 |
|
|
In Search of the Perfect Inn by Hayes Fletcher January 10, 2007 After 24 years, my wife finally talked me into spending some vacation time at an "authentic" country inn. I've always believed the proper place to stay when traveling was in an air-conditioned hotel room overlooking a swimming pool and tennis courts, with at least one golf course in view. Of course, I've also been known to settle for a house within walking distance of a white sandy beach staring out at the glorious fury of the Atlantic Ocean. However, the time had come to change old habits and join that peculiar crowd of inn lovers who seem to function best in solitude, quaintness, and family-style dining. Late afternoon, found us threading our way through malfunction-junction in Knoxville heading for the mountains. After a miserable night in a small motel in over-crowded Gatlinburg (an anathema to all inn lovers), we drove across the majestic Smokies to our destination, a well known inn near Asheville, North Carolina. An unwelcome companion on our drive through the mountains was the most frightening electrical storm we had ever encountered. Reluctantly the hills became a natural amphitheater in which the shattering thunder and brilliant lightning played out their awesome concert. Following the storm, a gray-blue haze settled over the peaks, forming a giant canvas on which nature brushed an inspiring scene. After many miles of narrow country roads, clogged with slow moving school buses and pick-up trucks, we finally arrived in the small town that housed our inn. It was exactly what we expected - a large rambling white frame house with upper and lower porches lined with black rocking chairs. The early 19th century architecture and fading Victorian furniture fit the description in "Back Roads and Country Inns," our guide for the trip. The most important detail, however, had been overlooked. Our guide book had failed to tell us that the inn was located on the square in downtown. The constant hum of traffic passing within a few feet of the veranda was bad enough, but car owners in this little town had obviously never heard of Midas. It was not the perfect setting for quiet contemplation and a "Waldenese" escape. The six o'clock dinner bell, which ordinarily would have jarred my nerves, was a welcome sound, breaking up the rhythmic patterns of cars circling the square. I stopped counting at 67, but continued reflecting on the fact that blue cars far outnumbered other colors. An antique Reginaphone (a disc music box) was playing in the parlor as guests were led into the dining room and assigned seats at long tables. The food was so good it dulled the memory of our tiny room upstairs with its creaking floors and the speedway out front. The country fare, served family style, consisted of fried chicken, eight to ten vegetables, hot biscuits, dressing, yams, honey, fresh butter, strawberry ice cream and cake. The hot coffee, made from spring water, was the best I had tasted outside New Orleans. Summoned to our bed by weariness and gluttony, we looked forward to a sleep induced by fresh night air, the sound of crickets, whippoorwills and hoot owls. Before we could adjust our bodies to the lumps in the mattress, the muffler-less cars began their vigil. Each turn on the square required a different gear producing a shattering sound. In the early morning hours after stillness had finally settled over the town square, I quietly said to my wife, "Thanks for making all this possible." She did not respond. After a hearty breakfast of country ham, eggs, grits, biscuits, red-eye gravy, apple butter and honey, we apologetically checked out a day early and headed south toward our second choice on the list: Snowbird Lodge, located "on top of a mountain" twelve miles from Robbinsville, North Carolina. "You can't get there from here," is a colloquialism used to exaggerate difficulty finding out-of-the-way- places. Right? Wrong! It is a phrase spoken with a North Carolina drawl in response to the question, "How do we get to Snowbird Lodge?" We first had to find the small town of Robbinsville. It was on the map, but the road signs did not match the lines on the map. After some backtracking and numerous stops along the way pleading for directions, we finally arrived in this quaint little town. The welcoming sign revealed a sense of humor and a keen insight into their geographical destiny. It read, "Welcome. Now that you've found us, why not stay a while." Just passing through, thank you. Now all we had to do was locate Snowbird Lodge, which according to our guidebook, was only twelve miles away. A service station attendant, who gave directions like a New York cab driver, sent us eight miles in the wrong direction. Eventually realizing we had taken the wrong turn, we stopped at a small grocery store for help and after explaining that I didn't care which way the crow flew, he took pity on me and said, "You can either go back to Robbinsville and take the blacktop or you can take the short cut through the mountain." The shortcut proved to be eight miles of stark terror on the most dangerous gravel road I had ever traveled. Upward bound, we moved cautiously around hairpin curves, trying to avoid glances at the 300-foot drop to the roaring stream below. Calmly, but profoundly, my wife said, "I don't believe this." Mercifully, for the car and us, the blacktop finally appeared like a mirage in the desert. Suddenly a "sign" appeared in the form of a man dressed in a business suit riding a motorcycle. My wife mumbled again the theme of the trip, "I don't believe this." The easy rider offered to lead us to the lodge. Snowbird was everything we had hoped for. The stone and pine buildings were perched majestically atop the mountain with a "on-a-clear-day-you-can-see-forever" view. It was not a clear day, but the sight was awesome. There were guests on the porches, but the solitude was as though E.F. Hutton was about to speak. Books were being read, birds being watched, and afternoon naps in progress. While I wandered around the grounds contemplating three days of quiet bliss, my wife went in to see if they could take us a day earlier than our reservations. The expression on her face told the story. There was no room in the inn. Our reservations were good for the following two nights, but not tonight. It was either back to Robbinsville and a motel, or several miles "down the road" to Blue Boar Inn, a rustic hunting lodge. Another dusty, rough gravel road took us to what appeared to be a deserted lodge. The owners finally unlocked the door and kindly informed us that since they had no guests booked, they were closed. Although my wife was not great with child, the innkeeper's wife took pity and offered us lodging. If the room had been filled with hay and animals, I would have happily accepted it without complaint. As we prepared for a nap, the innkeeper yelled down the hall and asked if we would like to "catch our supper." Thirty minutes of happy angling produced six brook trout and a hearty appetite. Following the meal, which was served on a huge carousel in the middle of the table, we sat on the porch listening to the running brook and other wonderful sounds emanating from the thick forest. Sleep came quickly. We rose early, had breakfast with our hosts, and, somewhat reluctantly, said goodbye to Blue Boar Inn and its two wonderful and compassionate owners. The next two days at Snowbird Lodge more than compensated for all the driving, weariness, frustration, and discouragement of the previous days. Brief but interesting conversations with other guests, long walks in pathless woods in Joyce Kilmer forest, breathing unspoiled air, reading in front of the huge stone fireplace, bird watching, eating by candlelight at a private table (guaranteed by a "no-mingling of guests" policy at meals), we had found what we had been seeking. Snowbird Lodge was the perfect inn. The experience taught us that in the final analysis, all's well if in the Inn, it ends well. About the author: Hayes Fletcher, is the author of "Moonbeams from a Jar", a novel set in a small West Tennessee town in the early forties. He is also the author of a play, "Children Playing in the Marketplace," and a children's book, "The Purple Thermos Bottle." In addition to employment in college and health care adminsitration, he wrote a weekly column for The Jackson Sun (TN) and has contributed many articles to local and national publications. After retiring, he and his wife, Anita, settled in Weaverville, North Carolina. | | | |
First Person Archive Most recent: 2008 November October September August July June May April March February January 2007 December November October September August July June May April March February January 2006 December September | |
 |
|
|
