Lovely country you have there, mountain folk. I bet come summer time, the road is filled with people coming up out of the heat and humidity of Atlanta to enjoy the cool air. The road is a Harley Davidson owner's dream, with long, smooth curves that would invigorate the rider.
Still not having overcome my movie-goer's paranoia of southern cops ("I sees ya'll from Califurnia. Ya'll hippies? Step outta dat car, son." I again set the cruise control for "slow" and let the HHR do its own thing, while I admired the scenery.
While we were in Atlanta, we'd missed the snow storm that had blanketed the area with six inches of the white stuff. The roads by this time were clear and dry; the bright sun keeping the temperature warm enough to prevent dreaded ice in the shady corners of the road. It looked like some Christmas of my distant past.
Asheville popped into view more quickly than expected. We returned to the first motel we had stayed at, not wanting to be adventurous with our still suffering backs, feet, knees, etc. and chose to visit the restaurant we'd had such a great meal at the first night in town. If you read part one of this travelblog, you'll know what happened next. Plastic, anyone?
The next day we visited The Biltmore. Maura, mind you, has effectively no cartilage on one knee, but she climbed up and down staircase after staircase after staircase in America's largest home. The Vanderbilts must have been in great shape having to cope with those stairs... and pity their servants. Maura was in agony.
The following morning we searched out antique stores and checked out some of Asheville's art galleries.
Nothing I've seen compares with the work on display there. We both agreed that in just one store we saw more terrific stuff than in all of the art colonies in Santa Fe, New Mexico, or Carmel and Monterey on our own California coast.
We'd saved the best for last on our trip. Our last night was to be spent in the hotel that brought us to the attention of Asheville in the first place -- The Grove Park Inn,
GPI is a Mecca for lovers of the Arts and Crafts Movement, and one of the half-dozen or so great historic resorts in the USA, along side those in Yosemite, Yellowstone, and a few others. This huge resort, located on a mountainside a few miles from central Asheville, looks out over the valley and the distant Smokeys, and has been a destination for tourists since 1895. It is a rugged looking building, it's walls a great collection of natural stone, making it appear as though somehow the sands of time had eroded away the earth, revealing the hotel beneath the mountain.
The main entrance opens to a great hall, flanked at each end by massive, and I do mean massive, stone fireplaces that dwarf the guests who stand in awe before them. A row of rocking chairs face the fire, and guests gaze into the flames for hours on end, silent in thought.
It has been a long time since I looked into the mysterious energy a fire possesses. I was captivated, as thousands have been over the decades. It drained away my aches and put my mind at ease. Looking into a stack of burning logs calls up emotions that date back to man's earliest existance. A fire meant warmth for the night, then as now; safety from predators; an opportunity to cook a meal; provide time to reflect before sleep closed in.
Today, we travel far and pay large amounts of money to sit before a majestic fire such as this. And it is worth every nickel.
Maura negotiated a great rate on a room that ordinarily would cost me the pay of two days hard work. Some ongoing exterior renovation work obscured the view, so the price was halved. So, only one day's wages... (cough.)
But what a room! A corner room, at that, with windows on two walls -- it's twin across the hall was once occupied by President Franklin Roosevelt, back in 1936... and ours had the better view. (Fear of snipers, perhaps?)
Original Craftsman furniture! Heavy tongue-and-groove paneled doors; tile work to die for; the deep, deep original bathtub. I guess you had to be there, but it was very indicative of what wealth would have brought you back in the days when traveling to, and then staying at such a resort, might have encompassed two months, rather than a single night.
We prowled the halls for hours, examining hundred-year-old furniture, listening to the trio playing in the bar, and of course, watching the fire. The hotel was perhaps at best 30 percent occupied, it being the dead of winter. As lovely and warm a place as it is, the staff as pleasant and cooperative as you could ask for, I still had to crack a joke about The Shining, Steven King's horror story about a great hotel like this in winter. Maura was not amused. Redrum, redrum...
Next: Back to reality.
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