the screen lifting on a glass wall revealing the fort with the flag waving on cue.  (Piers' English dislike of sentimentality or overt patriotism had him shuddering with revulsion; I was dabbing back a tear.)  If, like Piers, you're not so keen on the American flag waving, you can just go enjoy the fort, which is an intact star-shaped installation with lots of good examples of defensive embankments and cannon of various types.

Downtown, we were impressed by the Basilica, Baltimore's Roman Catholic cathedral.  It's a rare example of neoclassical style in an American church, with light colours, a streamlined interior and a coffered dome.  Nearby is the Walters Collection, a small museum that's the one place we wish we could have spent more time.  Much like the Wallace Collection in London, it's a quirky, diverse and very personal collection (in this case of father and son) installed in what was once a home.  What you see today has been remodelled to look like an Italian palazzo with a glass-covered roof and galleries leading off of it.  A great example of the quirkiness:  the chamber of wonders, a re-creation of one of those late-Renaissance private "kabinetts" that had a little bit of everything on show, from paintings to armour to indian artefacts to oddities from the natural world.  Should I ever be back in Baltimore, the Walters will get a whole day.  Surrounding the museum is the Mount Vernon neighbourhood, a gracious area of early 19th century homes, parks and tree-lined streets.

As intrepid as any tour bus driver, Marian took us through many other picturesque neighbourhoods, showed us evidence of the 19th century mills that made the city wealthy, drove us by Camden Yards (the baseball park that set the current American trend for modern stadiums built in an old-fashioned style), drove us around the harbour, showed us the train station from which Lincoln left for his inauguration in Washington and made sure we saw all the major buildings downtown.  We even found enough time to squeeze in a diversion to Annapolis, a picturesque harbour town that looks more like a film set for Moby Dick than the capital of a state and home to a national naval academy.  You can't miss the existence of the latter, however, as every 10th person on the streets seems to be wearing a cadet's crisp white uniform.


Beyond sightseeing, we also got dipped in local culture.  Our visit coincided with Preakness weekend; that race is as iconic to Baltimore as the Kentucky Derby is to Louisville.  I forgot to ask if there was a Preakness equivalent to a mint julep; the house drink at Marian's is a stiff gin and tonic.  We watched the race and attended a barbecue with the locals, where Marian's son introduced us to the fine art of beer can chicken.  (He also sent us home with a beer can chicken rack, which we've since used with great results.)  

Not to be outdone, Uncle Joe exposed us to the ultimate Maryland culinary tradition:  crabs.  At a local place known for them, we sat down to an impressive heap of the critters, steamed in a generous coat of the local spice mix, Old Bay.  (Evidently, you can't call something a Maryland crab cake unless it's seasoned with the stuff.  We came home with two big boxes.)  Once armed with pints of beer, wooden mallets and a large stack of napkins, Joe showed us how best to pry the crabs open and pick out their meat.  Great fun.  (Another night, we went upscale on the cuisine.  To be related in an upcoming blog on the most memorable food of the trip.)


On a map, Baltimore seems so close to the capital as to be just a suburb of D.C.  I had few expectations.  The visit was for family, sightseeing was icing on the cake.  The reality?  There's more than enough to see here to make it a destination in its own right.  I see what Marian loves about the place.

Exploring DC: The best of the rest

Five minutes after we emerged from the metro train on our first day in DC, closed streets and a profusion of uniforms told us something was going on.  Moments later, as we stood expectantly on the corner of C and 14th, the presidential motorcade glided by and we got a clear glimpse of the leader of the free world, that instantly recognisable profile bent forward in serious thought.  

That, dear readers, is a metaphor for the whole trip.  It wasn't the planned and much anticipated stuff like the tours that provided our finest moments, but the things that just rolled with happenstance into our day.  My top Washington D.C. tourism tip?  Pick a couple of things you must see and then just wander.

Our wandering started with the monuments.  We did the whole official loop, starting with Jefferson's Pantheon-like temple on the Tidal Basin and ending at Vietnam.  (It's at least four miles, so be ready to walk.)  Roosevelt's series of water garden "rooms" is striking in its difference, though English visitors may think it seems more like a Chelsea show garden than a presidential memorial.  The new Martin Luther King memorial is striking, with a giant statue of him striding forth from the white marble mountains behind him.  Korea haunting, with its slightly larger-than-life patrol striding through the undergrowth.  Vietnam sobering, with its grim blackness and the weight of its names.  World War II patriotic and bold, fitting for the unambiguous war in which we know we were force of good against evil.  And Lincoln, sadly, disappointing.  This is probably because you know it so well, the reality finds it hard to live up to those quiet, inspirational, dramatically lit scenes in the movies when our heroes go, alone, to commune with the spirit of the great unifier.  In reality, it was the monument most in need of renovation, with dirty roof panels and a patchy lawn, a view of a drained reflecting pool under re-construction and hordes of shrieking children.  

That was really the issue for all the monuments.  It's hard to feel the appropriate sense of contemplation and reverence when surrounded by little people playing tag and packs of teenagers more concerned about gossiping with their friends than learning anything.  Where the hell were their teachers?  Would it have been possible to actually gag them, and tie them into a chain gang, to force them to pay attention?  And could I arrange a public execution at the foot of the Washington monument for the pack who "honoured" the Korean vets by seeing who could jump highest to pluck leaves off the bottom of the pleached limes at that memorial?  End of rant.

Our local hosts suggested that the monuments are actually best seen at night, when they are illuminated and the kiddies have cleared out.  That is the way we saw the 9.11 memorial at the Pentagon, certainly the most poignant of all.  Each person who died in the crash is commemorated by their own wing-shaped steel sculpture with a small reflecting pool beneath.  These are organised in rows by year of birth, forming a grim and sobering bell curve.  We couldn't linger long, the emotions it sparked were so palpable.  Just what a good monument should do.


And then there's the National Mall and its staggering array of museums.  Top of my priority list was American History and, again, reality didn't live up to anticipation.  Maybe the place is showing its age (very '60s, in a tired and worn rather than a cool, Mad Men way), maybe I'm jaded by a world of museums since I visited as a 19-year old, or maybe I was just tired.  But exhibits seemed too heavy on boards of text and videos, too light on actual artefacts or substantive information.  Julia Child's kitchen was closed for renovation, a huge disappointment.  Kudos, however, for the new installation of the Star Spangled Banner, a vast improvement over the old.  And the first ladies' gowns are as wonderful as ever.

I hadn't intended to get to the National Gallery, worrying that Piers would be bored and thinking we should concentrate on stuff we couldn't see at home.  (Art from the great masters isn't exactly unusual in London!)  But we ended up close by, the line to the National Archives was long and we could walk right in to the gallery so...  Once inside, I remembered just how magnificent the building is.  Take out the art, it would still be worth seeing in all its neo-classical glory.  And the collections are magnificent enough to impress even those who pop into London's National Gallery all the time.  I transformed quickly into the art historian's daughter, revelling in the Renaissance section where I payed homage to Raphael's Alba Madonna, Verrocchio's bust of Lorenzo de'Medici, Leonardo's Ginevra de'Benci and the room of Botticellis.  It's as good as a trip to Florence.  We also zipped though the American section, where the star sight must be Saint-Gauden's Shaw Memorial, an almost life-sized bronze relief sculpture of the first black combat troops in the Civil War, immortalised in the film Glory.

This is also a great place to grab lunch, as it's off the beaten track of the school groups.  Too expensive, too high culture.  The cafe in the basement has great food, but horrific service.  It's Catalan-themed, with a wonderful buffet worthy of a proper restaurant.  But make sure you order your wine well in advance.   And if you're allergic to tomatoes, you're in trouble, as poor Piers discovered.

Another highlight was the National Portrait Gallery, with a stunning collection that probably teaches you more about history, in a more thoughtful way, than all the "fun" stuff at the history museum.  It deserved far longer than we gave it, especially the gallery of presidents.  The building wraps around a courtyard, now glass-roofed, where they do afternoon jazz and cocktails.  (Which is the reason we didn't have so much time in the galleries.)

Just around the corner is Ford's Theater, where Lincoln was shot.  Now a part of the National Park Service, thus free, with an excellent museum in the basement.  After viewing that you sit in the theatre itself, where a much-practiced Ranger tells you the story of the fateful night.

All those free museums help you to justify the painful $21.95 you'll shell out to get into the Newseum, a temple, monument and institution of discovery for the profession of journalism.  It might not be everyone's cup of tea, but I was joined in Washington by two old and dear friends who were with me at Northwestern's Medill School of Journalism; for us, this was pilgrimage.  It's a fantastic place and really deserves a whole day.  My favourite bit was the history of news gallery, bisected by a double-sided row of sliding glass drawers of real newspapers going back to the 15th century.  All the big dates in modern history are here, along with quirky stuff like the report of one of King Charles II's precious spaniels going missing.  (Clearly, Datchet has inherited his wanderlust from original sources.)  The three of us gathered, a bit mournfully, around the case with the old wire machine in it, with much bittersweet remembering of tearing copy from its ceaselessly spewing mouth and some observation of just how old we were getting.  The global gallery that explores just how free the press is from country to country is fascinating, and Tim Russert's office, donated by his family and installed intact, will draw a sad sigh from those who remember him.  More likely to draw tears is the gallery holding one of the communications masts from the Twin Towers, with an exploration of reportage around that event.  And if it all gets too heavy for you, the balcony on the top floor has one of the best views in Washington.

Beyond the tight parameters of the major tourist sights, circumstance also brought us to Alexandria for a few hours.  I had wanted to get to Georgetown but an Alexandria resident encountered earlier in the trip told me her home had all of the charm and none of the crowds of the more famous suburb.  I have to believe her, because we spent a very pleasant couple of hours strolling around, looking at colonial architecture, window shopping and taking in views of the broadening Potomac.  The big historic sight here is Gadsby's tavern, which George Washington frequented and where Thomas Jefferson had his inaugural banquet.  It still operates as a working restaurant, which would have been fun had we had the time.

So much to see, so little time.  Story of the trip.  This time, we embraced the unexpected.  Next time, we won't plan anything at all, and know that whatever we wander into will need most of a day to do it justice.

Crowds make official DC tours a disappointment

As democracies go, the UK is arguably a lot more representative than the United States.  The average member of parliament supports 92,000 people, the US congressional representative 700,000.  Despite those numbers, the US reps have a fine machine for helping their constituents to visit Washington:  multiple tour opportunities requested through a web page, with a congressional aide getting back to you personally with details once tours are assigned.  Drop by offices in person for passes to the galleries of the Senate and the House.  

But get to the tour sites themselves and you see the problem of scale.  In general, the higher profile the attraction, the less we enjoyed it, because jostling crowds dominated the experience more than history or architecture.

Our White House tickets advised us to show up half an hour early for security.  We did, and found ourselves waiting more than 45 minutes in a long, slow line up to the security hut itself.  Once past two check in desks, two types of scanner and one keen-nosed Alsatian, we discovered that the "tour" is no such thing.  Instead, you get to shuffle along a defined trail with the pack, pushed at the group pace, referring to the brochure you receive at the start for information.  It reminded me of the moving sidewalk they've installed to view the crown jewels. Necessary to handle the crowds, I suppose, but the result was impersonal, uninteresting and a long way from the fact-filled guide who took us around in 1983.  Sure, this is partially the impact of 9-11, but I think it also must simply be the increase in modern tourism.

The guards posted in each room redeemed the experience.  They look like Secret Service heavies but are, in fact, deeply knowledgeable about everything around them. I had a lovely chat with one about Duncan Phyfe furniture, and with another about the snooty Mrs. Monroe, who felt the whole institution of the presidency was far too democratic and downmarket, and thus purchased some decidedly imperial furnishings to kick things up a notch (see photo at left).  Should I ever return for another tour, I now know the drill.  Go to the visitors' centre first, then once in the mansion step aside from the crowd and pepper the guide in each room with lots of questions.  Sadly, we didn't have time for much of that as all the queuing had already put us far behind our plan for the day.

Ignoring the discomfort and the crowds, the White House delighted me as an architectural showpiece.  Its main reception rooms ... the Red, Green and Blue ... are perfect jewels of Federal style (the American parallel to Regency), perhaps my favourite decorative look of all time.  It is in pristine condition ... unlike most of the English country houses that are its closest stylistic companion ... and is built on a manageable scale ... unlike the palaces that would be its functional equivalent.  In addition to those three rooms, you see the East Room (familiar from many press conferences and televised events), the State Dining Room and the North Portico (essentially, the entrance hall).  The tour takes in a few rooms in the ground floor but, sadly, the round Diplomatic Room with Jackie O's magnificent landscape wallpaper is no longer open to the public.  All in, the place is just not that big.  

The capitol building, on the other hand, is massive, and you're suitably awed and dwarfed from the outside.  Sadly, the crowds kill that impression once you're in.  They government has tried to deflect this with a massive visitor centre, around which you mill until you are channelled into a multiplex-sized cinema, and out into lanes to be given headsets and assigned your tour guide.  All very Disney.  After the White House, it was a great joy to have a guide.  But she doesn't guide you through much.  The crypt, the rotunda, the national statuary hall (formerly the House of Representatives' chamber) and out.  

From an artistic point of view, the capitol isn't as successful as the White House.  The art in the rotunda is monumental but, let's be honest, it's not very good.  And I have to think George Washington, who was so careful about remaining a humble private citizen, would be mortified that his apotheosis (a grand assumption into heaven) decorates the dome.  I'm sure the crush of bodies had something to do with it, but the rotunda seemed gloomy and not nearly as large as it appears from the outside.  

More fun, though still too crowded, is the statuary hall.  (Better when empty, as the photo shows.)  When the capitol was under construction there wasn't enough cash to furnish it properly, so each state was invited to supply 2 statues of prominent citizens.  The tradition, and the 2 statue limit, continues today, though the 100-statue total now spills out of the hall.  These are not the people you might expect.  For whatever reason, be it political correctness, the desire to please interest groups or the choice of the state legislators, some mighty quirky people end up here.  Florida, for example, has a statue of the guy who invented air conditioning.  Appropriate, since few would be able to live in the state without it.  

It was thus that I found myself standing at the feet of Illinois' Frances Willard, founder of the Women's Christian Temperance Union ... the dear ladies who opposed alcohol and drove the movement towards prohibition ... and first dean of women's studies at Northwestern.  We used to celebrate her birthday each year with a great progressive drinking party in the dormitory that bears her name.  I admit to feeling a bit guilty in her marble presence.

Things got a bit better over at the Supreme Court, where the crowds slacked off.  The tour here was simply access to the main court room and a talk about how things work.  Sadly, the talk was by a chirpy intern who made a big point of saying how she wasn't a lawyer and, when trying to answer a question from my darling, detailed husband, said she didn't know much about "static" law.  (She meant statute.)  Still, it was fascinating, as were the displays in the basement.  I decided that the best gig to have in the three branches is definitely Supreme Court judge.  Great offices, lots of power, much lower profile.

Ironically, the one tour we were offered but passed on was the most impressive of the buildings.  The minute we walked into the Library of Congress, we fell in love.  (The proposed tour was at 8:45, just too damned early for a vacation day.)  An ornate, Italianate villa on steroids, encrusted with literary decorations, the library offers multiple galleries filled with different displays.  The most impressive is Thomas Jefferson's library, but we also enjoyed the section on the Caribbean and central America, where I gazed lovingly at a first edition of Exquemelin's Buccaneers of America, the book that defined most of the myths of piracy that have come down through history.  You can't get into the main reading room, but you can gaze down on it from a gallery.  It brought tears to my eyes.  Any civilisation that builds something this magnificent to preserve and protect learning has to be great, right?  And the best thing about the view?  No crowds.

On the presidential trail ... with wine

More US presidents (eight) have come from the fair state of Virginia than any other.  In the early years of the republic it was starting to become an issue; John Adams stands alone as the outsider in the first five administrations.  These days, that makes Virginia fertile presidential sightseeing territory, and the jewels in the crown are undoubtably Washington's Mount Vernon and Jefferson's Monticello.

Seeing Monticello has long been an ambition of mine.  Every St. Louisan grows up with a healthy respect for the man.  Washington might be the father of the country, but Jefferson's Louisiana Purchase made him the father of my bit.  It's the Jefferson Memorial that graces our largest park and the Jefferson-initiated Lewis and Clark expedition that fuels our early mythology.  We even had a local bank building that was a scale copy of Monticello.  Adding to my childhood conditioning was my love of Palladian architecture, of which he was the first great proponent in America, and my recent discovery that he was a wine fanatic.  (Of the last, more later.)  Thus Thomas Jefferson's home was one of my top three objectives for the trip.

It's worth the effort.  Fascinating, picturesque, educational and evocative of the man.  It's also tiny.  It seems the scale of that local bank wasn't as small as I thought.  Monticello's main living space is no bigger than a modern, generously-sized suburban home, and back in Europe would be more of a garden folly or country cottage than the estate of a great man.  It's a humbling reminder that this was a colonial frontier.

The house is built on a circular plan, with one room flowing into the next.  You start in the main hall and move counter clockwise, progressing through the family sitting room, Jefferson's library and bedroom, the formal sitting room, the dining room and guest bedrooms.  There are other rooms, not normally open to the public, on upper floors.  The star attraction is the great man's private space.  His library flows right into his office, which is divided from his bedroom by his bed, tucked under an arch but open to each room on the sides.  That he slept within four strides of his desk says a lot about the man's appetite for work and study.  To really appreciate this space, though, you must also visit the Library of Congress, which we did later in the trip.  There, you can see the library Jefferson sold when he hit financial difficulties as an older man.  In D.C., it's gorgeously housed in a spiral of 7+ foot shelves, glassed in from each side, in a temple-like room with a footprint that's probably the equivalent of the main house at Monticello.  How all those books fit in that library is a wonder.  They must have been stacked to near the ceiling, in so many piles there could only have been a few rat runs through the volumes.  How the man actually found anything in the crush is beyond imagining.

Jefferson's library held titles on every conceivable topic, from Palladio's architectural guides to mathematics textbooks to battle strategy to a handbook on surgery.  Even though the books are gone, the restless and comprehensive nature of Jefferson's mind is on show all over his house.  Decor ranges from American Indian artefacts to fine European silver and china.  Portraits of great men of history ... many of them Jefferson's friends and colleagues ... look down on the sitting room.  Scientific instruments and Jefferson's inventions are everywhere.  Most frequently photographed is the machine he created to duplicate a letter while he was writing, but my favourite had to be the small dumbwaiters built into the mantle piece in the dining room for the express purpose of bringing bottles of wine up from the cellar.

There's more to see than the house, of course.  Monticello's design cleverly incorporates a wide range of service areas beneath walkways spreading out from the house.  We loved seeing how he re-engineered his country kitchen to allow for the precise cooking techniques necessary for the haut cuisine he brought home from his time as French ambassador.  Volunteers make a stab at recreating some of the estate's plantings, but to an eye used to English gardens, none of the beds were particularly impressive and the lawn was in a deplorable shape.  (Something we observed almost everywhere we went on this trip.)  The view is really the best thing outside the house, especially when the tour guide points out how you can actually see the University of Virginia campus from here, and Jefferson used to sit on in his gardens with a telescope inspecting the progress of the buildings he designed.

At the foot of the hill, below the house, there's a big, modern visitors' complex with a museum and an extensive gift shop.  We didn't have time to explore, but clearly you could spend another hour or more there.

About 20 miles north of Monticello is Barboursville.  It once held the largest mansion in Virginia, designed by Jefferson for state governor James Barbour.  (You can scramble around the ruins now.)  It was the birthplace of US President Zachary Taylor.  (One of the 19th century ones nobody remembers.)  But the best presidential link is undoubtably to wine.  Jefferson was mad about the stuff.  So enthralled he kept copious notes about what he drank throughout his life, now the subject of a fascinating wine-skewed biography by John Hailman.  Poor Tom dreamed all of his long life of creating a local wine, but despite years of planting vines, never got the end product out of a bottle.

Today there's a major wine trail through Northern Virginia, and Barboursville ... based on awards and rankings ... can claim to be the most serious of the wineries.  We stopped there for one of the most comprehensive tastings of our lives.  This is the only American operation for the Italian Zonin family, who run vineyards in seven provinces in Italy.  That vast experience may be why they feel ambitious enough to grow 13 different varieties of grape here; I've never seen so many at a single estate.  The $5 tasting fee takes you through the results in up to 19 varieties, of which we sampled almost all.  

They're best know for their "Octagon", a classic, Burgundy-style blend of merlot, cabernet franc, cabernet sauvignon and petit verdot.  Amongst other claims to fame, it was served to Queen Elizabeth on her last American visit.  (And to our friends Crystal and Mike at their wedding.)  Piers and I actually thought their Petit Verdot Reserve was better (intense dark fruits and spices), and would be magnificent with two or three years cellaring.  On the white side, their award-winning viognier reserve (tropical flavours, floral tones) won our approbation, and two bottles came with us for celebratory dinners later in the trip.  Another award-winner is their Malvaxia Reserve, a sweet, fruity desert wine made from grapes air dried for four months before pressing and fermentation. Should we ever be this way again, the vineyard's B&B and gourmet restaurant would be high on our list.

On the road north we passed James and Dolly Madison's estate, Montpelier.  No time for this one, however, as we had a date at the mother of all presidential homes, Mount Vernon. 

Like Monticello, Mount Vernon is surprisingly small given the status and prosperity of its owner.  It is, however, both larger and more traditional than Jefferson's place.  The large dining room is the grandest of the interiors and could easily fit in any late 18th century country house in England.  There's a guided tour but it's sadly rushed as, once you've been impressed by the dining room, you get hurried past a small sitting room, breakfast room, a few bedrooms including the one where Washington died, and finally the president's office.  While interesting to see, it lacks the quirky stamp of individuality that Jefferson put on Monticello.  The view here, however, takes the prize.  You can collapse into a rocker on the back porch and look out over the Potomac, where government protections have ensured you get the same uninterrupted view of water and trees that Washington saw.

The grounds are more extensive here, with gardens and outbuildings restored to show how a colonial plantation worked.  Like Williamsburg, many of these buildings are occupied by costumed historical interpreters who explain what would have happened there.  The real surprise, though, was the visitor centre at the edge of the property.  Like Monticello's, it was new and extensive, but here we had time to explore.

We came to discover that this is a typical American trick with any tourist attraction that has more visitors than it can comfortably accommodate.  They build a visitor's centre with a museum within it.  You're shuffled quickly through the attraction (the White House and Ford's Theater were other examples) and left to do your learning and wandering in the museum.  The Mount Vernon example was the best we saw, with one section devoted to furniture, decorative objects and personal items from the house, and the other to Washington's life.  This latter was tremendously well done, mixing artefacts, displays, hands-on activities and video.  In the main film, seats vibrate to cannon fire and snow cascades down during the Valley Forge scene.  Later, you can put your hand on a bible and take the presidential oath on the porch of the capitol.  You can gawk at the great man's false teeth.  Near the end, you can pay your respects in a room centred by a copy of Washington's coffin.  

This is all great fun.  But, as with Monticello, there's a serious undertone of wonder here.  These were truly great men, and visiting their houses reminds you of that.  Washington could have been a military dictator.  He could have been king.  And yet he walked away.  Retired to this beautiful estate, farmed, sat on the back porch and contemplated the fine view.  If history had more Washingtons, the world would be a much different place.

Country roads lead to holiday mood, great scenery and some culinary surprises

We've just returned from a marvellous two-week holiday in the mid-Atlantic states of America, prompted by two reasons to celebrate:  the wedding of our friends Mike and Crystal, and the conclusion of my chemotherapy.  We balanced some laid back R&R time with aggressive sightseeing and, as ever, foodie delights.  There are at least eight fresh blog entries ahead.  And though I'm writing after our return, the post dates will reflect the time we were actually travelling.
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Here's a very important discovery about Google maps:  they calculate the most direct route between points A & B, not the fastest or most logical.  With roaming charges being prohibitive once we left the UK, I'd downloaded all the maps we'd need onto my iPad.  I thought this was pretty clever until we discovered that the route between Raleigh/Durham airport and McGaheysville, Virginia, that looked straight, quick and easy was actually a series of small country roads, frequently interrupted by stoplights in tiny towns and confused by the American habit of giving one road multiple numerical designations.  It was not the ideal drive after a 7-hour trans-Atlantic (especially when one of us had never driven in the US before), but we made it, and found ourselves happily collapsing into bed at the Massanutten Resort 23 hours after leaving home.

A good night's sleep and a bit of sunshine showed off a view worth travelling for.   The Shenandoah Valley is spectacular, in a placid, gentle sort of way.  A broad, long, softly undulating valley of rich green fields, fed by a broad, lazy river, ringed by tree-covered mountains so ancient they've been worn down to really big hills.  The trees here are a particularly verdant shade of blue green, made deeper and more mysterious in the morning mist; easy to see how early settlers came up with the Blue Ridge for a name.  Small towns with a high percentage of antique shops and barbecue joints dot the landscape and country music dominates the airwaves.  Our resort's briefing even warned against feeding the bears.  America's east coast might be dotted with metropolises but clearly, it's possible to get into deep country quickly.


At just 90 minutes from Washington D.C., this is a retreat much loved by capital residents ... including our marrying friends.  They wed in an outdoor ceremony in front of an arbor that framed that luscious countryside, the bride wearing cowboy boots with her dress, the reception in a renovated (and very comfortable) barn and the feast featuring barbecue, beer and cupcakes.   With a scene this laid back and relaxed, we left the hustle and bustle of real life behind us.

We stayed at the Massanutten Resort.  Winding up the side of a mountain and covering many square miles, it's primarily time share condos with four hotel buildings in the centre.  Originally a ski resort  (it seems one of every four Virginians we spoke to learned to ski there), they've branched heavily into summer activities, golf and a cruise-ship style calendar of constant events to make it a resort for four seasons.  Judging from the crowd at check-in Friday night, and the people we saw taking sales tours of the place, they're doing well.   It's not a luxury destination ... the hotel rooms are on the basic side (think La Quinta with better views), the changing rooms at the leisure complex have concrete floors and the main restaurant combined cheerful service, with heaps of tasteless but cheap food high in saturated fats and carbs ... but at $90 a night it was convenient and comfortable.  

There's not a great deal of sightseeing in the immediate area; the place is more about the great outdoors.  We did wander to the nearest proper town, Harrisonburg, featuring a classic 19th century courthouse square, a farmers'  market and some gracious houses. Here was our first exposure to the wide porches and tall columns that define Southern residential aspiration. At the farmers market, we encountered a folk band jamming in the car park and Mennonite women (this religious community was amongst the early settlers) selling home made bread and freshly picked strawberries.  We could see why our friends like the area. 

The local food is as "down home" as the rest of the scene.  After our initial experience within the resort, we had better luck down the mountain at the Thunderbird Cafe in McGaheysville.  This was still high fat, high carbs and big portions, but the food tasted good.  So good, in fact, we ended up eating here three times in three days.  The classic American cafe menu of pancakes, omelettes, burgers, etc. expanded to include southern classics.  Country fried steak. Grits. Biscuits and sausage gravy.  (Piers' first biscuit triggered a debate that ran the whole vacation.  His argument:  Biscuits are just scones by a different name.  Mine:  They are a distinct form of bread with a different taste and texture.  We haven't resolved that one, though all locals, of course, agreed with me. )

Slightly less successful dining, though with an equally local flavour, was up the road at Log Cabin BBQ.  If we needed any more proof we were in a foreign land, we got it when we asked for a beer and the cheery waitress told us "we don't serve alcohol because this is a family restaurant."  Hmmm.  Still reeling from that shock, we were introduced to deep fried pickles.  Surprisingly tasty.  Piers' next new experience was hush puppies.  Sadly, the best part of his meal, as his North Carolina style pulled pork was drenched in so much vinegar as to be almost inedible, and the cheery waitress didn't discover his ribs were marinated in tomato until after she brought them to the table.  If the pie that ended our meal was home made ... as it really should be whenever you're eating in a log cabin ... I'd be surprised.  I wished for another of Crystal's wedding cupcakes instead.  Deeply average pie, and a decidedly unAmerican sized piece.  (So small, it was positively French.)  Their one triumph, surprisingly, was my St. Louis style ribs.  Which I'd never considered with hush puppies and fried pickles before, but this may be a Southern adaptation worth trying.

After three nights of country delights and country cooking, it was time to move on.  Let the sightseeing begin.