Day 4 - Farewell with panache: the Butler's goodbye

Biltmore Holiday Day 4:  Farewell with panache: the Butler’s goodbye

After another excellent night, (this one in Biltmore style:   king beds all turned down and equipped with  bedtime chocolates),

we started our final day with the elegant fireside breakfast buffet which included omelets to order,

cheese blintzes with apple compote, and an exceptionally flakey and flavorful raspberry croissant.  Having finished my packing, I left the checking out to the others, and trundled down the hill to wait for the others in the antler village.   I had just finished my fruitless chase of the baby goat, when they arrived to pick me up.  A quick sprint to the car (we count our supersonic hip implant blessings here), and we were off to the final tour of Biltmore Estate:  the Butler’s tour.

We were duly impressed and intrigued by the lower levels and passage ways of the home, and fascinated by an hour of stories of the head housekeeper, Mrs. Vanderbilt’s French handmaid, and the newest technologies of the turn of the century, available at the time only in the Biltmore (George, it seems, was friends with Thomas Edison). 

But the gardens called us back for one last promenade.  We gladly answered the call, walking hand in hand  through the ideas of the one who birthed landscape architecture here…everywhere the feeling of wilderness at peace with man in the midst.  How wonderful that George wanted to preserve it…that he was first drawn here by the natural landscape, and that he honored it enough to insure its preservation.  Nearly a quarter of a million acres passed through his wise hands, and into the experience of future generations.  The genius of Olmstead kept the spaces inviting enough for us to linger there in comfort, yet in the middle of a sort of stark natural beauty.  I sat for a bit on the little bridge made of branches,

while Dave took Ery and Brad around the lake to see the famous bridge from the movie Last of the Mohicans…a lovely way to say goodbye for now to one of our most treasured places.   Thank You, again.

With the excitement of Christmas yet ahead, Ery and I were content to climb back into our snug traveling  positions with our men in the Super Rogue, our  transport blessing that made it possible to travel in comfort with all our possessions intact.  After our brief stop at the Starbucks by the Biltmore entrance, we bade the grandeur farewell, and headed north to resume our celebration of the holiday on our own farm.  I love it all….and the celebration continues.  Biltmore…see you soon in your

 springtime florals.  Windy Hill by the River, let the festivities begin! 

Day 3: Guests of the Vanderbilts

Day 3:  Moving to the Vanderbilts

Saying goodbye (or see you again soon) to a prayer garden is similar to saying goodbye to a horse.  It doesn’t take words, exactly…much more of a punctuation.  As many times as I have been there, each time has given me a new insight in life, and upon the people who are behind its scenes…both past and present.  I have always felt a kinship to its host of Christians, but until today I never knew why.  As I left I stopped to read about the man, brother Wilson, to whom the garden was dedicated. 

There it was:  Youth for Christ VP, and travel companion of Billy Graham, whose foundation helped fund the garden.  Uncanny that only this year I was drawn to the Youth for Christ group, and learned it was founded by Billy Graham, whose house presides over this whole area in its spiritual influence.  You can feel it.  Now I know it wasn’t my imagination.  They are all there in that garden…all those kids, and all those who paved the way before them…in my garden.  No wonder we were drawn here. 

We checked out and flew like homing pigeons back to our café in Black Mountain.  We didn’t follow our meal with an artisan coffee as we had yesterday from the Dripolator coffee shop, but opted instead to move in early as Biltmore guests. 

The inn was  bedecked just like the house itself…a giant tree in the center of the main entry hall…garlands, lights, vintage toys under the tree…not a corner was without adornment, well thought out to give even an errant guest in the corridor  the feeling of being welcomed into holiday  festivities fit for the Vanderbilts themselves.    “I think we’re gonna like this”…..I said to Ery as we first entered, swept away with the holiday elegance, fragrances, roaring fires, and sumptuous décor. 

We had time enough to explore the antler village shops, just down the hill… and the petting zoo,

(we barely escaped the temptation to stuff the baby goat into our car for the trip home),





....then back to the Inn for high tea.  We sat not far from the fireplace...

as beautiful arrangements of tea delicacies were brought our way:  banana scones this time, and the lemon curd with clotted cream that Dave and I have grown to expect…a fragrant black tea from Provence…ahhhhh yes…..a true sensory fulfillment. 

Even the pianist had arranged understated versions of hymns of the holiday with classical twist that made it all seem vaguely familiar, evoking distant memories  of other precious times.  And the view, as before, was spectacular.

We had time for one more jaunt down the hill for shopping and viewing of the exquisite Tiffany display before dinner.  The few minutes we spent taking in the Tiffanies filled our senses to overload with color and light…the rendering of which was true genius… in each lamp a work of art and artisan.  Those privileged enough to be the first to have these in their homes must have experienced such a different perspective…they must have looked forward to each evening when their lamps were to be lit.

A change of clothing, and we met again, this time directly in front of the largest fireplace in the Inn, for formal dinner. 

Among the highlights of the meal were the sea bass with lobster bread pudding, the parmesan crusted filet mignon, and the pumpkin ravioli. 





The meal, the fragrances, the flavors, the warmth of the fire, and, of course, the company, was the manifestation of the holiday itself, in all its forms. ..the essence of blessing…nourishment for the soul and spirit. 

Day 2: We climb the mountain-because we can...

We slept in…much needed (the forty eight hours prior to departure were spent with Vicki, fresh from her retirement party,


purchasing and arranging the most appropriate-for-1920’s-bungalow Christmas decorations, rendering our house, for the first time, exquisitely clad for the holidays 


…no, I mean literally forty out of forty-eight hours!...just in time for our first-ever Beaty/Ferg/Shields/Gembo/Smith/Dewitt caroling party…another blog, another time.)   


Anyway, back to our Ridgecrest story:  Having discovered that all of the restaurant facilities on premises were closed, we embarked on a discovery mission with breakfast as the focal point. 



We landed in Black mountain, a relatively well kept secret of superior culinary, artistic, and craft endeavors.  Just in time for lunch, we dined in the only café that seemed to offer more than sweets:  the Veranda Café.  It was our destiny…

What began as a quest for sustenance morphed quickly into a holiday feeding frenzy of the kind where after tasting one of the soups on the menu, one quickly orders cups of the rest of them to pass around as samplers for the table.  Unexpected delights are so energizing…there we were, surrounded by eclectic  sort of giftie/memorabilia such as signs for your office  that say ‘Due to the failing economy, the light at the end of the tunnel has been disconnected’- trading bites, oohing, and generally feeling quite indulged, when – BAM out of the oven (which was only a few feet from our table) came a tray full of the apple dumplings that exist only in Dave’s dreams. 

Among the highlights, besides, of course, the dumplings, was the spiced spinach crème soup, the squash bisque, and the Hungarian mushroom soup (renamed ‘massive-stacks-of-deeply-layered-flavor-varieties-of-sautéed mushroomness-with-a-rich, stroganoff-type-sauce-ladled-between-the-layers’. It was two days in a row, at first sight.

As Ery and Brad had a business call to attend back at the lodge, Dave and I took to the hill, where I had found my favorite spot next to the brook in the prayer garden early this morning.  My garden experience had been once again in keeping with the old Baptist hymn…’and He walks with me and He talks with me and He tells me I am His own’.  There was a whole scenario around a rhododendron bud that Dave would later help me interpret, on this hike. 

Today the temperatures seemed to reflect the spiritual atmosphere in this place…not harsh, as we had expected, but temperate and relaxing…no bracing needed for either cold or hot.  So towards the summit we started.

Hiking with Dave is a unique experience in the art and science of fitness…the phrase ‘Be all you can be…’ comes to mind.   One doesn’t notice it until about half way up the mountain, but when it hits, it does so with a pronounced feeling of lack of oxygen, a certain amount of nondescript pain, and an overall sense of vague irritation that eventually escalates to desperation.  At one point I was watching him climb the slope a few yards in front of me, and this scene from Pepe LaPew just popped into my mind.  I was, of course, the lady cat, nearly expired and looking like an asphyxiating carpet with extremely large eyes.  There goes Pepe…how does he do it?

We met the Gembos after their own hike, and managed to get to Biltmore in time to walk around the village, and arrive for the candlelight tour of the Vanderbilt home. 

One of life’s pleasures, in addition to Ery’s curly hair in the morning, is her squeal when she sees really pretty Christmas lights, or any general wonderment of a season such as Christmas.  From the moment we passed the outskirts of the premises, she never ceased to talk in spurts of flowing  superlatives, snapping her new camera at every turn.  Sometimes she and Brad would have so much to shoot that they would tag team.  Dave narrated stories about how Olmstead planted the bamboo, now relaxing along our right along the long entry lane, as if it were napping from a hundred years of activity…..about how he is the father of landscape architecture, and what he was thinking when he made certain of the choices we were seeing in the landscape.  I love hearing him tell these stories…they are forever rooted in my heart because of him…kind of like bamboo fills up the space if you let it go, and makes a lovely carpet of lush green year round.  Deciduous…that means not evergreen, I think.

The home by candle light was as breathtaking as I expected…my favorite part, complete with renaissance musicians in the entry winter garden, a sort of greenhouse foyer where guests and family were welcomed the day George opened the house in 1895.  Zither and guitar, perhaps….it was hard to see them amid the poinsettias. 

More lavish use of greenery, berries, pinecones, lights, everything perfectly appointed….I was even able to snap a secret shot or two in the great hall with the roaring fireplaces at one end, and the 50 foot Christmas tree at the other.  They still celebrate with gifts for their staff every Christmas in this room.  

For one day, more memories than one can absorb. 

After our candlelight tour, we made a spur of the moment decision to head into Asheville, bound for one of the premier chocolatiers in North America:  the French Broad Chocolate Lounge.  As usual, the process of finding it and parking successfully at night was rather like the perilous trek through the deep uncharted woods on the way to the elven paradise of Rivendale.   (We later decided not to go into Asheville at night in future). However, this chocolate paradise was, as always, worth the journey.  The highlights (besides the always endearing hippie chocolatiers and baristas behind the counter), included the perfect pot de creme,

the lavender creme brulee, and the jasmin truffle (had it been a blindfolded fragrance test...                           


I would have said we were in the middle of a jasmin garden). 

 

All truffle flavors literally melted on the tongue.  Incredible.

Satiated and happily fatiqued, we arrived back at our own mountain lodge, where no one had disturbed our own fireplace, which was still burning to welcome us home to bed...

Day 1…Fully packed to mountain haven…

With the van packed into every inch of space, Dave at the wheel, Ery and I padded in with cozy tunnels perfect for our legs, and Brad in a partial leg fold behind me, we set off in great spirits, directed by a small screen named Debra who had an American accent today.  (I prefer her Aussie one myself).  The image as I write this conjures up an episode of either the Clampetts or one of the I love Lucy road trips.  We stopped short of actually singing, but let me just say that spirits were high as we headed south.

After a stop or two and several hours of southward bound, we settled in for number one of our sightseeing stops:  Berea, Kentucky:  arts and crafts Mecca of the region.  Although the preponderance of masterworks from wood carved furniture and utensils to jewelry, pottery and glass sculpture was of a joyful ambiance, there were some pieces that just existed in their own space with an exquisite quiet elegance that left the observer sensing the longing that calls each of us to higher expression.  Perhaps my favorite was the sculpture works of animals and whimsical characters made from car parts, plumbing pipes, and stuff you find in laying around in your garage.  I have no idea how this artist instills the character in each of his creations’ face that makes them so different from the other sculptures made with the same materials.  The difference between an artist and a toymaker, I guess.  We all seemed to have a sort of emotional attachment to them by the time we left.

As the kitchen at the center was closed, we were propelled as it were to seek our sustenance a couple of miles down the road in Berea proper.  A sachet through  Boone's Tavern, and we landed in the Main Street Café, where we had good café fare soup and sandwiches while listening to the entire theme song from the Daniel Boone television series as read by Dave from his smart phone,

later followed with the entire musical version sung by the musicians who sang it at the beginning of every episode…indelible in our memories. Dave and I sang along, much to the amusement of the Gembos…who may, now that I think of it, have considered it scary.

HOME TO RIDGECREST

We arrived around 9:00 at our now familiar retreat, our gift from the Baptists: Ridgecrest.  The last time we were there it was during a bustling Baptist convention with all rooms taken expect the dorms.  Our expectation was therefore of rustic, more teen oriented, shall we say, accommodations, and a camp-like, eat on schedule in the cafeteria-kind of existence.  This time, however, there were almost no cars…just a welcoming gentleman at the gate house who joked about us owing him several Crispy Creams, and subtle Christmas lights visible through some of the glass doors as we drove around to find our building, this time the nicest on the campus.  The glass doors slid open to reveal a blazing fireplace with pine decked mantle, and a brilliantly lit Christmas tree with burgundy velvet balls. 

 It seemed an entire holiday Inn prepared for our arrival, and all to ourselves.  We moved into our rooms, and then back to the fire to resume our breath, taking in the unique atmosphere of serenity together.  As the overhead lighting was entirely unnecessary, Dave, as he was wont to do several times during our journey, rummaged around up and down the corridor behind walls and, finally, what would have been the reception desk had it not been closed, until he found the right switch.  Click-instant ambiance, a swift hoist over the counter, and back into our little clutch to savor the moment.  Comparing notes, our rooms both had a message from someone who wanted us to know they valued us, and had been praying for us to refresh in this place.  It was tangible, and the Presence would remain with us long after we left.