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.

St. Louis high school roots go deep to create a rich community spirit

British friends hovered between bewilderment and incredulity when I said I was planning a whole vacation around my high school reunion. While many British schools have alumni networks, formal reunions by class year are not really a thing … they’re only known through consumption of American media. And most Brits I know would be far more likely to have an allegiance with their university than to the home of their earlier education.

In this, they may be like the rest of the world. St. Louis has always had an odd relationship with its educational landscape; it’s the only place in the world I know where the question “where did you go to school?” definitively means high school, and actually matters no matter how long ago you left the place behind. There’s undoubtably a dark side to this. Your answer generally reveals religion, income level, what your parents did for a living, and the part of town you’re likely live in. It determined who your friends were, and possibly even who you married. In a traditional society where few people move away, your answer labelled you and could restrict your movements for the rest of your life. 

Reality might not have been as extreme as that, but it was something I felt intensely in my twenties and was a significant catalyst for me leaving town. But there’s a bright side to that strange high school-dominated environment, too. One of community, shared experiences and friendships forged so intensely that they remain even as the reunion scales tipped into our 4th decade since we went our separate ways.

I should explain that we’re not talking about those vast American high schools here that cross the Atlantic on film. There were 61 women in my graduating class. I’d been in school with a sizeable chunk of them since we were four years old. Like siblings, I don’t remember meeting them … they have just always been there. Almost the entirety of the class was in place by the time we turned 13, meaning most of us traversed the traumas and triumphs of young adulthood together. (Ironically, our only new joiner in our later years became, and remains, the dearest of all those friends, suggesting that even back then I was hungry to expand my horizons.)

It was a Catholic School, run by a religious order, as so many of the answers to “the Saint Louis question” would be. This will also be alien to British colleagues, as the country has some of the lowest levels of religious affiliation in the world. Religious-led education does exist in the UK, but it’s not the norm it was in my childhood experiences. And while I’d call our nuns, the Religious of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, quite light touch on the God front … I’ve always thought of them as the female Jesuits … as the years go by I realise they gave us a shared moral code that’s baked into our bones. Plus a bunch of goofy traditions that horrify properly Protestant friends, like placing notes in the lap of the Virgin Mary with special requests and praying to a vast array of saints based upon your need and their specialty areas. Honestly, who can deny the charm of Jude, the patron saint of hopeless causes, or slipping some cash under St. Anthony's statue for help finding something you've lost? (Find it, his poor box gets the money. It stays lost, take your cash back.)

We were also given a profound sense of place, something you probably don’t realise influences you until long after you leave. Our school was fortunate enough to be surrounded by rambling acres of wooded parkland. The main building itself had been copied from a medieval French chateau. There were circular staircases and attics, secret access onto roofs with dramatic views, a woodland grotto with a statue of the Madonna we crowned in May, and outdoor hides for secret conclaves. There was even a series of formal “parlours”, furnished like an aristocratic French home, used for special meetings. (Sadly a reunion tour of the building showed that these have been re-purposed and mostly stripped of their grandeur since my days.) Just as Hogwarts functions as a character in the Harry Potter novels, the physical entity that is Villa Duchesne, the house of the oak, played a part in our story. I have no doubt it added fuel to all the loves that brought me to Europe.

Sharing formative years, a distinctive place and a moral code creates an extraordinary sense of community. When my mother was ill and I couldn’t get home, I could trust the women of this circle to help her. When people are in need, the sisterhood steps up. When my parent's divorce threatened my ability to complete my education, an alumnae scholarship filled the gap. There's a connection that brings an ease of relationships, and conversations flow even if you haven't seen each other for decades.

But enough of the soppy stuff, I hear British readers muttering. What actually happens at a high school reunion? 

Well, I’m embarrassed to admit that I missed the official gig: a celebratory mass followed by the annual alumnae luncheon and presentation of the year’s alumnae service medals. That's because while I love catching up with classmates on Facebook I hadn’t bothered to update my postal address in more than a decade, so all the formal materials went in some unappreciative stranger's bin. By Sunday morning we had already moved on to Oktoberfest in Hermann, Missouri. But I got to all the really fun stuff.

On Friday night, one of my classmates opened her house for us to join an already-planned reunion party for the Class of ‘82 from what we had generally considered to be our brother school, the Saint Louis Priory. (This Benedictine outpost in the American Midwest is a daughter house of Ampleforth in Yorkshire, a visit to which I wrote about here.) Our hostess had married one of their number, and the co-educational aspect leant this party more of a sense of what Brits might expect of a high school reunion. There was a lot of peering across the room, thinking someone looked familiar, trying to remember names. “Who are all these paunchy, balding, middle-aged men?” We asked ourselves. The boys were no doubt pondering a similar question about fat women and dyed hair, while we all fancy ourselves to be about 22. Inevitably, for most of the party the girls ended up in one room and the boys in the other … though I think we all look rather fabulous in the group shot below.

The highlight of the night for many was one of the men turning up with his male partner. Everyone was delighted he’d found joy and happy that a relationship that would have been unimaginable in our school days was now normal. Our world had moved on for the better.

The next day held an open house at the school, which has managed to preserve most of its sylvan splendour while adding new buildings and parking. Preserved most, but not all. If I win the lottery I am donating the cash to plant a screen of trees and plants around the “front bowl” where the Madonna of Lourdes currently looks like she’s standing in a parking lot, casting a sly eye towards the hockey fields. The quiet contemplation this place held in my day is long gone.  The sports facilities are a vast improvement, however, with a gorgeous field house overlooking a university-quality field hockey facility. It's something that no doubt goes hand-in-hand with an impressive array of state championships won since my day.

The lawns in front of the main castle building were dotted with tables and chairs, and booths on the front drive offered fun stuff for kids. People had been encouraged to bring their youngsters, always a good idea at a school where some families may be enticed into their fourth or even fifth generation of affiliation. 

I was most interested, however, in what was going on inside the main building.

While the traditional architecture remains, technology is now obviously present in classrooms, as you’d expect. Teachers' and administrators' offices are now throughout the building rather than all clustered on the top floor, hinting at a more open style of learning. In a digital age, the library is smaller, with one wing of it now converted to a high-end lecture hall and conference centre. The stripping back of the parlours across the hall from that, I suspect, is a related development. An exhibition of old uniforms contributed much delight, and even a bit of horror as an old grey tweed smock brought back vivid memories of itchy discomfort. Display boards in the main hallway offered photo montages from the senior yearbooks of the various reunion classes, and bulletin boards showed off what was going on these days with different clubs and extracurriculars.

My greatest joy came from seeing that the school newspaper I founded in 1980 still exists, now as a full-colour magazine. (Back then I had already set my heart on the best journalism university in the country. Villa didn’t have a journalism programme or a regular school newspaper, so the 15-year-old me figured I’d better start one so I could have a competitive application. The nuns, bless them, went along with it.) Just as exciting was the fully-equipped broadcast studio that will be rounding out the current girls’ communications skills.  I was delighted to see much more emphasis on our international network than in the old days, and more proof that current students were learning about … and getting to … the world well beyond St. Louis. And though I didn’t get to see it, classmates told me that the new theatre in what was our old auditorium also impresses. 

That night was an impromptu, BYO affair for about 20 classmates who hadn't yet had their fill of each other. We sat around campfires in one of the cohort's back gardens, sharing war stories and laughing at the past. We are mature women now, with quite a collection of baggage. It's mellowed us, and made our shared history sweeter.

In our younger years this wasn't always the case. Jealousy crept into the early mix as we suspected the grass was greener over other fences. I know that I, who came late to love and marriage, felt an awkward outsider for years next to many of my ... as I saw them to be ... more beautiful, more affluent and more happily paired classmates. The years have knocked away illusions, and revealed that all of us were insecure about something. And special in our own ways. None of us have perfect lives. Instead, as a community we've seen it all: significant illness, relationship issues, addiction, financial trouble, death. What hasn’t killed us has made us, and the ties in this group, ever stronger. And I have no doubt the moral core that our nuns, mostly long dead now, shaped within us made that happen. In the warm glow of Saturday night’s campfire, I realised just how blessed and privileged I was to grow up with these women.

The one painful absence in the weekend was a lack of diversity. We had four African-American classmates, a slightly larger Filipino community and one Jewish girl (whose mother ran our art department and who was an invaluable addition to both Old Testament and comparative religion studies). That wasn’t a bad mix for a class of 61.

But none of those women attended. Our evening activities were unofficial and loosely organised; it’s possible the school itself did better with the formal event on Sunday. But I missed those women, and their absence made me regret not volunteering to help organise, even if I am at a significant distance. Maybe I need to step up for the 45th, to encourage people like me who don’t return often to come back and feel the magic. 

In the mean time, the St. Louis Cardinals play the Chicago Cubs in London on the 24th and 25th of June. I pledge here, publicly, that I'll organise a party for any of the sisterhood who make the trip. A communal London experience could add drama to our shared character-building experiences. Trust me, the Central Line on a hot day requires prayer and fortitude.

A trio of St. Louis classics captures our limited sightseeing time

It’s been eight years since I’ve set foot in my home town. For some people, that would be unremarkable. But before this stint I'd never gone much more than a year without visiting, even though I’ve lived in Europe since the late ‘90s. This was a long gap. As with people you don’t see for a long time, changes were more apparent than they used to be when I returned more frequently. 

On the whole, the differences I saw were positive and suggest the place is prospering. The Chesterfield river bottoms, agricultural in my childhood and under water when I moved away, is almost built out now, with a new outlet mall and a massive double-decker driving range to join the sprawl of retail, restaurants and offices that had already mushroomed there on my last visit. While the outlets are killing off the mall that was a highlight of my youth, built on higher land above the valley, developments around the old building are creating the Chesterfield business district promised when my parents moved there in the early ‘70s. 

Clayton Road, always an East-West artery lined with gracious houses, has transformed with new construction. Gone are many of the classic, rambling St. Louis-style ranch houses sprawling beneath the trees of wooded lots of an acre or more. In have come massive, multi-story mansions. Some have architectural merit, reaching back to my home town’s love of historic European vernacular styles, but many others are horrific, looking more like commercial buildings than residences. And far too many trees have been sacrificed for the explosion in square footage. It will be many years before the road re-gains its sylvan glories.

Downtown looked tidy and well maintained, though locals warned of the continuing disintegration of the City of St. Louis, the rising crime rates within, and warned grimly about going there after dark unless for a baseball game. (In this, at least, the divide between county and city hasn’t changed, though optimistic developers keep trying.)

Our four nights in the St. Louis area were devoted to family and friends rather than sightseeing, but we did manage to work in a bit of tourism. I was keen to see developments at the Gateway Arch and the Missouri Botanical Garden, and I wanted to introduce my husband to our spectacular Cathedral.

THE GREATEST BYZANTINE CATHEDRAL IN AMERICA

Officially the Cathedral Basilica of Saint Louis, this is one of the grandest churches in the United States and could go head to head on the architectural front with many European giants. Few beyond locals appreciate this however, so outside of services the place is often empty, despite the free entry and well-informed tour guides who will illuminate secrets of the building with their laser pointers.

The church is Romanesque on the outside, Byzantine on the inside and was heavily inspired by the Hagia Sophia. No, the city has no link whatsoever to that style; the cardinal who led construction simply liked it better than gothic. With more than 83,000 square feet of mosaics, it boasts the largest collection of this art form under one roof anywhere outside of Russia. It’s for the rich ornamentation of its walls, ceilings, domes and columns that the Cathedral is best known. 

In fact, it dates from the early 20th century, when St. Louis was a much bigger deal than it is now and its population was almost entirely Roman Catholic thanks to the city’s French Colonial roots.  Breaking ground soon after the St. Louis hosted both the Olympics and the World’s Fair, the Cathedral was a statement to the world of both the city’s position and the power of the church underpinning it. Its floor plan actually owes a heavy debt to the Roman Catholic cathedral in London, which had just opened for worship when St. Louis' church leaders did a grand tour looking for inspiration. Unlike the Londoners, however, St. Louisans didn't run out of money and were able to finish our decorations; Westminster cathedral is a much darker, gloomier place.

St. Louis' cathedral glistens and glimmers like the inside of a jewellery box. Vast tracks of ceiling are covered with gold; pure gold sheets beneath glass that ripples, broken into tiny tesserae. The result is a background that flickers, gleams and moves behind scenes from the bible and the religious history of St. Louis. As the home of all the missionary orders serving the west, we have a lot of it. The canonised nun who founded my school has a prominent pendentive to herself. 

The side chapels are arts & crafts in style, with a more balanced range of mosaic colours as flowers twine up columns and neo-classical design motifs repeat. Perfect to accompany the Tiffany glass in windows and light fixtures. Perhaps most unique is the deep red mosaic ceiling of the side aisle to the right of the altar, meant to convey the blood of Christ and almost hypnotic in the intensity of its shade. The central dome repeats the red as its background but cuts it with gold, to present the heaven gained through the blood. 

I took these wonders for granted as a child, though was always grateful for the visual distractions when masses got too long. Returning with an appreciative, impressed husband in tow reminded me of just how lucky I was to grow up with this.

GATEWAY TO THE WEST
The Cathedral hadn’t changed since I last saw it, but the grounds and museum beneath the Gateway Arch had undergone a radical transformation. The museum here was always good. In fact, once you’d made the trip to the top of the stainless steel structure in its infamous rocking elevators, it was the museum that was worth coming back for. But the entrance … almost tomb-like ramps leading down from either leg … was unimpressive and there was little room for big groups or security. More problematic, a mid-century museum built to glorify Westward expansion by white European settlers, lacking in interactive displays to appeal to youth, was out of step with the modern zeitgeist. Outside, there was the problem of the noisy concrete canyon of a highway that separated the Arch from the rest of the downtown area.

The recent renovation addresses all these problems. The architects have essentially roofed and turfed over the road for a one-block width, creating a new park that connects the vast lawns beneath the arch to the architectural glory of the Old Courthouse. The view both to and from the monuments is vastly improved. There’s now a grand, oval entrance plaza facing the downtown area, but sunken so it’s hidden to the viewer looking uphill from beneath the arch. It’s much more suited to the dignity of St. Louis’ most famous monument, and disperses crowds that overwhelmed the original lobby area.

Instead of occupying a fan-shaped footprint beside the old entry, the museum is now a long corridor linking the new entry facility to the old lobby with the lifts to the Arch’s top. Friends tell me there was much hand-wringing about the “woke agenda” when the new museum was unveiled. I wasn’t bothered. All the stories from my childhood are still here. Jefferson is still honoured for buying the Louisiana Purchase, Louis & Clark are still heroes who went on a grand adventure, and the settlers who set off from St. Louis are still commended for their bravery and determination that reinforced the American dream.

There are just more stories here, and more perspectives. The most noticeable increase is about the Native Americans who already lived here, both how they helped the new society and how they lost out. We explore the reality that the identity of the aggressor in the Mexican-American war depends on your starting viewpoint. Going further back, we’re reminded that the French and Spanish colonial roots of the area made for a startlingly diverse society.

We also get more exciting and more interactive displays. There’s a fantastic new model of the St. Louis riverfront at the height of the steamboat age, with lights on a circuit that give you a sense of day and night.

Whole building facades have been moved inside. Touch screens offer games and quizzes. Social media snappers will love the photo opportunities on the back of a Westward-bound train or in a colonial trading canoe. There’s even an exact-sized replica of the top of the arch, complete with true-sized windows that show the actual view transmitted by live cameras. So if trips are sold out for the day, or you can’t face the claustrophobic rocking elevators, you can get close to the real thing. Best of all, the the grand tradition of all of St. Louis’ historic cultural attractions, everything but the ride up the arch is free.

SHAW’S GARDEN KEEP’S GROWING
While the Cathedral undoubtably had a role in developing my appreciation for grand European architecture, the Missouri Botanical Garden laid the foundations for my growth into an English gardener. Englishmen are rare amongst the French, Germans, Italians and Irish who dominate my home town’s story, but Sheffield-born Henry Shaw made an outsized contribution for his nationality. Having grown very rich selling English cutlery to settlers heading West from St. Louis, he returned to his motherland for a visit, was impressed with Kew Gardens and thought we should have something similar. The rest is gardening history.


The longer I live in England, the more I appreciate just how British this place is. It’s not just the English woodland garden, the Victorian parterres around Shaw’s house or the formal box hedge garden that, hopefully, will preserve the viability of that British native once the scourge of box blight wipes ours out. Rather, it’s how much the Missouri facility resembles our Royal Horticultural Society gardens: the devotion to teaching, preservation and science; the wide range of styles and nations represented in different gardens within the garden; the facility dedicated to home gardening advice with a series of smaller gardening rooms meant to inspire what you could do at home. And just like RHS Wisley is a multi-million dollar re-development of the entry pavilion. So alike, in fact, I have to wonder if they exchanged planning notes or at least visited our Surrey-based garden for inspiration.

The most noticeable change in St. Louis is that the entry building that once felt like a barrier between you and the garden is now an obvious gateway to it. Instead of entering on one level and going up to another to access the gardens you make the change of levels in front of the building, on ramps through beds that are currently unplanted but promise to be spectacular. A two-story, glasshouse-like entry hall (just like Wisley) takes you straight out to a new forecourt that will be planted with rotating beds of seasonal annuals and grasses (just like Wisley). The new facility has a bigger restaurant, more classrooms and exhibition spaces, a much bigger shop and what looks to be a new glasshouse.

Beloved favourites are still here, too. The Japanese garden looked grand, the climatron showed off its tropical plants beneath its geodesic dome and the tradition of local couples having a photo shoot here to announce their engagement continues. Watching two before the lens on my visit reminded me of our turn 11 and a half years ago.

Unlike the changes at the Arch, the renovations at the Garden are all raw and incomplete, with construction workers still beavering away across the site. It’s going to be magnificent, and my gardening interest demanded I check it out while I’m in town. But, to be honest, it’s still many months away from being in shape for the average tourist. The building needs to be finished, the new glasshouse and forecourt planted and the Victorian camellia house put back in order. (At the moment it’s just a functional storehouse for a lot of plants in pots.) 

I suspect visitors next May will be very lucky. But they won't include me. While I doubt I'll go another eight years before returning home, my time of annual visits is long gone. Who knows what transformations will have taken place before I get back again.