An arty interlude in Roanoke

The historic Hotel Roanoke is an old hotel, albeit not as old as its Tudor facades would like to suggest. It is also huge. It used to dominate the Roanoke town centre but an even larger, brutalistic new structure seems to have been built right in front of it since last I was here. It’s an art gallery.

We check in to the hotel. I requested

a mountain view room. I seem to be looking at the new gallery, the railway lines, and other buildings but there are mountains beyond. Actually, since the town is ringed by mountains, one can’t not have a mountain view. It is the tiniest room we have yet experienced. Minimal facilities but a lovely bathroom. It is very olde worlde really and, we presume, these proportions ring of old-style hotel accommodation. We squeeze our mountain of luggage in and go exploring.

So odd. We have to cross the hotel forecourt into a modern and not very

nice glass structure and take the noisiest and bumpiest escalator in history up to a covered overpass which crosses the railway lines. At the other side, we take another escalator down to street level - and we are in the town, but scratching our heads at the logistics at

what must be the most elaborate rail crossing in the world.

We are badly in need of a walk so we scope out the town the long way, walking through what must be business districts. The place is pretty quiet.

We saw not a single Virginia tobacco farm on the road here but the heady fragrance of pipe tobacco wafts out of a shop doorway. That rich, sweet aroma draws me inside to look upon the rows of undisguised cigarette packets, the giant jars of fresh, loose tobacco and a couple of affable Southerners contentedly puffing on cigars at the counter. It is a convivial tobacconist world, a remnant of a soon-to-be bygone era. I breathe in both the perfume and the cultural moment.

Returning towards the market-place centre of things, I spot some striking-looking garments in a quaint corner boutique and slip in to check them out. Oh, deary me. Aren’t I the odd one out. A small gaggle of young women turn and give me a dismissive glance as an assistant approaches and suggests I may find the discount clearance clothes up those stairs. I am not badly dressed but clearly I am downmarket by their standards. I had fallen into a niche of Southern Belles. Indeed, the shop is absurdly overpriced. I make a hasty retreat.

A big stationer’s shop looks more appealing. I am in the market for postcards. I pop in. How very odd. The biggest collection of cat themed brick-a-brack I have ever seen. And gag gifts. Every corny gag gift you ever saw. Yes, they have all sorts of cards. Hundreds. Not post cards, of course. Just cards. And Mennonite women in their long pale frocks and neat little head coverings in there looking at them. Heavens.

We repair to the hotel, checking out

the restaurants around the little market square. There are lots and lots. But tonight we are going to dine in the famous Hotel Roanoke dining room. It is very formal. We frock up accordingly. Our liveried waiter greets us in a big, theatrical voice. You must be an actor, say I. How does she know?, he asks my husband. Oh, she’s been a theatre critic for 50 years, says Bruce. Any good shows on in town?

The waiter does his best to impress and to advise. Theatre seems to have died a death in Roanoke. Venues closed. Companies gone. He does some script reading work with a university script development group.

All very interesting. I don’t want to seem disinterested, but I could kill for the glass of wine I ordered. The restaurant is not very busy. Our fellow diners, however, are very old and old school. Beautifully dressed.

The meal of shrimp and grits with deep-fried okra is classic Southern Cuisine - a must-have. It is pleasant. The dessert, which purports to be a pavlova of sorts, does not know what it is and is classic dire cuisine. It can’t be forgotten fast enough. Maybe it explains why the place is not so busy. It has seen better days.

Breakfast is another story. The same dining room is bouncing with action. There’s a big group which seems to be staying for a wedding. There are families. There are classy seniors. And lots of waiters. The buffet is spectacular. It is a whole room lined with choices - egg dishes, sausages, bacon, porridge, cereals, fruits, cakes, pastries, french toast, waffles - plus a chef cooking omelettes to order. I am fascinated by the big salver of spoon bread. It’s a southern speciality. You’ll like it, says the omelette chef. But I like it best with honey. Tentatively, I spoon myself a small serving of spoon bread. He brings me some honey. I try it. I swoon. It is corny, custardy, cakey divine.

I gush to the table waiter that I am in love with the spoon bread. He tells me that it is the ancient specialty of the Roanoke, a recipe unchanged through the hotel’s history. Every chef who comes to the hotel must master this recipe or he/she will not be working here. There ya go.

We go to sleep in our tiny room to the lullaby of freight trains squealing into the night.

We waken to the coolest day for a long time. Late morning we go out and walk some more, finding the market place beginning to fill up with wonderful food stalls. Ah, that’s where the Mennonites come into the Roanoke picture. They trade their produce here. Very nice it looks, too. Indeed, the whole market is lovely. Massive patty pan marrows. Lots of okra. A chap is selling his home-made cakes. He gives me a sample. Oh, me. It is a slice of bliss. Bruce says no. So I buy a cake of hand-made soap from a long-haired, soft-bearded old mountain fellow in a big leather hat. And some maple pecans from another stand.

We eat salads at a covered sidewalk table in a very unhurried market square restaurant, listening to the lilt of southern accents, and then head for the imposing modern gallery which now dominates the town.

It is the Taubman Museum of Art. On entrance, it seems a quite peculiar. From a vast, airy wasteland of a foyer, we are instructed to climb a mountain of stairs and then take

an elevator. The exhibits are on some middle level and there is a good balcony for looking over the town on the top, we are told.

We end up spending many absorbing hours in this gallery. It has the most fascinating, eclectic collection of mainly American art but some intriguing and even lush European works, also.

Many of the paintings are accompanied by comprehensive little artist bios complete with photos. It adds another dimension of intimacy and interest.

I wish more galleries did this.

There is 19th Century art and there are wild

contemporary installation artworks. All of it with something just that bit different to offer.

Even some sweet little creations by Yoko Ono.

There is no cost to visit the gallery. Toyota is paying, apparently. And the collection has been gifted. It is not like any gallery I’ve seen.

The roof balcony is fantastic, too.

The city view with the busy roads and railways is alive. The mountains are a blue glory. And there are iconic advertisements on the roofs of adjoining buildings.

And what’s this? A picture frame in which we are meant to pose for photos. Just try and stop me!

There’s the Virginia Museum of Transportation in an

old railway station on the other side of the railway line. Once again we take the noisy escalator and cross the lines. The exhibition of train photography in the museum has what we think is a high ticket price and Bruce does not care much for trains. We visit the free displays dedicated to the designer of the railway station instead. This is a good move. This is a wonderful show in which we learn about a whole era of American design. This man was the country’s king of logos. He was the master of style and his work has

been around us all the time. He was industrial designer and French American Raymond Loewy. From the late 30s through the 50s, he designed sleek locomotives, cars, and even Lucky Strike cigarette packs. So many of his logos have never been changed. Shell, Exxon and Coke, for heaven’s sake. Another Roanoke revelation.

We take dinner at a local Lebanese restaurant. It is light and healthy. Again we sleep to the tunes of trains grating and grunting on their rails. I eat more spoon

bread drizzled with honey for a morning swoon. And, since the sun is shining, spend the last few hours in Roanoke swimming and lolling by the pool with lots of friendly Southerners who are gathered for a wedding. They tell us all about how awful Donald Trump has ruffled their traditional Republican values and how they can’t stand crooked Hillary Clinton - and how everyone wants to move to Canada, hahaha.

If only it was funny.