Stevns Klimt: Where geology, architecture and storytelling meet

Travellers familiar with the towering white walls of the Seven Sisters on the Kent Coast, or with Ireland’s spectacular coastline at Moher, may find the Danish deployment of the word “cliffs” at Stevns a somewhat amusing. Though composed of sparkling white chalk like their cousins around Dover, the cliffs of Stevns … called Stevns Klint locally … are just 130 feet at their highest and much lower for most of the 11 miles they run along the Baltic. So on first glance the fact that the cliffs have been named a UNESCO World Heritage site can be perplexing.

It’s not the size that makes these cliffs important, it turns out, but a wrinkle of geology.

Stevns is the best place in the world to see a long line of fish clay, known to scientists as the K-Pg Boundary, that separates the age of the dinosaurs from the rise of the mammals. It helped scientists Luis and Walter Alvarez develop and prove their theory that the dinosaurs were wiped out by the impact of a giant asteroid on the Earth.

You wouldn’t have thought that was enough to base a museum around, much less to captivate punters for well over an hour, but this place is well worth a visit even if you think geology sounds boring.  It’s not … and this may just change your mind. You’ll also be quite the trend setter; the museum was only opened by Queen Margrethe two months ago.

The beautiful, modern building is sunk into the cliff top, entirely invisible from the road and only really seen to its full beauty if you’re on the cliff walk about half a mile away. In between is a defunct limestone quarry, the source for many of Copenhagen’s grand 19th century stone facades, now part of the site's redevelopment as a cultural centre. It’s the massive hole left by stone extraction that now allows the museum to burrow into the limestone like a Bond villain’s lair.

Inside, an open plan space runs the length of the quarry-fronting windows, its sleek, white design reminiscent of a modern concert hall. A grand piano reinforces that perception; they host concerts here and the aunt who showed us around said the acoustics are surprisingly good, despite all those hard surfaces. Under normal circumstances, however, most of the space is taken up with a shop selling local crafts (jewellery and decorative items crafted from the limestone, watercolours, wood working, local honey) and a surprisingly good cafe with gourmet sandwiches, thick soups and local beers. My husband's aunt, who lives in walking distance, says the cafe is becoming popular with neighbours who go to the museum just for the food, and for walkers who use the car park to start cliff walks from here.

The museum stretches along the length of this space, but on the side dug into the cliff. You start in a theatre with a massive block of limestone taking centre stage, K-Pg line visible along its length. Even when the lights go down, its pristine whiteness glimmers in the dark. Then comes a film designed to use the odd projection space … stone at the front, stage around and behind … to dramatic effect. The stone appears and disappears as we learn how it came to be. You can ask for it to be run in English but, to be honest, the graphics are so good you don’t need to. There’s an ocean with a vibrant ecosystem living, dying and sinking its bones into the sea bed below that will become the base of our cliffs. Continents shift and it becomes a jungle, with dinosaurs stomping through. Then comes the asteroid, and a frighteningly effective cataclysm blasting through the room with more sound and light. And then primitive mammals emerge from their hiding places to forge a new world. 

After the film, a long gallery with multiple displays fills in the details, with all signage in Danish and English. There’s more on dinosaurs and fossils, with some skeletons kids will love. An entertaining tree of life, projected with light and growing from source to today every few minutes, shows how everything on earth connects to those lucky asteroid survivors. The movie explaining how the Alavrezes came to, and proved, their theory is a case study in how to use solid storytelling principles to make the complicated simple. Honestly, you can say that about the whole place. And there’s a highly entertaining table at the far end where you can play God, sending the asteroid towards Earth time and again to see the different ill effects. Show me the tsunami! This time, obliterate sunlight!

Given the horrors of the table of doom, it’s a good thing that the curators choose this time to point out the low statistical chances of this happening again and allowing you to dig into the variety of NASA-led global plans to stop an incoming asteroid should one appear. At this point, any American or English museum would doubtless have inserted a section on asteroid cataclysms in film history from Armageddon to Don’t Look Up, with Aerosmith’s Don’t Want to Miss a Thing on the sound system and an opportunity to have your photo with a cut out of Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck saving the world.

But the Danes are too classy for that. Instead, you head out through a glass tunnel called the triumph of life, where exquisitely taxidermised examples of today’s animal kingdom flock, prance, stroll and slither around you. The swan extended to full wingspan above you is a wonder to behold, but it’s the red panda all the kids will want to bring home. Cuddly toy animals are available in the gift shop, naturally. 

There are plans afoot to develop the artificial valley of the quarry, hopefully including the rescue of a magnificent turn-of-the-20th century round barn made entirely of wood. We walked through it and it’s a spectacular space. The cliff walks are lovely and there are some pretty beaches. Book a room at Rødvig Kro (Inn) and make a weekend of it. For now, this is well off the beaten track but just an hour from Copenhagen, making it an excellent side trip from the usual urban visit.

Who’s best at Christmas? Raise that Dannebrog high.

Marry the man (or woman), marry the family. The saying is usually delivered with a sense of menace. In my case, it turned out to be a winning ticket in the marital lottery. My husband’s network of Danish relations sprawls over four generations, from a nonagenarian aunt to newborn first cousins twice removed, all with vivacious senses of humour and lashings of charm. And those are just the ones likely to turn up for Christmas lunch. 

My welcome into real Danish life has been one of the delights of my marriage. Everyone loves Copenhagen, but few tourists get far beyond it. Most know the Danes are amongst the happiest people in the world (2nd after the Finns in the current World Happiness Index) but few are privileged to “go local” in Danish homes. The Christmas holidays are a brilliant time to do both. Between Dickens’ legacy and German Christmas markets, you might think the English and the Germans had cornered the market on Christmas tradition. Now visiting during the holidays for the third time, I may have to put the Danes at the top of my league table for Christmas cheer. Here, in some cases clearly thanks to my privileged access, are my reasons why. 

CHRISTMAS DECORATING

Our first married Christmases were a time of tension as I watched my husband react with distaste to many of my American traditions: decorations up on Black Friday; tree packed so tightly with an abundance of ornament you can hardly tell there’s greenery beneath; an infrastructure of coloured, flashing lights so bright you can read unaided from across the room by the light of the tree alone; an artificial tree because, given the preceding descriptions, starting with a real pine is a bit pointless. Seeing a Christmas tree in situ in a Danish home reveals the core of the difference: Americans are about the decoration, Danes are about the tree itself. 

All the ones I’ve seen here manage to look like they’re growing through the floor of the room. They are a celebration of bringing nature indoors. Baubles enhance but don’t overwhelm, and often reinforce the beauty of the natural world. With their white lights and decorations made of straw, paper and wool, Danish trees feel fundamentally organic. I also love the way that the national flag, the Dannebrog, is a regularly-used ornament, with strings of the red and white rectangles threaded through the branches to make an un-mistakably Danish tree.

The simplicity of the tree, however, doesn’t mean Danish Christmas decorations are austere … a point I missed before getting inside people’s homes. Christmas ornament can pop up anywhere, from festively adorned pots beside the front door to any table top or counter. Candles are an essential element of the Danes’ legendary hygge, and it’s all kicked up a notch at this time of year with traditional four-candle advent wreaths and fat advent candles that count down the days from one to 25, meant to burn a bit each day. 

Nisse are the Danish take on elves and they’re abundant in most homes. These are not the cute, lithe American spirits but something more ancient and gnome-like. Tall, peaked hats, enormous noses and abundant beards are classic features. They’re often joined by reindeer. And whether it’s the legacy of Hans Christian Andersen or simply that they go well with the flags, Danish soldiers in smart uniforms and tall bearskins often show up.

Unsurprisingly, all of these traditions make Copenhagen a wonderful place to shop for Christmas decor. For high-end, arty decorations head to the famous Illums Bolighus. Det Gammle Apotek, a few blocks down on the same famous shopping street, Strøget, is another home decorating store that’s a bit more populist. (If you’re in a hurry, both have branches at Tivoli.) I’m a huge fan of the shop at the National Museum, just behind Christiansborg Palace, that stocks lots of Danish classics. This includes reprints of 19th- and early 20th-century patterns for paper ornaments and nisse. None of these places do much in the way of after Christmas sales, probably confident that visiting foreigners will snap up much of the stock before they leave. The exception is Magasin du Nord, Copenhagen’s most famous department store. Its Christmas shop is the one locals swear by, and the one that’s reduced to clear floor space immediately after the holiday. By the time I got there at mid-day on the 28th, most of the stock was gone. 

HOMES WITH HYGGE

Winter in the south of England, despite its blessedly short and mild span, is a dim, wet slog to be endured

rather enjoyed. The Danes, forced to cope with a season darker, colder, and longer, embrace the challenge and build accordingly. The average British home, old and poorly-insulated, loses heat almost three times faster than a Danish one, despite the fact that Denmark’s housing stock is roughly the same age and Britain’s. (Source here.) All of the Danish homes I’ve been inside are light and airy, with open plans and large windows, solid insulation and often underfloor heating. We layer on jumpers as the damp sinks into our English bones; Danes just look out the window and celebrate being inside.

The famous Danish hygge is irrevocably bound with candlelight and open fires. Danes also decorate with a darkness-defying cheerfulness that embraces bright colours and a variety of pattern. Counter to perception, it’s not all mid-century modern and Ikea; I’ve observed a passion for classic antiques, often in pale wood finishes, and bold mixes of pattern and texture. Mirrors and glass make the most of light, but natural and artificial. It’s often dark here, but it’s never gloomy.

TIVOLI AT CHRISTMAS

Copenhagen’s famous Tivoli pleasure gardens are a year-round joy, but they have a special magic at Christmas. Everything is outlined in lights. The projections on the Moorish palace at the park’s heart may be the most spectacular, but I’m most fond of the enormous willows with their flowing, winter-bare arms glowing white. Extra rides like miniature trains and additional merry-go-rounds entertain the kids, illuminated by battalions of Christmas trees. All the regular rides are functioning as well. Someday I’ll hop onto the swings that ascend a tower and fly over Copenhagen, but not in cold rain.

No children are needed to be amused by the antics of the nisse on display behind the windows of Santa’s house. Christmas chalets pop up with holiday-themed shopping and cauldrons of steaming glogg, given extra spark with doses of rum and sides of klejner, deep-fried goodies that taste like the freshest, pillowiest, most subtly delicious cake donut you’ve ever imagined. 

Part of Tivoli’s magic comes from retaining a two-tier pricing system that separates admission from going on the rides. (Something Disneyland used to do until 1982.) That means you can get in and wander around for a relatively reasonable £17 each, less than any of the main British illuminations are charging for entry. Many people add dinner or a show at one of the garden’s many venues. We took advantage of a pop up stint by a Michelin-starred Portuguese restaurant inside the Japanese pagoda. Story to come.

THE DANISH LUNCH

Like Tivoli, the famous Danish lunch can be enjoyed at all times of the year, but it takes on added fun … and escalated levels of profligacy … with Christmas. The most we ever managed to get around the Ferrara holiday table was 10, and I was too young to remember it. For years, Christmas was usually only me and my mother. Eighteen sitting down to a single table that stretches across the ground floor of the house was nothing but a childhood fantasy. Something other families did. In our Danish family, it’s the norm. 

The main festivities are on Christmas Eve, with lighter lunches on following days. We had our lunch on Christmas afternoon, an epic feast that started about 2:30 and still saw a few sitting at table picking at chocolates seven hours later. In its multiple courses, length, diners wandering off and returning and constant grazing, the whole experience bears a striking resemblance to the time I joined distant cousins in New York for a Sicilian Easter. Except that this has a lot more alcohol. In between and throughout the fish, the meats, the cheeses, the rice pudding with cherry sauce and the chocolates laced with marzipan there’s beer and toast after toast with snapps. This is not the sweet, cocktail-making stuff but bracing, life affirming eau de vie in a bewildering variety of flavours. (Our hostesses home made version with orange, cinnamon and vanilla was fabulous. The Bornholm Distillery should use their chili version as a fire starter.) 

THE PARTY BARN

The typical Danish farmhouse is a long structure on an elevated basement with a deeply-stepped roof. In shape they’re not so different from the Viking long halls they descend from, though doubtless a good deal warmer. All the ones I’ve been in have a procession of high-ceilinged, often open-plan rooms on the main floor with some bedrooms lofted in the eaves. Typically there will be a series of barns facing the house in a “c” shape, making one complex around a courtyard. On bigger farms, there may be secondary courtyards. It’s easy to see how, in days before electric light and central heating, these complexes formed a defensive bulwark against the invaders of winter snow, sleet and wind.

I can’t confirm how common it is across all of Danish farming society, but in my husband’s family it seems essential to turn at least one of these outlying buildings into a party barn, complete with a proper bar. On our second night in the country we were celebrating a cousin’s birthday inside one, with a tree at the centre extending 20 to 25 feet to the barn roof, Christmas lights decorating tractors and harvesters to brighten the scene and banqueting tables groaning with the “pot luck” goodies contributed by guests. Another family barn is now a shop for an upscale French fabric business but that cousin has designed all of the stands holding bolts of fabric to roll easily into storage for parties. The bar, naturally, is a fixed structure. The cousins we were staying with have just moved into their property and are starting work on the barns now. I can’t wait to see their festive evolution. 

GLOGG

Most countries in Northern Europe have a version of mulled wine. The Danes’ is differentiated by raisins and slivered almonds stewed with the wine and served up at the bottom with a spoon to munch at the end. There’s also, inevitably, a lot more than wine to raise the alcoholic content. The specific recipe varies by family but it’s safe to say you shouldn’t be driving after even one glass of any of them.

Establishments vie for the title of best glogg maker of the season. My best this year was at Hviid’s Vinstue, a wood-panelled pub on the famous Kongens Nytorv that’s had 300 years to get their recipe right. We always warn guests about my husband’s version, but this is the first time that a single glass anywhere has made me feel positively unsteady. It was probably several teaspoons of alcohol plumped raisins consumed in place of lunch that pushed me over the edge.

Hviid’s recipe is a closely guarded secret but we’ve shared the Bencard family version here before. Follow this link, and have some lunch before you imbibe. Then have a Happy Christmas!

It’s back to “normal” as the pre-holiday diary burns the candle at both ends

Andy Williams really should have sung “It’s the most exhausting time of year…”

The whole world speeds up from the start of November, racing towards the Christmas break at an ever more frenetic pace. Work escalates with scores of projects needing conclusion before year end. A calendar full of annual events gets even more crowded with all of those people you decide you must get together with before the year turns. And just when you barely have a moment to spare, the load escalates domestically with the need to decorate the house, write the cards, do the Christmas shopping and gift wrapping and prepare any festive meals.

There’s no better proof that life has resumed pre-pandemic levels than the return of this blog’s holiday round-up. With me too busy to write about individual events, I’m crowding a madcap range of stuff into one entry.

The Bencards entered the pre-holiday season with a mutual case of COVID, clearly picked up on our American holiday but not symptomatic or testing positive until the day after we returned home. It was the second time around for me, the third for my husband. Thus proper returns to work didn’t happen until early November, making the office load that much heavier when we picked it back up. Our only completely clear weekend between vacation and Christmas disappeared beneath tissues, hot drinks and a flood of cough syrup.

And then the race was on.

The Lansdowne Club’s annual Winter Ball had a Versailles theme this year; ironic or appropriate as class divisions widen and we head into a winter of discontent? Only time will tell, but the tall wigs, free-flowing champagne and metallic fabrics made for a splendid display. The theme of French profligacy continued the next night at Le Comptoir Robuchon for a belated celebration of my birthday. Any menu that dominated by champagne, caviar, lobster, foie gras and truffles is either calculated to extract as much money out of its diners as possible, or to make guests feel very special indeed. Or both. I confess to having severe guest guilt after seeing the prices on the menu, but it was a lovely evening indeed. The restaurant is an homage to the late chef Joel Robuchon, named “chef of the century” by Guide Millau in 1989, and features many of the classics he made famous throughout his restaurant empire. Tournedos Rossini and truffled ravioli led the celebratory menu choices, but the surprises of the evening were an extraordinarily beautiful bread basket and the appearance of Fixin on the wine list, the little-known Burgundian red that is our favourite. 

Best customer service, however, belonged not to a fancy restaurant but to His Majesty’s Passport Office. Granted, I had to spring for the premium package to ensure a renewal between my return from the USA and our late December departure to Copenhagen, but you don’t always get what you pay for in government services. Happily this was an exception, arriving early for the appointment, being processed immediately, getting out before my original slot even came up and having a new passport (black, demonstratively non-European) delivered into my hands in less than a week. Can whoever shaped them up move over to the NHS? 

Joy continued across town that night when my team won the 2022 Corporate Communications Award for best use of corporate content in the UK. The winning project, a video news magazine called Tomorrow, Today, was very much my baby from its inception, so I couldn’t be happier. I could have done without the venue in a far corner of Bayswater, however. Porchester Hall is a Grade II* listed architectural gem (Edwardian in style though built in the 1920s), but beastly to get to if you commute through Waterloo. I really should have booked a hotel; I had to disappear almost as soon as we had the award in our hands.

My husband’s Twickenham debentures kicked off this autumn, so rugby dominating the weekends on either side of that award ceremony. (Debentures are somewhat like season tickets, but you buy the rights to purchase your dedicated seats at face value rather than the tickets themselves; then buy the tickets.) Japan was a definitive English victory, a good day out with friends and a rotten journey home. Train delays adding unwanted extensions to evenings are, sadly, becoming normal. England v. New Zealand plummeted downhill as soon as the opening light show and haka was over, and by half time it felt like it might have been a better evening if we left early. But England scored three tries in the last 10 minutes, making it perhaps the most exciting game of live rugby I’ve ever seen. It ain’t over ‘til…

Sadly that weekend was over by Sunday morning as I boarded a train to Birmingham for the Confederation of British Industry’s annual conference. It’s one of my company’s biggest sponsorships of the year and producing it without enough staff had sucked every ounce of workplace energy from me since our return from holiday. I did manage to meet up with a colleague for a couple of hours to stroll through Birmingham’s impressive German Christmas Market. Low on traditional shopping booths, abundant with mulled wine, sausages and other holiday comestibles. The architecture of the pop-up village is impressive, full of towers, chalets, arches and whirling carousels of Christmas figurines to equal a proper German venue.

That bit of free time grabbed, we headed off for 48 intense hours in corporate hotels and a rather odd conference centre at the top of a shopping mall (The Vox). For conference highlights … live with Rishi Sunak and Keir Starmer … check out my LinkedIn article.

That Thursday was Thanksgiving, and while I am exceptionally grateful for my job I could have done without having to commute into London that day. Although I did bring a pumpkin pie to my team meeting in thanks for the marvellous folks I work with. Our club’s traditional Thanksgiving dinner could have made the day celebratory, but we have a new chef who decided not to carry on the annual event. I rushed home and threw together turkey cutlets, proper dressing (none of this frightful British stuff made with bread crumbs), sweet potato mash and spinach. I’d held back two slices of pie.

The best thing to be thankful for that week, however, came on the Saturday when a friend who’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer celebrated his 70th birthday. At the turn of the year, none of us thought he’d get here. To see him hale and hearty, toasting life in the private dining room of Tylney Hall, was a reminder of what’s really important in life.

Another work week sped by full of deadlines, reorganisations and video calls. But this is the time of year when people you work with thank you for doing business with them, so it also featured a farewell dinner for a beloved colleague going to pastures new, champagne at Claridges and the Cezanne exhibition at Tate Modern. In my agency days Claridges was my go-to spot to take visiting clients. Its combination of art deco elegance and quiet sophistication is rare amongst its showier London siblings. The afternoon tea that used to be my default booking has more than doubled in cost in the two decades since, and I’d find it very hard to justify more than £100 each for sandwiches, scones and pastries, whether I was spending my own money or considering it a marketing expense. We stuck to the bubbly, though a cheeky egg and cress sandwich might have appeared on a tasteful silver salver.

The Cezanne retrospective across town is a must if you’re a fan; it’s certainly the biggest collection of his work I can remember. I confess he leaves me cold. The awkward abstraction of his portraits frustrates me and his still lives leave me hungering for the precision of Dutch masters. But his landscapes … especially those from the Provençal mountains … are exquisite and can transport you instantly to a place of warmth, sand, sea and golden light. A very useful mental journey in a gloomy London winter. 

The next weekend saw us packing our bags and heading to Leicestershire for one of our last pandemic-delayed trips. Our friends and former neighbours had moved north just before the rise of COVID; we were scheduled to spend that Easter with them before the first lockdown prevented travel. Anticipation made everything the sweeter, and meant that we got to see their fabulous late Georgian house remodelled and decorated instead of in progress. It’s like something out of a Jane Austen novel. But so is the heating. Always worth remembering that visiting any historic home in England in the winter requires many layers of clothing.

This part of the country is saturated with stately homes, picturesque estate villages and gracious historic towns. Though only an hour from London on selected fast trains, it feels deeply rural and like stepping back in time to an older, simpler England. Our friends’ village of Buckminster sits at a high point for the region, a bit like Stow-on-the-Wold with its expansive views, glorious walks, gourmet farm shops and heritage sites, but almost empty of tourists. Unsurprisingly, I loved every moment and was calculating when I could return before I’d left. 

The sightseeing highlight was Belvoir Castle, decked out in full Christmas glory. It is a magnificent spot at any time, a Recency fantasy of a castle built upon medieval foundations, ancestral home to the Dukes of Rutland and home to one of my favourite podcasts, Duchess. Many stately homes now open their rooms to show off holiday decorations, but this is the first I’ve visited that tells a story. This year was Cinderella, with different scenes from the story interpreted through decorations throughout the house. Gloriously, the step-mother and step-sisters were all bling, characterised by metallic pinks, yellows, greens and golds, while Cinderella’s storyline was all whites and at one with nature. (Here was the English upper classes’ abhorrence of coloured, garish Christmas lights writ large. My husband was smugly satisfied.) Whether tawdry or sophisticated, the decorations were fantastic, you got to see the house at the same time and a live choir brought life to the heart of the tour. Well worth every penny and, unlike most Christmas-themed attractions in London, something you could actually book the day before you wanted to go.

Back in the capital, the highlight of the next work week was the office Christmas party, with coupes of Prosecco, buffets of nice things to eat and dessert cocktails. Everyone had slipped into formal wear, looked fabulous and was ready to party. American friends reminded me that company-funded Christmas parties are not the done thing there, and that alcohol has been banned from almost all corporate events due to fears over misconduct and the ensuing law suits. I valued that newly-refreshed passport more than ever and hummed God Save the King under my breath. It’s been a challenging year in so many ways and work … so little mentioned in this blog … has been harder, longer and more stressful than it’s been in almost a decade. The party was a reminder that you don’t put up with the BS for the salary. Or the big brand. You do it for your colleagues. And I work with probably the best and biggest assemblage of superstars ever gathered under one corporate umbrella in my professional life. The party reminded me that these are the people I work for, and the people who make the tough times worth suffering. Because with them at your side there will always be glorious times. Awards. Sparkling wine. Fellowship and caring. And that is worth a party.

Under normal circumstances, burning the candle at both ends would have continued at least through Friday the 16th of December. But British unions had something to say about that. Rail strikes throughout next week meant that my journey home on Thursday the 8th … after the girls’ trip foursome had celebrated Christmas with Michelin-starred Quilon’s Southern Indian tasting menu … was probably my last day of commuting into London for the year.

I confess to a monumental sigh of relief.

The enforced isolation of two Christmases in pandemic lockdown was frustrating. It seemed counter to all of the merriment and “togetherness” that the holiday season represents. But, I have to admit, it was a lot less exhausting.

Add these extras to make a Big Cedar holiday even more memorable

My fondest memories of Big Cedar Lodge will be of doing nothing. Sitting in amicable silence on the porch with the people I love, rocking gently in the chairs and drinking in the fall colours. Or nodding off in communal peace in front of the fire, the scent of woodsmoke perfuming our cabin. But if that’s all you’re doing at Big Cedar you’re probably not getting your full value for money.

Part of that premium room rate is the exceptional range of activities and restaurants you can enjoy across the resort. Kayaks, canoes paddle boats, pools, beaches, putt putt and the fitness centre are all included. And, frankly, the whole place is so beautifully decorated and landscaped that simply walking around, pausing in picturesque spots and drinking it all in is an activity in itself. Our favourite outings added to the holiday’s bottom line … but I’d recommend all of these. In for the penny, in for the proverbial pound.

Lost Canyon Golf Cart Trail

If you do only one paid activity at Big Cedar, make it this. If you are anywhere in the area, make a detour to come here. This is a spectacular nature experience on par with any of America’s National Parks. OK, perhaps not the Grand Canyon. Put it’s pretty damned impressive.

Southern Missouri is rich in trees, limestone caves and springs, and this trail shows them all off to a ludicrously photogenic extreme. An early highlight is driving through a cave with a gushing waterfall in the back and many illuminated rock features. Suitably for this novel mode of rural transportation, there’s a drive-through bar on entry … the suitably named Bat Bar … so you can pick up canned beer or cocktails for your journey. The route continues over covered wooden bridges that cross gorges, along the side of ravines and through deep woodland. Waterfalls are spectacular and abundant, carving terraces and towers out of the limestone substrata while polishing the stone to a Carrara marble-like whiteness. Views stretch over vast miles where you see nothing but forest, even more beautiful when gilt by autumn colour. There’s even a viewpoint you can stop at and walk out onto an observation deck high above the valley floor. And though you only left the cave 20 minutes ago, there’s a mobile version of the Bat Bar here to top up your in-drive supplies.

The route is only 2.5 miles and in most countries would have been left to hikers. But this is the land of the automobile. And while the route shows off the best of nature, I suspect it’s not natural. Waterfalls have been helped along and the path determined for maximum impact. Keeping people to golf carts … even if you can pop out of them to explore, keeps people on track and limits the health and safety risks abundant in all those rocky inclines. It also makes the whole thing feel a lot more like a Disney attraction, which is helpful when justifying the approximately $40 per person to ride. That’s not per cart, but per rider. Yes, 4-person golf cart, $160. These people understand how to make money.

They also understand how to deliver value. There’s no time limit on cart rental. You could spin through the course in 30 minutes, or stop at every possible lay-by, do a bit of hiking and be out there for hours. (If I ever did it again I’d bring a picnic and art supplies.) The legal drinking and driving is inspired, giving a frisson of excitement without ever putting anyone in serious danger. Most impressive, from someone who’s starting to get old and creaky, is the accessibility. Nature’s greatest wonders are usually accessible only to those who are fit enough to hike to them. Or there are those few beside the road, so crammed with tourists you don’t feel you’re in nature at all. This is a brilliant compromise, crafted to feel like you’re in the deep wilderness but available to anyone who can climb into a golf cart.

Sunset at the Top of the Rock

The golf cart trail takes off from one end of the ridge called “Top of the Rock”. This is Johnny Morris’ culture and entertainment complex, part of Big Cedar Lodge but also open to the general public. Anyone can enter, but cars pay a $10 fee to do so, redeemable on food and drink bills. Residents skip this by taking resort transport. The main building here has several bars and restaurants plus a highly-acclaimed museum of local culture.Exhibitions include geology, fossils, modern wildlife and conservation and an excellent American Indian collection, all of which we sadly didn’t have time to consume this visit. We did manage to make it to one of the sprawling array of patios for the nightly sunset ceremony. 

The view is spectacular and everything is built to make nature a stage with the setting sun at its centre. Copious fire pits keep people warm on cool nights. Outdoor sofas and benches allow lounging. One large area is reserved for diners at the Buffalo Bar. The resort has created a nightly ceremony featuring a Scots piper laying on a few tunes before a Civil War cannon fires a salute as the sun breeches the horizon. It’s a lovely bit of communal merriment.

The night we attended, however, it was also terribly staffed. Staffing was obviously a problem throughout our visit to the States but this was the night it was at its worst, with only two bartenders and one server looking after several hundred people. Over the course of 90 minutes we waited more than half an hour for each round of beer and wine. Service was further slowed because Americans order so many cocktails and every credit card order goes back to the customer for a tip. If there is any point at which a British visitor will feel superior, it’s here. American bartenders also seem to lack the British publican’s uncanny knack of knowing who’s next, instead allowing customers to sort themselves out. Rather than thinking fondly of your local publican and getting angry as you wait with people who don’t understand queueing, I recommend turning up for the ceremony with some cold canned beverages in your bag. If you do the golf cart tour just before, you can bring drinks from the Bat Bar.

Shooting School

It should be no surprise that a place dedicated to hunting, fishing and shooting should have rather spectacular facilities for the last. The resort’s gun club, officially the Bass Pro Shop’s Shooting Academy, looks like something drawn from Teddy Roosevelt’s fever dreams. From the shotguns that form the door handles at the main entry to the massive log walls and stone chimneys, antler chandeliers, bronzes of wild animals and exquisitely taxidermised specimens of everything in those woods that might be pursued and eaten, this place is a palace of hunting and conservation. (Those who do the first, of course, understand that the two go hand in hand, or the first would soon be impossible.) The building is clearly designed with group outings and special events in mind (max capacity 600); there are loads of rooms that can be arranged for different purposes, all with magnificent views.Like the Top of the Rock, which is about a 15 minute drive away, this complex is built on another ridge with another magnificent view.

Much like our local Spitfire Shoot, people without their own guns can buy into a package that includes guns, ammunition, safety briefing, instruction and time in the field shooting at clays. (Yes, European readers, contrary to your expectations Americans do not just let people pick up guns and have at it. The safety briefing and instruction is essential.) The shooting stands are built into the hillside below on terraces, with woodland as far as you can see spreading below. Rather amusingly, where any British shoot would have you walking the perhaps 200 metres, including some stairs, that’s a straight shot from building to the stands, Big Cedar loads everyone in golf carts and has you drive the long way round. 

Our 1-hour package was $70. My only regret was that it was too short. Another half hour would have been perfect. Especially since our coach, Kennedy, wielded some sort of special magic. I have never shot better. 

Dining

Unsurprisingly, Big Cedar majors on American classics. Burgers, steaks, ribs and other tasty slabs of grilled meat. I’m sure they’d find you something if you were vegetarian, but this is carnivorous country. I confess to disappointment that there wasn’t more game on the menu. Given the location and the ethos of the place, we figured every menu would feature venison, game birds and maybe rabbit. But our American friends told us that game is rarely eaten here outside the hunting community. And while there are plenty of hunters staying here, there are many more who are just enjoying the hunting lodge ambiance. Having critters on the menu just wouldn’t be viable.

While the restaurants vie to differentiate themselves, the outdoor theme and the core idea of American classics stretches across them all. I wouldn’t waste my money returning to the Lodge’s fine dining option, the Osage Restaurant, where the bison fillets were overdone, the every-element-is-a-la-cart philosophy drove up the bill and the vegetables had more char than flavour. (Our friends, it must be noted, said their steaks were fantastic.) This is the most spectacular of all the restaurants’ settings, however. If I had it to do over again, I’d book a table 40 minutes before sunset, enjoy the ceremony from there and order the cheapest stuff on the menu.

The Devil’s Pool Restaurant and the Buzzard Bar are in the same building, the former over the latter. Both overlook one of the resort’s prettiest swimming pools and are right next to a wildly picturesque waterfall and ravine crossed by a covered bridge. We ate in both and enjoyed both these meals more than the Osage, with particular praise going to the ribs. I had them in the Buzzard Bar but can’t really remember much difference between the two menus. The bar’s biggest differentiator is artist in residence Clay Self, who’s half singing cowboy and half stand up comedian. Self was a bit too local for my English husband who, between the performer’s accent, the cultural references he didn’t get and background noise wrecking havoc with his tinnitus, could comprehend little of what was going on.

While the rest of us enjoyed Self enormously, Mr. B was particularly happy to get back to the companionable silence of our cabin. We soon warmed that by a fire, blazing to almost instant life thanks to the well-seasoned firewood and kindling that comes with every cabin. Enjoy those Big Cedar activities, but leave plenty of quiet time to simply enjoy the place with the people you love.

Big Cedar Lodge puts Missouri on a global map for luxury retreats

Thirteen years ago I fell in love with Wilderness Lodge at Disney World Orlando, captivated by the perfect fantasy of a simpler America. Here, hospitable folks in checked shirts went huntin', fishin' and shootin' before kickin’ back in log cabins heated by stone fireplaces, surrounded by broad porches where you could sit in rocking chairs and watch the sun go down on landscape unencumbered by humanity. A lot has changed since then. The kid I was dancing with at the Disney hoedown is about to graduate from university, I’ve added 739 fresh stories to this blog, and a little-known spot in the Ozarks has become America’s No. 1 wilderness resort. There's no need to pay Orlando imagineers to craft a fantasy. The real thing exists in my home state.

Big Cedar Lodge sprawls over 4,600 acres on Table Rock Lake, deep in the Missouri Ozarks almost at the Arkansas border. It boasts three lodges built on the picturesque model of the famous National Park hotels of the 1930s, 81 individual cabins, glamping tents and a handful of quirky accommodation for large groups. There are five golf courses and one mini putting option, two marinas, two different wedding chapels, at least four pools (one indoor), a spa, a shooting school, two different entertainment complexes, a museum of local ecology and native American history and 15 different dining options. All this is connected by ubiquitous WiFi and a fleet of transport vans ready to take you anywhere, summoned by a proprietary Uber-style app.

In my youth, the Ozarks meant The Lake of the same name and resorts like the Lodge of the Four Seasons, which I've mentioned in past coverage. I thought about heading back there, but the chorus from St. Louis friends was deafening: Big Cedar was far better. It was also two hours further away, but the corresponding distance in quality, my friends insisted, was vast. So, frankly, was the cost. Accommodation for two people averages between $600 and $800 per day, depending on type. (We split a cabin with friends, so it was a little less.) I'll admit that my perceptions since moving away had not kept up with developments in my home state; I hadn’t thought anything in Missouri could cost that much! The abysmal value of British Sterling didn't help. I kept thinking that for the same price I could be on safari at South Africa's extraordinary Chitwa Chitwa, playing the Japanese aristocrat at Kyoto's Yoshida Sanso, or snorkelling an Indian Ocean reef from my over-water villa at Constance Moofushi. Could a cabin in the Missouri woods possibly deliver a comparable experience to those luxurious blockbusters?

Yes. In its own American country style, Big Cedar has the stunning natural environment, magazine-worthy internal decor, creature comforts, thoughtful extras and magnificent service of all those other places. 

The Ozarks are an ancient mountain range, worn by time down to rolling hilltops covered with trees. Copious springs bubble through limestone and hydro-electric projects of the last century have created lakes that spread into long, winding valleys. A seemingly endless canopy of deciduous trees is always beautiful, but being here in October when the hillsides blaze with colour and the waters reflect them back to the skies is perfect. Deer wander across the road and graze on lawns. Canada geese forage for breakfast outside the window in the morning. A chipmunk scurried across the green and took the shortcut hole en route to his den while we were playing putt putt.

Every building on site has been designed with the same care those Disney imagineers give to creating their environments. You’re surrounded by natural materials, earthy colours, rustic but elegant accessories, Western and American Indian patterns.  Construction must have kept every taxidermist in middle America busy for years, because  animals are everywhere. Our cabin alone featured an antlered deer head, six ducks and a school of prize fish, all preserved at the height of their beauty. Blacksmiths also shine here, with wrought iron gates, fences and light fixtures throughout that incorporate flora and fauna. Comfort reigns supreme, from wide rocking chairs to deep beds to plush loungers by the pools. The staffers who make this work always have a smile on their faces and are quick to engage in conversation.   

To really understand this place, though, you have to understand Johnny Morris and his Bass Pro Shops. Local legend tells how Johnny’s dad fretted about him getting a real job back in the late ‘60s. But Johnny didn’t fancy traditional ideas of work. He liked being outdoors, fishing, drinking, and enjoying the world. So Johnny started selling fishing bait out of the back of his father’s liquor stores in nearby Springfield, Missouri. And other things. Lots of them. And then got his own shop. And then lots of them. There’s no better example of someone who’s successful because he did what he loves. Johnny’s now the richest man in Missouri. His bait business became Bass Pro Shops, now with 177 locations, more than 40,000 employees and a reputation as a destination in themselves for their amazing interiors. And the Lodge is his vision made manifest for others to enjoy; he’s personally involved, staff talk to him regularly and we spotted him one night in one of the bars, charisma radiating off him like heat off a bonfire. 

The Bass Pro website embraces his reputation as the Walt Disney of the natural world, and the association won’t be lost on anyone who enters a store through a three-story log-built atrium lit by glass and iron pendant lights that would meet Frank Lloyd Wright’s approval. An enormous fireplace welcomes you with the distinctive scents of burning wood and offers a place to sit on rocking chairs before it, while the chimney breast rising above you turns into a rocky, outdoor tableau. Full-sized taxidermised deer clamber up the slopes. A canoe on another wall overflows with equipment. Falling water forms a soundtrack. It’s not here, but at the other end of the store, where another wildlife tableau features more deer and wildcats as water cascades down a rock face into an enormous aquarium full of enormous bass and trout. A whole flock of ducks flies between that scene and the entry tower. Over by the gun section, it’s Canada geese on the wing. A mother bear and her cub keep people in line at the check out desk.  A wild turkey in radiant plumage taunts bow hunters shopping for their kit. The Las Vegas branch even has an aquarium with mermaids because, well, it’s Vegas…

Bass Pro isn’t a nature show but a retail emporium, of course, and ultimately people are here to buy their outdoor gear. Lots of it. There are vast clothing departments strong on comfort, quality and “American made” labels. The variety of rods, reels, guns, bows and nets for the pursuit of your own dinner is staggering. The variety of ammunition somewhat concerning. (Certainly nobody needs exploding bullets to bag their Thanksgiving Turkey?) Even if you consider camping to be a hotel that doesn’t provide toiletries, you’ll be intrigued by the ingenuity of the kit for outdoor living. 

There isn’t a better place to shop for patriotic American stuff, whether for everyday wear or your 4th of July table. I’m delighted with my new tee shirt depicting three Labrador retrievers at attention before the waving Stars and Stripes, looking like they’re about to bark out the pledge of allegiance while the words “Proud American” top and tail the scene. I was tempted by the edgy comedy value (in the UK) of a politically incorrect doormat, but space limitations stopped me.

By this point something is disturbing my British readers. Aren’t these Trump people? The ones who ban abortion, reject gun control and actually embrace religion, that out-dated opiate of the people? 

Quite probably. And that doesn’t make them the ignorant barbarians implied by British news coverage.

This is a culture blog, not a political one, and I’m not going to comment on the validity of anyone’s beliefs. But I can tell you that each one of those attributes has far more complexity than is reported in the British press, and that there are arguments for another side that can be introduced into thoughtful debate. (Not that much of that happens any more.)  There are well educated, affluent, caring and thoughtful people in each of those categories. And plenty of them have seen the wider world. Ironically, we probably met more people who’d been to England on this vacation in rural Missouri than on other American holidays, since levels of military service are much higher in the countryside. Many people we spoke to had been posted to bases near us, and took the opportunity to explore when they were overseas. 

As I have argued from the day I first moved to the UK, you simply cannot understand America without spending time between the Appalachians and the Rockies. (The aberration that is Las Vegas doesn’t count, even if it does have a Bass Pro Shop.) This is a different America to the one exported in mass media or portrayed by foreign reporters. It’s the America most Europeans just fly over. The bit they dismiss. But it’s just as valid as the more familiar culture of the coasts and I’ll bet you a Bass Pro Shop baseball cap that if you’re in proper trouble, these people are going to take you in and look after you a lot faster than most of their coastal brethren. 

Of course, there’s another truth to be confronted when you consider the world Johnny Morris has built. While Big Cedar Lodge might be full of good folk from flyover country, at an average cost per day that can easily hit $600 per person once you add in food and drink, the clientele are self-selecting. When the boys ran out of beer and left the resort to re-stock at Wild Bill’s, they found a lot less charm, a lot more grunge and people who appeared to be living much harder lives. I suspect Bill’s patrons would still help you out in a crisis, but they’d seem a lot more alien than the guys who’d just come off the golf course to quaff premium bourbon at the Buffalo Bar’s sunset ceremony. Even if those golfers did vote for Trump.

In this way, Big Cedar may be as much of a fantasy as Disney’s Wilderness Lodge. And that’s a big part of how it earns its luxury price tag. In my next article on the resort I’ll talk about activities and dining.

Wild Sun has some wild ideas, and some truly exceptional wines

Regular readers of this blog will know that we’ve spent a lot of time in wineries over the years, but that Americans haven't fared so well in reviews. We were particularly disappointed in northern California. It may come as a shock to find that I rate Missouri wineries, overall, above their much-lauded Western competitors. Admittedly, the wine might not be quite as good, but the overall customer experience is better, you're more likely to end up talking to someone who was actually involved in making the stuff, and the industry in my home state just seems to be trying harder. To see what I mean, head to Wild Sun Winery in Hillsboro, Missouri.

This place trashes a lot of convention. It's not in the "Missouri Rhineland". It doesn't grow its own grapes. It concentrates on dry reds when the easiest wines to produce here are white or sweet. It matures in French barrels even though Missouri is a major barrel producer for the global drinks industry and is home to the world's largest barrel manufacturer. So if you're a pedant about terroir you may have issues with Wild Sun. But when the owners of the Audubon's Hotel in Saint Genevieve, who clearly knew their way around a wine list, said they didn't really rate Missouri wine but thought the guys at Wild Sun were in an entirely different league, we ditched our original holiday itinerary to visit. It was worth the trip. 

Through years leading winemaking at many of Missouri's top brands, owner Mark Baehmann shaped his opinions and fueled his ambitions. This is his breakaway to do something different, in partnership with co-owner and company president Ed Wagner. They describe Wild Sun as a winery in Missouri rather than a Missouri winery. It's a subtle but powerful difference, reinforced by having a "wine educator" on staff for tastings and sales. Rodney was a delight: offering the kind of insight we get from European makers, going deep into detail on production, seasonal variations and cellaring potential, and calling Mark and the staff over to interact. Our only comparable experience in the States was our exceptional tasting at Merry Edwards. 

The wines are as good as the patter; a variety of sophisticated, nuanced offerings that bring out distinctions in grape variety and maker's style. Chardonel is typical in Missouri but aging in French oak barrels (far more expensive) is not. My husband and I had a debate over whether it tasted like a Cote de Beaune or a Macon, a conversation I don't believe we've ever had over an American wine. Wild Sun coaxes similar complexities out of their Chambourcin and Norton on the red side, banishing much of the thin astringency that makes many Missouri reds unappealing. Most fascinating on the dry front was their Crying Stone Cab Sauv, made with grapes from Washington but aged in French Oak barrels over Missouri limestone. Terroir goes global. All of these wines would benefit from, and could easily take, maturing for several years in a cellar. (Another issue we have with American wines is that, to our tastes, they’re almost always drunk too young.) 

We were already amazed, but the wine that sent us reeling was their tawny “port”. Clearly setting their sights on fame for their dry reds, it's understandable that they're a bit hesitant to talk too much about their sweet wines. Sweet is common in Missouri, and most of it is sickly, alcoholic Kool-Aid chugged by summer tourists on their way to getting embarrassingly drunk. The nuance of a single glass, quaffed slowly at the end of the meal with nuts and cheese to bring the night to an elegant conclusion is generally unknown. To be honest, I’m not sure I knew what port was before I moved to England and it took a lot of tastings to appreciate the nuances of the more exclusive tawny. And yet Wild Sun's Icarus is on par with our "house" William Pickering and could hold its head up against any tawny in Porto. Those are the bottles we bought, already anticipating the shock value of revealing origin at the end of some future Christmas dinner. 

If money and shipping had been no issue, we would have bought half a case each of the other wines mentioned above, put them in the cellar for at least two years and then brought one out annually to see how they develop. Their potential is fascinating, as it is for the whole winery, which is less than a decade old. But space, and an epic low in the value of the pound, limited our choices. No matter how good American wine can be, Europeans will always have an issue with its value for money. For a variety of reasons, from taxation to shipping, labour costs to investment models, or just plain marketing strategies, good American wine is expensive. We can, almost always, get the fine Burgundies and Bordeaux that the Americans are emulating for less per bottle than the emulators. 

But American wineries are about a lot more than the wine. They are destinations. Places to go drink, eat and party with your friends on sunny afternoons. Many do a thriving trade in weddings and special events.  Enormous tasting rooms, sprawling decks, massive restaurants and wine-themed gift emporiums attest to this. It is a very long way from a gruff old French man pouring you a glass on a barrel top in the corner of his working barn. (Although, to be fair, we’re starting to see this American-style diversification from English wineries and there’s many an Italian vineyard hosting destination weddings.) Wild Sun has also covered the hospitality, with decks and patio areas surrounding their historic house and an archway-framed lawn ready for nuptials. You can get food and take in views of a charming barn and wooded hillsides.

Some other wine experiences from our holiday deserve a mention, though nobody else’s wine was as exciting as Wild Sun’s.

Cave Vineyard

The USP for this vineyard and distillery about 40 minutes’ drive from St. Genevieve, Missouri, is the eponymous cave. Pack your picnic, choose your bottle in the tasting room, take a 15-minute downhill stroll through woodland and end up in the enormous mouth of a natural limestone cave. Sit in its depths and the opening is like an enormous movie screen showing off the landscape outside. With yellow, red and  orange leaves fluttering downward in a steady autumn wind, the scene was beguiling. Although we didn’t benefit from what would clearly be the high season appeal: a naturally air-conditioned party space in Missouri’s oppressively hot and sticky summer.  The family owners here follow an Italian style, with their most distinctive wine being a dessert offering somewhere between a white port, a vin santo and a grappa, ideal for dunking cantucci. Their dry rose was also excellent, though wouldn’t last long, and they do a very slightly sweet Cave Rock Red that gentles the sharp tannins of most Missouri reds without being too sugary. 

Stone Hill Winery

I so want to like Stone Hill Winery. Sitting at the highest point above Hermann, it’s the oldest winery in the state (1847) and has the rather remarkable credential of having been named the best red wine in the world at the Vienna World’s Fair in 1873. Prohibition killed the industry, however, and it wasn’t until 1965 that the business started back up. It’s now the largest winery in Missouri and the label you’re most likely to see generally available in grocery stores. Their grounds have lovely views over Hermann and the Missouri River valley. They have a great gift shop. Our tasting server was young, eager to learn her craft and quickly put us in touch with her manager when our questions outpaced her knowledge. (But then listened keenly to our conversation so she could learn.)

Problem is, I don’t like any of their wines. The range on offer epitomises what bothers me about Missouri wines: either too sweet or painfully, puckeringly dry; served too young; obvious with the sharp local oak. The lovely and highly knowledgeable manager knew exactly where I was coming from, and pointed me to some Norton vintages from the ‘00s he swore aged just like Burgundies. But for the same price I could go to my local vendor upon returning home and procure a 2018 premier cru Pommard. I am just not willing to make the financial bet that the Missouri grape is ever going to mature that well. Sadly, the result of this wine lover’s tasting at Stone Hill was a retreat to the excellent beer selection at Tin Mill Brewery for the rest of the afternoon.

Cooper’s Hawk Winery and Restaurant

More a concept restaurant than a real winery, but worth mentioning both for the quality of the wine and the food. This was one of our best meals on the whole trip, notable for the variety in the menu, the balance and presentation of the plates and the amount of vegetables. (If you’re going to vacation in Missouri, you’re going to eat a lot of meat, carb and cheese comfort combos.) But there is a winery at the back of the idea. It’s an industrial facility in Northern Illinois that, like the Wild Sun team, buys in grapes and concentrates only on the making part. Cooper’s Hawk produces a huge range of varieties and from what we tasted, and talked about with our server, they’re going for the most typical, drinkable profile for each. (We loved their Pinot Grigio and the way it paired across the variety we were eating.) 

We appreciated the way every dish on the menu had a suggested by-the-glass pairing, and we found the prices remarkably reasonable: on average $10 for a large glass and $30 for a bottle. The expansive menu ranged across salads, meats, impressive seafood options (considering we were in Springfield, Illinois), pasta, smaller plates we’d recognise as individual first courses, even a light-bites selection of tasty yet healthy offerings. All this was enjoyed in an enormous but elegant dining room in sophisticated mushroom and rose tones that somehow reminded me of a grown-up Cheesecake Factory. This branch, and one assumes all, had a tasting room and shop out front, a sports bar for faster or more casual evenings and private dining rooms visible through glass walls.  

My tortilla soup and chopped wedge salad was one of my best meals of the trip, and I looked enviously across the table at my father’s seared Ahi tuna, left properly rare in the centre. Food prices were surprisingly reasonable as well. The majority of our meals this trip were in diners and other humble, comfort food-focused places, yet Cooper’s Hawk was only marginally more expensive once you factored in total cost of alcohol and service. On the value for money front, this winery cum restaurant is a winner and we’d happily return if we found ourselves in a town with one of their expanding network.

Hermann mixes small town Missouri charm with German tradition to drink, and eat, in

The first time I ever heard the word "Oktoberfest" involved Hermann, Missouri. Long before I visited the mother party in Munich, bought my first dirndl or learned that Oktoberfest properly takes place in September, my neighbours up the Missouri river taught me to associate the merriment of autumn festivals with Germany.

After my husband had put up with my high school reunion and friends for four busy days, I thought the Bavarian-descended Germanophile could use a treat shaped to his own tastes. There are a few things about Hermann's Oktoberfest, however, I had to brief him on given he was starting with a Munich perspective.

First, it's in October. Get over it. That's just the way it works here. Look at the blazing colour of the trees on the hillsides. Appreciate the sunny, cool but comfortable weather. Trust me, September in Missouri isn't nearly as nice as this. Second, nobody wears traditional dress but the performers. Third, Hermann's Oktoberfest is more about wine than beer. Fourth, it only happens on weekends, and Saturday is the much bigger day. Fifth, live bands tend to be the differentiator between venues rather than the Munich-style battle of breweries.

Bottom line: if you go expecting a Munich-style bash, you'll be disappointed. If you appreciate it as another slice of small-town Midwestern life, it's good fun. Especially if you treat yourself to the spectacular Room 201 at the Wharf Street Inn, which says "honeymoon retreat" even louder than its tasteful autumn decorations proclaim Oktoberfest. More on that later. First, the town and the party.

Hermann is a small place. Though it's the capital of Gasconade county ... and features an impressive little courthouse ...  the permanent population is just over 2,500 and the historic centre only about 12 square blocks. Yet there are more than 300 guest rooms here, and most of the businesses in the town centre are either restaurants, drinking establishments or cute boutiques. Modern Hermann is a place for tourism. 

The centre looks like it's been frozen in time around 1900, with an attractive mix of business and residential properties. It sits on flat land next to the Missouri river with hills encircling it; many of those planted with vines. It's a remarkably pretty place. In fact, if there were a castle on one of the hilltops, it would look a lot like the German rivers that so many Americans pay a fortune to cruise along. Which is no coincidence. 

Back in the 1820s a German named Gottfried Duden published a book about his travels in America, praising the Missouri River Valley between Saint Louis and Jefferson City as perfect wine growing country, exactly like the Rhine. Honestly, having just cruised those waters earlier this year, I think Duden was overstating matters. The valleys aren't nearly as deep and the riverscapes far less dramatic, but the climate and planting conditions are roughly the same and Missouri has loads of natural limestone caves that make for great aging cellars. The German immigrants came by the boatload, the stretch of river Duden praised is now known as The Missouri Rhineland and Herman sits at its centre.

While here, you can hike along river trails, get your photo taken on the riverboat memorial or check out the statue of Hermann the German, aka Arminius, the guy who beat the Romans in the Teutoburg Forest. You can check out quaint architecture, go antiquing or poke your nose into cute little shops. But most people come here to eat and drink.

WHERE TO EAT AND DRINK

I'll cover Missouri wineries in a separate article later in this series. As far as our personal Oktoberfest choices went, we opted for beer due to taste, European tradition and the desire to pace our drinking over a long day. And at the top of our Hermann beer list goes the Tin Mill Brewery.

As the world headquarters of Anheuser Busch, my home town of St. Louis always celebrated its beer heritage, but we did it only with AB's big brands. Since then, the microbrewery trend has boomed across the U.S. and it seems particularly vibrant in and around St. Louis. I spent the whole vacation discovering new tastes from unknown brewers, but Tin Mill offered the best combination of variety and informed patter. It was here that my husband found a dunkel weissbier that tasted exactly as his Munich-shaped taste buds told him it should.  And no wonder! A retrospective look at their web site revealed they brew to the German Purity Laws of 1516. (You may not think this is important but spend any time drinking with real Germans and they will set you straight on that one.) They import their barley and hops from Germany, and bought their brewing kettles there. No wonder it all tastes so authentic. With 20 beers on tap at any one time, you can spend a lot of quality time here.

Just down the street and under the same ownership is the Hermannhoff Festhalle, where the beer choice is more limited but the atmosphere is perfect. The enormous hall with its tall windows looking over the Mississippi is laid out with long tables draped in Bavarian blue and white diamonds, a dance floor is cleared in the centre and if you're lucky the Loehnig German Band will be on stage. I'm fairly sure family band matriarch Marylin was on the accordion back when I celebrated my first legal Oktoberfest a very long time ago. We'd left our Bavarian wardrobe at home, but this was the one place we could have felt at home in it.

Hermann has broadened out its drinking choices with distilleries, and along the same street (Gutenberg) as the former two establishments you'll find the Black Shire Distillery. How small a town is this? Master distiller Derek LeRoy is one of the co-brewers at Tin Mill, and son of the master winemaker at Hermanhoff ... who not only own the Festhall but the remarkably charming vineyard on the hill across the stream from the patio where you can consume whatever you're tasting. In a town of pretty views, this is probably the prettiest. Black Shire distills a whole range of bar staples, though is particularly celebrated for its gin, rye and bourbon. I'm not a fan of the last two, but was drinking with a bourbon aficionado who was very excited to get a bottle of one of their specialities not offered for sale outside of the distillery. If I had room in my luggage I would have bought a bottle of their excellent American gin to compare to all the English styles at home, but I was already past my bottle limit.

Across town, aka a two-block stroll, is Hermann's other distillery: Fernweh. We didn't do a straight tasting here but tucked directly into cocktails from our seats at the long bar, served up by by a master mixologist who had best-in-class coordination, taste buds and conversational banter. "I could throw bottles around, but I think it's more important to make a drink properly," he said, though he did flip a few across the night to make his point. The fact that he looked a bit like a pirate who'd just sailed upriver from Jean LaFitte's base only added to the appeal, but it was the delivery of knockouts like a first witch, a sazerac, rye tai or Ferdinand's Prost that proved the point.

Ferweh was also one of our favourite restaurants across the trip; good enough that we would have eaten there two nights in a row had they not been closed on Mondays. In England we'd classify this as a proper gastro pub: concerned about local sourcing, putting innovative twists on classics and throwing quirky culinary curve balls. Soft pretzels with cheese dip, a Missouri classic, were amongst the best we'd had. Jalapeño tater tots were the curve ball. Classics also mixed it up in their brisket meshed into a grilled cheese or made into tacos strewn with fresh tomatoes. The husband reported good things about the tomahawk pork chop.

If you only have one meal in Hermann, however, you really must go to the Hermann Wurst House. None of Fernweh's hip modern atmosphere here; you might as well be eating in a warehouse. But oh, those sausages! Loaded with flavour and popping with perfect texture. You can choose from more than 40 varieties to take home, and there will always be three on the menu. The award-winning classic, caramelised pear and gorgonzola and pineapple bacon bratwurst were on offer for our visit. I'm not usually a fan of German, vinegar-based potato salads but their warm, mild version is the best I've ever had. We brought home some thick cut maple and pecan cured bacon that beats anything I can get in the UK. And given the quality of our bacon here, that is saying a lot. 

WHERE TO STAY

Between the enormous jacuzzi, the luxurious bedding and the in-room fireplace, you may be so relaxed upon departing the Wharf Street in that you leave your purse behind and don’t realise until you’re three hours away. Fortunately manager Donna and the United States Postal Service saved the day as surely as she kept us stocked with fresh towels, welcome sweets and Keurig capsules. 

The Inn is more of an AirB&B style place than a B&B; Donna is on hand to get you settled but there is no reception and no services. This isn’t a problem as there are several good places for breakfast in town (our choice was the Stomp'n Grounds Espresso Bar) and Donna is just a text message away if you need anything. The building is exquisite and the quality of the renovation is excellent; old world charm plus modern conveniences. While there isn't a traditional hotel lobby, there's a communal area on the ground floor with a large table and a garden area out back with a galleried porch. These were all decorated, as was the exterior and the rooms, with autumn foliage, squashes and harvest knick knacks. 

We loved our enormous bed … so high it had steps to clamber into … facing a big fireplace you could flip on to send the gas licking over the fake logs. Dozing in front of the fire was a rare treat. The bathroom is just as luxurious, with an enormous shower fitted with a big bench area and a jacuzzi big enough for for two. Hermann is a lovely place to visit but, to be honest, if you hire Room 201 and get some food delivered you could imagine you're on honeymoon anywhere in the world.

The views across this enormous suite … three windows in the bedroom and another three in the bath … all look over the riverfront. The lazy Missouri and its tree-lined shores are lovely to wake up to. The location does come with the Inn’s only drawback, however. With the river comes the train tracks and steady freight traffic. If you’re a light sleeper, these trains can be loud, especially when the location is otherwise blissfully silent. If you think the noise will bother you, bring ear plugs. It’s a small hack to enjoy an otherwise magnificent location.