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September 2001 | Our State | Perfect Weekend | 2,965 words At Home In Hendersonville By Ralph Grizzle I confess I suffered a tinge of incredulity when the editor of this magazine suggested in a serious tone that we feature Hendersonville for this month's Perfect Weekend. I questioned what sustaining diversions the place that locals refer to as "Hooterville," a reference to the town in the 1960's TV show "Petticoat Junction," might possibly offer the weekend visitor. Hendersonville has no single attraction of the stature of, say, Asheville's Biltmore Estate, New Bern's Tryon Palace, Wilmington's big battleship or Winston-Salem's working Moravian village. Even tiny Valle Crucis can claim the original Mast General Store. The governmental seat of Henderson County, on the other hand, boasts subtler must-sees, such as the Mineral & Lapidary Museum, the Historic Hendersonville Depot and the Historic Johnson Farm. These aren't exactly the types of attractions that consistently draw visitors from far and wide. Hendersonville claims a revitalized downtown, but so do many other North Carolina towns. As a drawing card, this alone would doubtful give you reason to pause and say to your spouse in a tone that suggests you expect to be taken seriously: "Hey, let's jump in the car and head to Hendersonville this weekend. They've got a bustling downtown." Moreover, Hendersonville -- well I just have to say this -- is the type of place my grandparents might have moved to if they were still living. The region consistently ranks as one of the best places to retire in the United States. But this suggested the ponderous prospect of, say, watching octogenarians commandeering Pontiac Bonnevilles down Main Street at 5 miles per hour. This did not sound like my idea of a rousing good time. But what I found in Hendersonville surprised me, and it was made all that more surprising by the fact that I have lived much of my adult life just 22 miles north, in Asheville. I genuinely enjoyed being in a place where I could walk from one end of downtown to the other in ten minutes. I liked being in a town where the outdoor water fountains actually dispersed cold water and where I could stop (at Days Gone By) for a cherry phosphate (95 cents) at a drugstore counter where phosphates and egg cream sodas have been dispensed to thirsty customers since 1882. I liked being able to see a movie downtown and to walk back to my hotel without being accosted by bums or maligned youths. A green-haired kid on a skateboard even smiled politely at me. I liked that too. I even found myself marveling at some of the touted attractions, including an old church with a historic cemetery, a famous writer's estate (I won't hold you in suspense it was Carl Sandburg's "Connemara"), a couple of wonderfully fun and comfortable hotels, a rustic mountaintop restaurant, the best movie theater I've ever sat in and a downtown created not to extract tourist dollars but to provide the town with a working center. Getting
There I pause, resting my arm on a stone wall, cool to the touch. A bushy-haired man comes along the walkway and nods amiably to me. I say hello. He stops, I remark on the beauty of this place and ask if there is still a connection between Charleston and the congregation. He illustrates the point with a story that I think you'll like. About 10 years ago, a thief made off with much of the silver inside the church. The thief disposed of the silver at an antique shop in Charleston. Browsing the shop one day, a Charleston lady noticed a chalice and some other items that looked familiar. "Where did you get these?" she asked the store's proprietor, who explained how he had come by them. The lady told him that the silver had been stolen from St. John in the Wilderness, the church she attended in summer months. Upon learning of this, the antique store proprietor promptly returned the silver. As I walk among the tombstones, I silently intone the South Carolina names: Martha Rutledge Singleton, born in Charleston; Christopher Gustavus Memminger, also of Charleston, first secretary of the Treasury of the Confederate States; Rev. John Grimke Drayton, developer of Charleston's beautiful Magnolia Gardens. It was, of course, a Charlestonian who built St. John of the Wilderness. In 1827, Charles Baring purchased 400 acres to build a home on the order of an English country estate, which would include a porter's lodge at the gate, a deer park and a private chapel. The chapel burned, and in 1836, Baring finished construction of the brick church that was consecrated as the first Episcopal Church in Western North Carolina. Other wealthy Charlestonians followed in Baring's wake. To provide them with a place to rest after their long journey, the Farmer Hotel opened in 1850. Low country travelers typically came by stagecoach across the Saluda Gap and stopped at the hotel. The summer resort of Flat Rock eventually became known as the "little Charleston of the Mountains." The connection is still strong. Flat Rock is, in fact, 36 miles closer to Charleston (240 miles distant) than to Raleigh (276 miles). The old Farmer Hotel is now the immaculately restored 17-room Woodfield Inn, the state's oldest operated inn. The owners, Michael and Rhonda Horton, take pride in telling you that the house's foundation was hand-hewn, secured by wooden pegs. The exterior is Carolina white pine; the interior, mostly oak. The windowpanes are hand-blown. The hardware is old brass. Woodfield Inn's 22 fireplaces all work. One summer evening, I stood on the broad second-level porch half expecting to see a stagecoach of gentrified Charlestonians, parched and dusty, arriving in the cool mountain night. The old house is wonderfully romantic and enchanting. Sandburg
Slept Here I paid a $3 entry fee and trundled behind 10 other tourists through the expansive house. It looked as though Carl would walk in at any moment. On the coffee tables were old Life, Collier's, Newsweek and Time magazines, yellowed copies of the New York Times, boxes of Montecruz cigars and even an empty glass that made it look as though the Pulitzer Prize-winning author had been sitting there only moments before we arrived. I signed the guest book and read over the comments from previous guests: "You charge too much for entry to the house," wrote one unhappy visitor. "Charge as much as you need to maintain it," wrote another. "5th visit," claimed one. "I will read Sandburg differently now," suggested another. "Thanks to Mr. & Mrs. Sandburg for letting us see the house," wrote another, apparently unsure whether the Sandburgs were living or dead. "My dad kissed a goat," a proud child penned. (Mrs. Sandburg raised prize-winning goats, and the National Park Services still manages a herd.) Be sure to prepare yourself for the walk from the parking lot to the house. The footpath is a little more than a third of a mile and gains 110 feet in elevation. That may not sound like much, but the uphill push leaves you panting. "Should be allowed to drive up," read one comment in the guest book. "Long walk for the sick," read another. "Good walk," another wrote, punctuating with an exclamation mark. Thoughtfully the Park Service provides a free shuttle for those unwilling or unable to walk up the hill and back. Bye-Bye
Flat Rock I stayed the night at the Highland Lake Inn. On the extensive grounds, you have the choice of sleeping in the 16-room Inn; the 20-room historic Lodge, built in the early 1900s and recently renovated; cabins or family cottages. I chose the Inn and was given a room featuring a fireplace and Jacuzzi. Staying here is a little like being at camp (in fact, it used to be one) without the discomforts or regimentation of camp. At your leisure, you can paddle a canoe, ride a mountain bike, cool off in the Olympic size pool, fish the lake or walk the trails. I chose to spend my time getting pampered at The Spa at Highland Lake. For one hour, the experienced hands of Bethany Ray lulled me into a state of profound relaxation. When she finished, I stood up in a daze-like stupor, unable to utter an intelligent sentence or to think for myself. Bethany pointed me in the direction of the restaurant and gave me a gentle nudge. My feet shuffled forward and continued to move under their own volition, depositing me at the Highland Lake restaurant, where I sat down to one of the best dinners of my life. The restaurant at the Highland Lake Inn consistently earns accolades for its fine cuisine. The food not only pleases the palate but also the body, as the herbs and vegetables come straight from the five-acre organic garden, only 100 yards or so away. If you're strolling the gardens, you may find Executive Chef Michael Foreman harvesting herbs and vegetables for your dinner. Foreman was named one of the top 10 chefs in Colorado, when he worked at the Augustine Grill in Castle Rock, Colorado. I give him equally high marks for the entrée he prepared for me, grouper served on a bed of crab-meat grits and topped with pancetta. To dine at the Highland Lake Inn is experience the divine. On
To Church In the 1970s, Hendersonville decided to revitalize its downtown using a simple idea the creation of "serpentine" streets. The goal was to slow traffic and ease access for pedestrians to cross back and forth. The plan worked well, and now the downtown shops and businesses are thriving: Mountain Lore Bookstore, the Black Bear Coffee Shop, Kilwin's Chocolate, Fudge and Ice Cream, and my favorite, the Skyland Arts Cinema. I have never experienced anything like the Skyland Arts Cinema, where I saw "The Golden Bowl," a film based on a Henry James' novel. The Cinema is situated in the beautiful lobby of the old Skyland Hotel. Inside, two-top tables are arranged in front of the screen, with two comfortable chairs on rollers at each table. On the screen photos of worldwide destinations preceded the movie. I thought this a good way to pass the time but then realized that they were advertisements for Globe Treks, a local tour operator that also owned the theater. So compelling were the photos that I found myself half considering a trip to Canada's Takkaka Falls or Montreal's Chateau Frontenac. Before the movie, an attractive young lady walked in and proceeded to the front of the room. She stood before the screen, picked up a microphone and announced that her name was Jennifer. Self-assured, bright and well-spoken, she thanked us for our business and wished us a pleasant viewing experience. Jennifer reminded me of a flight attendant preparing the cabin for takeoff. "There is a water cooler to your right," she said, pointing. "We'll give you a bigger cup if you need it. And the exits are marked over the doors." "For the hearing impaired, we have headsets," she said a tad more loudly and slowly. I've never been to a friendlier theater or one that thanked me so much for parting with the $7 admission. I really liked this place. I was particularly touched that the theater even apologized for having to raise the price of tickets this year. The gist of their apology was this: "Julia Roberts may be everybody's sweetheart, but she demands and gets $12 million every time she makes a movie . . . we pay a good part of her salary." Inn
on Church Street All of the rooms are themed at the Inn on Church Street, and this adds immensely to the experience of staying here. The themes are great conversation-starters among the guests, and you're free to peek into any unoccupied rooms. My room was themed Guliani (as in mayor of New York City), described as offering "the plush decadence of New York." I fumbled with the keys and opened the door to an exceptionally clean and bright room. The pine wood floors gleamed. My king-size cherry sleigh bed was covered with 100 percent cotton linens and feather pillows. Decadently plush, indeed. The bathroom's hexagon tiles sparkled; someone had put a lot of elbow grease into renovating this place. Fluffy white towels and washcloths were draped over a hanger. A shower curtain was draped around the cast iron-porcelain tub, original to the building, and the fixtures were authentic turn-of-the-century. I was charmed by this place. Charmed by Brynn's unpretentious hospitality. Charmed that I was going to sleep in a hotel that has been in continuous operation since 1921, although it has changed ownership quite a few times over the years (the new owners, the Hortons, are the same folks who own Woodfield Inn). I was charmed by the fact that the property was placed on the National Register of Historic Places. Asheville, while it has a downtown hotel, can boast of nothing like this. The lobby felt homey, and the furnishing inviting and comfortable. I could sit on antique furniture and not feel as if I were going to break something valuable. Along the walls were coiled radiators. Many of the six-paned windows still had their original glass. I liked the idea that the window-unit air conditioners hummed me to a restful sleep later that night. And I liked the themed rooms. I wanted to see them all, and I did see quite a few, including: Willow, with its canopy willow queen bed, plaid quilt and willow chandelier; Juliet, described as "very romantic," with its antique queen Gothic bed set and 7-foot headboard; Velveteen, a bright and airy room with "bunnies galore;" Tokonoma suite, "with Oriental flair;" Jane, featuring an African jungle theme; and Lucille, with its pink flamingo on the nightstand and pink Cadillac at the foot of the bed, and black-and-white photos of Lucy and Elvis. In a happy state of mind, I went out for dinner. There are at least three fine restaurants in downtown Hendersonville. Two, A Touch of Charleston and Portico, were located at the back or at the side of antique shops. You had to walk through the shop to get to the restaurants. Both were bustling, and the menus looked appetizing, but I could not warm to the idea of eating in an antique shop, and so I found myself driving up to Poplar Lodge, where I had a pint of the locally brewed (Asheville) Gaelic Ale and an appetizer. The log structure was reminiscent of a hunting lodge, which I very much enjoyed. I made a mental note to return here in the winter when the fireplaces were likely to be ablaze. I could not think of a cozier spot to be with the snow falling outside the large windows. After dinner, I proceeded up the hill from Poplar Lodge to Jump Off Rock. The sun was setting, and I admired the fine throw of land that lay before me. I could see Asheville from here. I would be headed back there tomorrow. I wasn't quite ready for that. Despite my initial doubts, I found myself feeling fondly affectionate about Hendersonville. I wanted to stay longer. As I watched the sun dip below the ridges, I knew that I could not stay. There was work to do back home and family to see. They had given me two nights away on my own, and it was time for me to return to them. I often grow attached to the places I visit. I become easily smitten with towns and people, not wanting to leave. I thought of this as I returned to my hotel and nestled under the covers to sleep a peaceful night's sleep. Funny, but it felt a lot like being at home. I hear lots of folks who talk about leaving the mountains to visit family in the piedmont or at the coast, or even in other parts of the nation. Without fail, they all say that when they see the ridges of the mountains, they feel as if they have come back home, even if they were not born and raised here. Maybe that is Hendersonville's charm. Maybe that's why I liked it so much and did not want to leave. It makes us feel as if we are coming home. |
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