Missouri's state capitol punches above its weight, and is just one of a list of reasons to see Jeff City

Europeans are regularly baffled by the seeming insignificance of American state capitals. They come from a world where capital cities have evolved naturally with history, almost inevitably becoming the biggest, most exciting place in their country, full of palaces and museums, corporate headquarters and sky-high housing prices. That American state capitals are often so little-known they become the stuff of pub quizes is perplexing.

As a case in point I give you my home state’s administrative HQ: Jefferson City, Missouri. Its population is 42,772. That’s roughly the same size as Harlow, Essex (England) or Chalon-sur-Saône in Burgundy (France). The people who live there … including my father … are almost all here because of state government, whether that’s to do it, or to serve the people who do. Not much besides government goes on here. The state’s biggest university is an hour north. Missouri’s two biggest cities are two hours in either direction. But, critically, Jefferson City is almost exactly in the middle of the state. It sits beside the massive Missouri River, which formed a navigable east/west highway long before paved roads were possible. Like so many American state capitals, it was purpose built for legislative convenience. Cosmopolitan culture and business evolved elsewhere.

That doesn’t mean there’s no reason to visit. Even though you’d be hard pressed to find a European who’s set a tourist foot here in decades. (One notable exception is former British politician and train spotter Michael Portillo, who came through while filming his Great American Railway Journeys.) In fact, it’s quite a charming little town with some interesting architecture, fascinating history, good and affordable restaurants (see my last article), and gorgeous countryside spreading along the river valley. It also has quite a remarkable capitol building, punching far above its weight compared to the significance of the state in just about any league table. I’ve been inside palaces of government across much of Europe and I can honestly say that Missouri’s magnificent capitol building can hold its own against any of them.  

 In the unlikely event you’re a foreign tourist in Mid-Missouri, start here. (And if you’re a Missourian who hasn’t toured this masterpiece, shame on you! Book your visit immediately.) Tours are free but must be pre-booked at least 24 hours in advance. 

Just like the nation’s capitol, Missouri’s is dominated by an enormous dome springing from a rectangular block channelling Ancient Rome with its columns, porches and decorative detail. It is bigger and brighter than anything else in town, entirely gleaming white Missouri marble except for a few delicate pink lozenges set into the dome. The pleasant park around it is studded with memorials, most notably to the Lewis and Clark expedition that came through here while exploring routes west in Thomas Jefferson’s recently acquired Louisiana Purchase.

Posing amongst the explorers is probably the best photo opp in town. Sadly there are no women to share the fame as Sacagawea didn’t join the expedition until further up river. Locals tell me that Seaman the Newfoundland, the only animal to complete the 3-year journey, is the favourite to get your photo snapped with. Get close enough and you’ll spot the sculptor Sabra Tull Meyer’s brilliant touch of a dead mallard the dog has just laid at Merriweather Lewis’ feet.

The other “must shoot” external photo is the enormous statue of Thomas Jefferson, looking sagely to the

west below a pediment emblazoned (in Latin) with Cicero’s noble principle: Let the welfare of the people be the supreme law. It’s the dream of American democracy realised in bronze and stone. The third president’s reputation might have taken a knock in the musical Hamilton, but his popularity remains high here in a state that his policy literally created, and one that comes down hard on his side of the states rights v. Federalism debate. (And if you think that got resolved by the Founding Fathers, you have a lot to learn about America.)

Inside, the resemblance to the national capitol goes on with an impressively decorated rotunda beneath that dome. British visitors … were there any besides me and Portillo … might think the murals look a bit familiar, and they’d be right. Though he’s faded from general awareness, Welshman Sir Frank Brangwyn was an apprentice of William Morris. He became one of the most famous muralists of the early 20th century and sent canvases around the world to decorate grand buildings like this one. 

Missouri’s Capitol would have shared an artistic link with the British House of Lords had the peers … a third of the way through their commission … not decided to fire Brangwyn because his work was “too colourful and lively for the location”. Swansea Council bought and installed the panels. Learning this finally gives me a reason to stop rather than driving past on the way to Britain’s best beaches. 

A House and Senate chamber take up the bulk of the building on each side. Some sort of tiff between the tour guides and the senators has taken the Senate Chamber off the tour. A shame, since the gorgeous room is probably the closest you’ll get to a grand Roman bath complex in the Midwest. A glass dome, enormous Diocletian windows and column-bedecked loggias look down on 34 senator’s desks, rather than on the jolly tepidarium the architecture was originally designed for. You could have a robust debate on whether the desks or the pool would facilitate getting more work done. With a membership almost four times the size of the house, it’s unsurprising that the House Chamber is an even grander room of epic proportions. There’s lots more neoclassical architecture here, mixed up with some lovely Arts and Crafts windows and a vast mural of Missouri regiments in WWI that’s an unusual nod to American participation in that conflict. (Given that this capitol was built in the 1920s, the scene would have been depicting almost-current events.) 

Long hallways running around the debating chambers hold legislators’ offices, and I remember from my school days that it’s as easy to get an appointment here as with your local MP in England. This is the friendly, accessible face of government. Paintings along the hallways aren’t as luscious as Brangwyn’s work, but will hold more interest to locals in their depiction of the history of the state.

If you really want to dive into Missouri lore, however, you’ll need to devote at least an hour to the grand hallways that run off each side of the rotunda and beneath the debating chambers. These now hold a museum of Missouri state history.

There’s a little bit of everything here, from geology to displays on Missouri’s key industries to a diorama of the river with detailed models of all the craft that would have used it in the 19th century. Fans of innovative engineering will be fascinated by the snag boat purpose-built to pull treacherous branches out of the water. The labels next to the Civil War era portraits of governors tell a story like Game of Thrones … Coups! Duelling claimants! Scandal! … but they all look like Victorian church fathers. Which just proves you can’t judge a book by its cover. I particularly enjoyed the section on German immigration, and that community’s role in the Civil War, something that reflects my own family history. There’s an excellent timeline of the history of the whole state from dinosaurs to today, perfect except for its decision to highlight The Civil Rights Act for 1964 rather than my birth. Let’s get priorities straight, people! (Just kidding, obviously.)

The governor has the best real estate in the building. Right in the centre, behind the rotunda, his office gives him beautiful views out over the Missouri, the sprawling farmlands of its flood plain and the distant limestone cliffs that mark the other side of the river valley. It’s not open to the public; I know the room because last time I was here my dad was still in state government and he got us into the boss’ office. I even got a photo sitting behind his desk. Sadly, because this was the world before digital photography, that’s lost to history.

The most culturally significant thing in the building, and indeed in Mid Missouri, is Thomas Hart Benton’s Social History of Missouri mural covering the walls of the House Lounge with exuberant colour and movement. It’s an adventure story, from the early explorers to brave farmers and striving industrialists. But urban life in St. Louis and Kansas City takes a back seat here to Huck Finn and Jim, hound dogs and hogs, family farms and towering stalks of corn. Painted in the 1930s, Hart Benton gives a wonderfully louche Jazz Age feel to these Missourians, yet the faces and the topics are timeless. While you can wander around the building on your own, you can only get into the House Lounge with a tour guide, so signing up for the tour is a must. 

  As magnificent as that room is, my favourite part of the capitol is the Hall of Famous Missourians. In the centre of the building, a round balcony looks down on the rotunda, and stands in the centre of a cathedral-like space beneath the dome. All along its walls are plinths topped with busts of the state’s great and good. With a population of about 6 million (similar to Denmark) there are only a few degrees of separation between most of those commemorated here and the population wandering amongst them. I contemplated those who’d had a major impact on my life. Rose Philippine Duchesne, the sainted nun whose legacy gave birth to my high school. Stan Musial, one of the greatest baseball players of all time and one of the dads at school. Walter Cronkite, inspirer of early career ambitions and someone I was lucky enough to share a dining table with in journalism school. It was like meeting God. Walt Disney, author of so much childhood joy. I doubt I’ll ever have a bust here. If T.S. Elliott, another St. Louisan who moved to England and took British citizenship, isn't here, I'm doomed. But I love how wandering amongst these familiar faces reminds me how profound my Missouri roots are. 

BEYOND THE CAPITOL BUILDING 
While it’s the obvious blockbuster, the capitol building isn’t the only thing to give Jefferson City street cred on the sightseeing front. Here are some other things that could make a day or two in town worth while.

Immediately to the southeast of the capitol building you’ll find Jefferson Landing and the governor’s

mansion. There’s not a great deal of 19th century Jefferson City left, but here you get four excellent buildings (one currently closed for renovation). This is also where you get off and on the train to town, though the mobile-home-turned-waiting-room rather lets its neighbouring architecture down. There’s a museum inside the biggest of the riverside buildings but it wasn’t open when I visited. The governor’s mansion is, according to the web site, one of the few in the U.S. regularly open to the public and you can book free tours here. I didn’t get inside this time but a previous visit allows me to say that it’s a triumph of tasteful Second Empire style with a memorable flying staircase. The Christmas decorations are a real treat if you can get here in December.

There are a couple of blocks along High Street that make you wonder why local government isn’t pitching the town as a perfect location to film anything set in pre-1920s America. There are a handful of local restaurants and a few properly local shops. OK, you’d be hard pressed to while away more than a couple of hours here without eating or sitting down with a sketchbook, but it’s a charming bit of Americana that deserves to be enjoyed.

Locals tell me that the Old State Penitentiary is now the most popular attraction in town. Forget government, go for crime! I suppose I can see the appeal of this crumbling Victorian-era ruin. It certainly looks like the ghosts of gangsters and train robbers would be stalking its halls. But it’s not really my cup of tea. If you’re more interested in culture than criminals, skip the jail and head to Prison Brews for lunch instead.

Lincoln University is one of a handful of academically prestigious, historically-black colleges in the United States. (Howard in Washington DC is the one people are likely to have heard of.) The hilltop campus is pretty, if not spectacular, but it’s worth driving through to see the beautiful Civil War memorial on its central quadrangle. The 62nd and 65th Coloured Infantry Regiments were comprised heavily of Missourians and when they stood down after the war the soldiers raised money to start the school. The monument features life-size soldiers walking across the square towards a plinth on which the leaders of the regiments stand. Behind them, one soldier is helping another clamber up onto his higher ground, a beautiful metaphor for education. It is beautiful and moving in equal measures. 

In better weather, there are several lovely state parks with excellent hiking trails in easy striking distance. And the German immigrant tradition of wineries flourishes here. Neither are really appropriate for a January visit when the nation is having a record cold snap.

While English tourists aren’t thick on the ground these days, the most famous Englishman of the 20th century swung through in the 1940s and if you take a short trip to Fulton, you’ll find a shrine to him and his visit. Built beneath a re-constructed Christopher Wren church moved here stone by stone from London, the Churchill museum might be a bit underwhelming if you’ve been to Churchill’s house at Chartwell or to the excellent museum in the Imperial War Rooms. But this is a remarkable collection, thoughtfully presented, to exist outside of the UK. It’s here to mark the spot where Churchill gave his “iron curtain” speech while visiting his fellow wartime leader, Missourian Harry Truman. The addition of St. Mary Aldermanbury will feel like some strange alternative universe to anyone who knows London churches. Assembled here from ruins left by the Luftwaffe in London, the church is now in far better shape than any of its fellows in The City, is sparklingly clean, has sunshine rather than the shadows of office towers flowing through its windows, and completely devoid of homeless people sleeping in its porch. Londoners won’t know what to make of it.

Barbecue is the taste, and the culinary star, of my Midwestern roots

The restaurant scene in and around Jefferson City, Missouri

Brits often ask me if I miss anything about the States. My usual answer is “a can-do attitude, decent service in shops, tumble dryers and cheap petrol.” But here on the ground in mid-Missouri, a more basic, visceral answer rises to the top of the list. Great barbecue.

To be fair, Brits have come a long way on the BBQ front since I moved to a country that only fired up the grill for a few summer parties and proceeded to incinerate sausages. There are now top chefs who take outdoor grilling seriously. Trendy food trucks. BBQ classes at cooking schools. You can buy Webers and Green Eggs and their full range of accessories, including several varieties of wood chips for smoking. But for some reason I still can’t explain, no British attempt I’ve ever tasted can compare to the succulent perfection of your average BBQ joint in my home state. And certainly not to the price.

As a proof point I give you Sweet Smoke BBQ in Jefferson City, Missouri. Succulent rib meat collapsing off the bone; you wouldn’t need teeth if it weren’t for the chewy, smoky bark. Exactly the right balance of spices to bring depth of flavour while still letting the pork shine through. Bottles of four kinds of sauces on the table to allow you to drench your meat with the additional flavours of your choice. Enough meat on each single rib to probably qualify as a full portion of meat in a Weight Watchers’ allocation. Bowls of pickles to help yourself to; balancing sweet and vinegar in a way that European varieties rarely do since they tip more to the latter. A beguiling number of sides ticking comfort food boxes, including jalapeno grits that walk a perfect line between spicy and soothing and beans that have baked for hours with a range of additional ingredients. (It’s hard to fully express my shock the first time I watched a Brit eat so called “baked beans” directly out of a tin. More than 30 years later, I still can’t accept this culinary sin.) And then, naturally, there’s the mac and cheese. if you’re looking for something green, go somewhere else.

I have had ribs that come close to this in the UK, but only at higher-end restaurants charging a fortune. We simply don’t have informal, reasonably priced places in the UK. Nor does any place in my experience have the range of options. Sweet Smoke offers pork (ribs and pulled), beef brisket and chicken. You can have the meats as they come off the grill, or you can indulge in one of a variety of sandwiches that pile them with additional elements for sloppy indulgence. Even though it appears to be a simple place with menus on chalk boards, there’s a full bar dishing up cocktails and an impressive range of beers.

Given the absence of this level of smoky perfection in my English life, I insisted on dining here twice during my Jefferson City visit, trying both outlets. The one closer to the capitol building is in a shop front in the charming, early-20th century town high street. It’s a bit more basic, with almost a warehouse feel, yet packed with suit-wearing legislators and lobbyists at lunch time. The branch in the western suburbs is a free standing restaurant bringing in more of a family crowd. Both made me very happy. 

Why is there still this difference in quality between the UK and the American Midwest? It’s certainly not the quality of the meat; our local Hampshire hogs are justifiably famous as some of the best pork available in Europe. I suspect a combination of tradition and cut. On the tradition front, while BBQ has been establishing itself as a serious culinary option for only a couple of decades in the UK, it’s been a part of American life for generations. My people take it as seriously as Brits do their curries, pies or fish and chips. There’s also an almost sacred social ritual that comes with its preparation that makes it something more than just food; it’s part of the regional identity. But I suspect, at least on the ribs front, it’s more about cut. Traditionally, British butchers have cut meat off one side of the bone for bacon and off the other for pork belly, leaving as little meat behind as possible and considering the rib cage waste. Though that’s changing, and I have a great local butcher who will cut meat to my request, the “St. Louis style” rib cut that produces the meat-heavy ribs of Midwestern BBQ is unknown in England, where options all seem slimmed down.

This English style of butchery also produces very different cuts of bacon from the American. What most people in my adopted homeland put on their breakfast plate is what Americans consider “Canadian bacon” but with even more meat; not just the medallion but additional streaks of pork and fat to one side. From the other side of the rib comes what Americans would consider their standard meat but what the Brits categorise as “streaky” and tend only to use for cooking. Brits, in general, don’t think Americans can produce decent bacon.

To win that argument for the USA I’d direct people to a restaurant called The Barred Owl in Columbia, Missouri, which dishes up the best bacon I’ve had in either country. In cut it’s classically American or “streaky”, but each slice is a quarter inch thick, shining with a maple cure that adds sweetness while enhancing the essential piggy-ness of the taste.

This was a side to my Sunday brunch dish of shrimp and grits, accompanied by a Bloody Mary made with Parmesan vodka. Yes, Parmesan. Made by infusing vodka over Parmesan rinds. I’d adds a distinctive and highly pleasing cheesiness to the classic cocktail recipe.

The Barred Owl offers a proof point that even flyover country can offer up serious foodie destinations if you know where to look. It’s an unabashedly upscale, trendy concept restaurant in this university town. The decor is industrial warehouse with modern art, a massive bar dominating one end of the room. The Owl’s differentiator, however, is that it shares its space and name with an artisan butcher. While still fairly common in the UK, old-fashioned butchers have almost disappeared in the U.S., where almost all meat is sold in shrink wrapped packages in massive grocery store chains. The Owl bucks that trend, and its sister restaurant celebrates the meat that comes from its butcher’s counter.

My companions were delighted with the butcher’s breakfast (adding home-made sausage to those slabs of bacon, accompanied by eggs and sourdough) and the home fry poutine (elevated with locally made cheese curds and wagyu beef bacon). The quality and innovation here will convince even the most resistant European that Americans can do more than quantity-over-quality fast food.

While Sweet Smoke was fantastic, you can find similar quality at BBQ places throughout the Midwest. The Barred Owl is a destination restaurant worth making a special trip to try.

Three other destinations in Jefferson City deserve a mention:

El Espolon: Cheerful Mexican place in an industrial park not far from the Missouri state capitol. The food is good (if not great). The star for me was the chile relleno, and the quantities are obscenely enormous. My “little bit of everything” combo plate, priced around $17, not only provided me dinner, but lunch for the next two days. Excellent value for money, even before you opt in to the 88 ounce (roughly 2.5 litres) on-table margarita dispenser. Someone needs to import this gizmo to the UK. 

Prison Brews: One of Jefferson City’s main tourist attractions is the now defunct Victorian era state penitentiary. While I skipped that highlight, I was delighted when my dad introduced me to this jail-themed pub a stone’s throw from the site. (Fittingly, it’s a hang out for lawyers and cops. I bet there are some disreputable beat reporters, too.) Fabulous burgers, a wood-fired pizza oven and a tempting variety of loaded sandwiches served in a building decorated with bars, prison stripes and photos of the old penitentiary at work. The booths are placed inside prison cells. Best of all, this is also a microbrewery with a range of excellent seasonal brews. I enjoyed a peach-flavoured lager with a delicate and sophisticated flavour profile, though I almost ordered the “Misdemeanor Mailbock” just to honour the marketing brilliance of its name. 

Das Stein Haus: An alpine chalet tucked incongruously behind the modern gas stations and suburban retail sprawl along the highway heading west from town, Helmut’s place aims to bring some old world charm while connecting the region to its German immigrant roots. The interior is dark and candlelit, with long communal tables in the centre and old-fashioned leather-covered booths to one side. The menu features “fancy restaurant” classics of my youth: steaks, lobster, oysters, chicken cordon bleu. There’s even bananas foster and cherries jubilee. It’s like time travel to my 10th birthday. Though the atmosphere is still more casual roadhouse than fine dining, the food is amongst the most upscale in this town. As you’d expect, there’s a core of German classics including schnitzel, pork roast and Bratwurst. (My jaeger schnitzel special, with red cabbage and fried potatoes, was indistinguishable from the classics hitting tables in front of me in Munich last month.) The German beer menu doesn’t feature any of the usuals we’d expect to see in Europe, but there are a range of lesser-known imports including the tough-to-find smoked beer of Bamberg. There’s no wine list but the waitress produces German-produced bottles from behind the bar. There’s live music and dancing on the weekends which probably deserves a return visit when next I go to my dad’s place. Sadly, no dirndls or lederhosen in sight. Maybe I should wear mine to shake up the place a bit.

My first vegan dinner party was challenging, but not a disaster

Several months ago I posted a review of two vegan restaurants in London. While I enjoyed both places, I pointed out that vegan options seem to be most in tune with Asian and Oriental cuisines that are already heavy on vegetables and default to lavish spicing for depth of flavour. People with more traditional palates who are fans of subtlety, richness, and creamy finishes would find things more difficult.

That’s precisely the challenge I decided to accept when I hosted my first vegan dinner party. I could have gone down the spicy Asian route, and that’s where most cookbooks wanted to take me. But my husband would be at the table along with our vegan friends, and I wanted him to have some chance of enjoyment. So we’d be tomato free, because of his allergy, and I’d get as close to traditional European as I could.  

My menu was more of a hotch-potch than my usual carefully themed dinner party, with flavours and influences coming from all over the place … but I was basically happy with the results. My guests said they were delighted. They’re too polite to have said anything else, but clean plates and the amount they packed away suggested authenticity. Even the husband was satisfied.

So, the menu went like this…

I laid out three amuse bouche for people to nibble on while I was cooking. First, a jar of home-pickled okra. This was one of the great revelations of my short stint in Texas, and if you’ve never had this vegetable pickled you’re missing a treat. While mine have never quite matched the glory of the Talk of Texas brand (naturally unavailable in the UK), it’s fairly easy to get good results by jamming a bunch of clean, fresh okra in a big Kilner jar with some garlic and some spicy peppers, topping up with hot pickling liquid and letting them sit for a week. Next, I put my set of restaurant-style tasting spoons to use and piled a little dollop of barley, roasted squash and roasted red onion salad on each. These were both already prepped in the fridge, so low effort. 

My third snack required a little more, but was essentially a bit of refrigerator clean-out. The last of the Christmas Brussels sprouts, quartered, stir-fried, served on top of a bit of vegan soured cream (it’s not bad), on top of a fried disk of potato with grated chestnut to finish it all off. I missed the lardons that usually spike our Brussels. The pork gives them far more depth of flavour and balances their bitterness, but this wasn’t bad.

Embracing the spirit of dry January, I paired all of this with a mocktail made up of Tanqueray Flor de Sevilla 0%, Martini and Rossi alcohol-free Vibrante, a bit of orange juice, a trace of pomegranate syrup and a good whack of lime juice, topped up with diet tonic water. I’m still playing with proportions … my first round was a bit sweet and the orange juice may not be needed at all … but this is an option I’ll happily drink even in less austere months.

My starter was the best dish of the meal, IMHO. There are a great many recipes for roast celeriac with a white bean purée … a particularly good dish for Weight Watchers as the only thing “pointed” is olive oil and some tahini. In my version, I started with a whole, raw celeriac cleaned and then slathered with plenty of olive oil liberally mixed with herbs de Provence, salt and pepper. Lots of recipes go down spicier, more Asian routes but that was off brief. The celeriac goes into a Dutch oven with its lid on and then sits at low heat (about 150C) for at least three hours. I popped the lid off every 40 minutes or so to roll the root around in the oil and herbs and turn it. At the end, you should have something that’s brown, sticky and caramelised on the outside and soft to a knife thrust inside. The purée is simply a tin of butter beans (any white bean will do; the flavours vary slightly with your choice), a heaping tablespoon of tahini, olive oil and some of the water from the bean can. All mixed until you get it to the taste and consistency you prefer. Then it was as simple as a schmear of purée on each plate, topped by a quarter of the celeriac and some finely chopped flat leaved parsley.

Given the newness of everything I was trying, I went for a personal safe space of home made pasta for the main. I stuffed my agnolotti with a mix of mushrooms, including re-hydrated morels and black trumpets. I wouldn’t be mixing in the usual ricotta, so I thought I’d better up the stakes on the fungi flavour. That worked. Normally, I’d do the pasta with a simple brown butter and sage sauce, spiking it with some hazelnuts before scattering Parmesan across the top. With butter and cheese off my options list, I defaulted to another safe space and did a simple fresh tomato sauce. 

I topped things with more of that vegan soured cream instead of Parmesan. While my guests proclaimed their delight, I wasn’t happy. The sweetness and acidity of the tomato overwhelmed the forest floor flavours the dish should have had. I was looking with envy at my husband’s substitute cheese sauce. I should have been brave and tried vegan butter with my usual recipe. 

Rationalising that alcohol if burned off didn’t break dry January rules, dessert was grilled pineapple in a flambéed rum sauce with coconut granita. OK, not quite flambéed. I didn’t move fast enough and there wasn’t enough alcohol left to ignite by the time I got the lighter out. But it was tasty. And would have been even better had I remembered to crush and toast the macadamia nut topping before serving. 

The granita is wonderfully simple. Tinned coconut milk mixed with a bit of sugar syrup, poured into a freezer container, kept soft by a fork running through it every half hour. Two warnings here: do NOT miss any of those forkings or you’ll get the texture all wrong, and plan for at least four hours in the freezer. (The rapidly-melting scoops in the photo only had three.) It’s also best to only make what you’re going to eat, because once you stop that bi-hourly agitation you end up with a big coconut ice cube.

The finisher was, admittedly, more Caribbean than European, but I’m satisfied I ended up with a menu that stayed safely on our more familiar side of the planet.

Vegan is never going to be my go-to option for entertaining. But in a world where more people are embracing the option, I don’t want to have to exclude friends just because they can’t eat what I’m cooking. And culinary experimentation is always a good thing. That celeriac starter is good enough to go into the Bencard dinner party rotation. It will be even better when followed by a succulent bit of pork belly.

Bovey Castle delivers a New Year’s Eve out of your film fantasies

New Year’s Eve often underwhelms. A lifetime of film and television suggests it should romantic and monumental, but too often it’s about overpriced restaurants, uncomfortable jostling with crowds to watch a fireworks display that lasts a tenth of the time you’ve been waiting for it, or simply falling asleep in front of the TV. After a lifetime of experience I’ve decided that the only way to guarantee a New Year’s Eve that lives up to the hype is to check in to a nice hotel that’s laying on a party. Ideally, a country house hotel like Bovey Castle.

I fell in love with this place three years ago when Covid forced the annual Girls Trip to local options. (See my earlier review here for a fuller picture of the hotel itself.) I’ve been hoping to bring my husband back ever since. Their lavish New Year’s package offered the opportunity, while giving both of us the chance to celebrate the conclusion of trying times at work and the transition to new roles for both of us in 2024.

Bovey’s two-night offer includes bed, breakfast, all the hotel’s usual included activities, plus a fantastic party on New Year’s Eve and an almost-constant spread of food that reminds you in quantity of a cruise ship, but in quality is much higher. We added an extra night at the start, arriving at lunch time on the 30th and heading for home late morning on the 2nd. Throughout, Bovey lived up to the country house ideal, offering pampered lounging in beautiful interiors that made you feel like you were more an invitee to a house party than a paying guest. The in-house experience was particularly important since the weather outside was dire.

The party at our escape’s heart lived up to all those New Year expectations. We started with a champagne and canapés reception sprawling across the castle’s impressive suite of drawing rooms. Even at maximum capacity, Bovey is big enough to not feel crowded, so there were plenty of comfortable seats for those who wanted them, space between groups of guests and no waiting for nibbles or top ups. The dress code was black tie and there was plenty of old-style glamour. While all ages were represented, including plenty of mult-generational family groups gathered for the holiday, the look and feel was solidly old school. One assumes the kind of people who like the idea of isolation in a Victorian castle on the edge of Dartmoor are more Downton Abbey than modern bougie bling. Best of all … and solidly Downton style … dogs are allowed in hotel bedrooms and the drawing rooms, so we enjoyed our cocktails with our spaniel at our feet in the soaring “cathedral room” 

before a highlander piped us into dinner.

The six course dinner rolled out in the elegant Great Western dining room (named after the train line that’s been bringing guests here since it became a hotel in the ‘30s). It was transformed for the holiday with lavender and silver balloons, silver party hats and Christmas crackers at each place. Either ice crystals, diamonds, or bits of plastic … depending on your imagination … scattered across the crisp white linens to catch the light.

The festive dinner started with a large shot glass of Cullen skink soup, followed by a ballotine of duck and a fish course of smoked salmon in champagne sauce. The main course was also the highlight of the show, a peppered loin of estate venison in a rich, silky sauce. Unfortunately, despite having two month’s notice of my husband’s tomato allergy, there was no sauce alternative for him. While the atmosphere was elegant and the menu lavish, we were definitely in banqueting territory on service and selection, with no alternatives for his non-standard allergy offered up. More delicate dishes (scallops, eggs) were often slightly overcooked, and many served slightly cooler than the ideal. The food service … particularly at breakfast … was a lot slower than I’d expect from this price point. Aside from the lack of allergy substitutes, there was nothing I’d escalate to a proper complaint, but the food overall didn’t reach the levels I reported when at the hotel over an October weekend.  All kitchens, including this one, struggle in banquet mode, and nobody seems to be able to get holiday staffing to full levels any more.

Dessert was an individual baked Alaska, followed by coffee and petit fours. I’m always a bit sceptical when the latter gets considered a course, but we were stuffed and had lingered at the table until 11:30, so that wasn’t an issue.

 Back in the cathedral room, so called because of its soaring ceiling and majestic proportions, sofas had been moved away from the fireplace to make room for an eight-man band. The three-piece horn section gave them a full, rich Big Band sound but the musical selection was solidly comprised of the kind of pop “floor fillers” that get everyone dancing at big events. The champagne was already being pressed into guests’ hands as we climbed up into the minstrel’s gallery to get an overhead view of the fun.

Just before midnight all the guests poured out onto the terrace behind the house to watch a short but impressive fireworks display set to music. This is the way to do NYE fireworks. No waiting, standing in an Italianate loggia protected from the drizzle, champagne being topped up by the waiters and a pile of hotel blankets on offer to ward off the chill for the 15 minutes you’ve ventured outside. 

The hotel was generous with the included champagne, topping up glasses well after midnight. We were relaxing in front of a roaring fire in the library, near enough to enjoy the band but far enough away for conversation. 

While this was the biggest event, it was far from the only activity included in the package. There were lavish teas laid out on the afternoons of both the 31st and the 1st, with piles of sandwiches, scones, pastries and savoury treats. Sadly the weather was so awful it was hard to do enough activity to work up an appetite, much less to work off your calories. 

I ventured out on New Year’s Eve, when the occasional pocket of sun peaked through scudding clouds and sudden rain bursts, but the wind was so intense that the dog and I only survived about half an hour. we made it to the foot of Hound Tor, a monumental pile of glacial boulders that appears like the ruins of some mythical castle from another age. I’ve taken glorious hikes here with Bruno’s predecessors on more clement days, but going any higher seemed to risk having our skins flayed off by the gale. The spaniel was so traumatised he wasn’t keen on going outside the rest of the break.

Fortunately Bovey boasts an indoor pool, steam room and sauna with glass walls at one end looking over the moors. This was a much a better form of exercise, though one the dog couldn’t participate in. 

You could also attend sessions to meet the estate’s falconer and one of his hawks, investigate the chickens or witness ferret racing. Given years of listening to The Archers I had high hopes for the ferrets. While adorable, they’re not natural racers and needed to be coaxed to meander down a track comprised of cages and tubes to a bowl of food waiting at the end. Not a patch on the piglet races you’ll find at a Midwestern state fair.

Outside there was a boules court, a putting green and rambles around lovely gardens, but only idiots and dog walkers were braving the weather. It had rained so much, in fact, that the boules court looked like a water feature rather than the pristine rectangle of sand it’s meant to be. 

The range of country activities included in the price of the hotel is one of Bovey’s draws, however, and in that way it reminded me of Missouri’s Big Cedar Lodge. And like the lodge, there are additional activities you can layer on for additional fees: archery, air rifle or clay pigeon shooting, an excursion to one of the estate barns to see how they make cider and gin. Having risked the great outdoors the day before, however, I spent New Year’s Day in an enormous wingback with my dog at my feet and my husband on the sofa next to me, alternating between reading a good book 

and drawing the landscape that I wasn’t able to spend long within the day before. 

While a range of activities is great, more important to me on a luxury break … particularly in the winter … is a variety of places to lounge in quiet, cozy, and architecturally impressive comfort. With fires. Bovey has these in abundance.

New Year’s Day brought another lavish banquet preceded by champagne, this time turned into kir royal to mix things up a bit. This time we started with a watercress veloute with a smoked salmon foam on top (I would have happily drunk more than the amuse bouche-sized shot glass), followed by another terrine, this time of chicken, duck liver and pistachio. The fish course brought scallops and young leeks in a vermouth sauce, just a touch overcooked as mentioned above. The cooking of the beef fillet, happily, was spot on, and they managed a sauce without tomato. The chocolate and malt tart that followed was the best of an impressive array of sweets that tempted me across the three days. In flavours and variety the New Year’s Day feast probably had a slight edge over the night before, but as the pinnacle of holiday indulgence it pushed me to that Mister Creosote moment, when a “whaffer thin mint” might have caused me to spontaneously explode. I figure this is exactly what you want out of your Christmas/New Year’s holidays: a climactic finish that makes you push back from the table and believe you are ready and eager to return to the austerity of January. 

The fly in all this lovely ointment, as you might expect, is cost. The two-night New Year’s package at Bovey Castle starts at around £2,000 per couple, with variations in cost depending on the level of room and whether you’re bringing your dog. (Or children!) Additional nights are a snip at £270; you are REALLY paying for the holiday festivity. I made a foolish assumption that for that cost, the wine would be included at the dinners. It was not. Add in a suitably celebratory number of bottles from a wine list where few choices are under £50, a cocktail or two, two meals not included, and a flat £25 fee for charging the car once (far pricier than a home charge), and the incidentals bill was an eye-watering 25%+ addition to what we’d already paid. 

Was the total cost worth it? Given the unique circumstances of our year, we’re glad we did it. We loved every minute and the three days felt more like a week of deep R&R. Would we do it again? Bovey Castle’s kind thank you upon leaving offers you a free additional night’s stay if you book next year’s package before the end of January. I’m not rushing to do it. I can’t help thinking that I’d enjoy the whole Bovey Castle experience more at none-holiday price. I’m certain the food would be even better if it was a la carte rather than part of a massive banquet. I adore the idea of a New Year’s Eve break spent in a luxury hotel with a magnificent party laid on for the guests … but could I find an option that offers something similar for a more reasonable cost? The hunt is on. As is the parallel hunt for new business. Because luxury like that isn’t even a remote possibility unless my new freelancing venture thrives.