There's more to Kentucky than fried chicken and horses

by Tim Bryan

Jul 17, 2010

It's a thirsty, two-hour drive on wide, empty roads, through the rolling bluegrass hills and horse farms of Lexington, through the genteel pioneer town of Harrodsburg, past the civil-war battlefield of Perryville, then southwest to Mammoth Cave National Park, home to the world's biggest cave system. That's where I've booked a clapboard cot- tage and I'm looking forward to a few beers, given that I'm here in the middle of a record, 30-plus-degree-Celsius spring heatwave.

But there's a tiny problem: the state park doesn't sell alcohol. It's dry.

"This whole county is dry, sir. But at Bowling Green, near the Tennessee border, there's a liquor store."

It's about 50 kilometres south, a long way in Hong Kong but not in America. It's different.

"Welcome to the south, sir," smirks the man at the liquor store. "Reckon a man can't eat without a beer."

Did I need my Kentucky Ale so badly? Yes, sirree. I'm on holiday, 10 days and 1,600 kilometres of easy driving through the home of Colonel Sanders, bourbon and horses, bluegrass music and hillbillies. I'll be visiting battlefields and distilleries, chic hotels and B&Bs in old jails, and taking in the wonders: the Cumberland Falls, the catfish-filled lakes, the mountains and, surprisingly, the people.

Kentucky is full of surprises. It should be: it's somewhat off the radar for overseas tourists but it's a great way to see the hidden, "real" America.

Bourbon is a major draw. About 95 per cent of it is made in Kentucky, at distilleries such as the family-owned Heaven Hill, near Bardstown, the bourbon epicentre, which is open for tastings. At the Jailer's Inn, a B&B in a former prison, with walls a foot thick and cells with barred doors for rooms, breakfast is taken alfresco, next to the old gallows.

Bardstown is also the home of Chapeze House, where "Colonel" Masters and his wife, Margaret Sue, offer bourbon tastings and cookery lessons in southern specialities. The affable colonel - he's more of an uncle type - is a regular on television, teaching Americans how to sniff bourbon or make a mint julep (sprig of mint, cane sugar, water, bourbon), the drink of choice at the Kentucky Derby.

Lexington is the horse capital. Everyone seems to be in the industry: jockeys, trainers, vets, breeders. It's also home to Keeneland, host to the world's largest horse auctions and spring and autumn race meetings. It's a family affair, although the same can't be said for the plethora of bets: I get confused by "show" and "place", and ignore "trifectas" and "superfectas", but somehow manage to win US$80.

For a university city of nearly 300,000 people, Lexington has a small downtown: a few skyscrapers surrounded by quaint Victorian brick-and-board homes, all with porches. The bars are lots of fun on race weekends. The parties at Mia's (great for brunch), the Tap Room (think Cheers) or Molly Brooke's (friendly Irish) go on till 2am, so I limber up with a sirloin patty burger and fries at the indie-aura Sidebar Grill.

The countryside around Lexington and the state capital, Frankfort, is stunning, making driving a joy, especially in spring. The undulating green hills are carved up by the horse farms, bounded by dry-stone walls or white picket fences, and dotted with old wooden barns, where blossoming tulip trees, flowering cherry trees and red dogwoods stand guard. Enthroned in the middle of each are the mansions of the Kentucky colonels - titles bestowed for military service during the American Revolution - whose sweeping verandahs prompt enthusiastic rubber-necking. Old Frankfort Pike is the best scenic drive, boasting Wallace Station, an organic diner in an old railway station that serves giant sandwiches in freshly baked bread and local drinks such as Ale-8-One, a fruity ginger beer.

This rural idyll gradually meets urban chic on a 90-minute drive west along the old Shelbyville Road, past the Valhalla Golf Club and some of the biggest houses I've ever seen: new condo-clusters each with garages for six cars.

Louisville, a city of a million people abutting Indiana on the vast Ohio river, is fast regenerating and gaining a reputation for its art, restaurant and bar scene. It's weird - in a good way. Laid-back, with a small-town feel and friendly locals, it's known for its chain store-free centre and Victorian architecture.

I miss the two-minute Kentucky Derby at the Churchill Downs track and the two-week city-wide party it spawns, but I do get to stay at the 21c Museum Hotel, last year voted America's best by readers of Conde Nast Traveller. The hotel is modern, swanky and funky - full of contemporary photography, installations and paintings. Set on West Main Street, it is right by Museum Row (once Whiskey Row, before prohibition) and the Muhammad Ali Centre, a must-visit shrine to the boxing legend.

Nearby is the five-diamond (think "Michelin star") Seelbach Hotel, mentioned in F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, and frequented by Al Capone (using a secret door to evade the cops).

Old Louisville hosts whole districts of beautiful Victorian townhouses and mansions, with picturesque porched homes dotted across in the Highlands area. In less salubrious Butchertown and Germantown you'll find small, detached "shotgun" homes built from the end of the American civil war up to the 1920s and comprising three or more rooms, with no hallway. The name derives from the idea that you could fire a shotgun through the letterbox into the back garden without hitting a wall, as the front and back doors line up. There are also "camelbacks" (shotguns with a second storey at the rear of the house) and "double-barrel shotguns" (semi-detached).

Indie bookshops, bars and boutiques abound on the Bardstown Road and Barret Avenue, an alternative nexus. The best vintage store is Nitty Gritty, where I resist a light-blue '70s prom tuxedo. There's also the Oprah Winfrey Show-featured Leatherhead, making leather goods and whips to order: Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp are customers, apparently.

Wherever you drive (it's best to drive in Louisville; until the downtown fully blossoms, its attractions are rather scattered), strangers smile and say hello. It's enjoyably unnerving, and infectious.

Kentucky is where north meets south, a pleasant cross between northern sensibilities and southern hospitality. Historically and geographically, it isn't quite either. It stretches 645 kilometres from east to west, a six-hour drive, bounded by Ohio, Indiana and Illinois to the north, Missouri, Tennessee and Virginia to the south. The locals prefer "gateway to the south" - Kentucky is more Sea Biscuit than Mississippi Burning, although it does get humid in the summer, hence the porches.

The food is pretty southern, too: grits, fried catfish, smoked country ham, hickory barbecues, skillet-fried cornbread, burgoo stew (now with mutton rather than squirrel). And, yes, fried chicken, either the delicious home-made version at Kurtz's, in Bardstown, or KFC. Now, I'm no KFC fan but when you pass the first ever link in the chain - still Sanders Cafe - near Cumberland Falls, in Corbin, in the mountains, you have to pop in, at least to check out its small museum.

Kentucky's other famous export is bluegrass - the foot-stomping, banjo and fiddle-led country offshoot - spawned by the Scots-Irish who settled in the Appalachians, home of the "hillbillies", where folk care less about appearances than the colonels and park rusting cars on their lawns. The town of Hazard (yes, as in the Dukes of Hazzard) is a short drive from the Falls. Bluegrass on the radio is the perfect soundtrack for driving here.

There's one thing on the drive that you cannot fail to notice: the roadkill. There's a victim every few hundred yards. Sadly, you get used to it: squirrels, raccoons, possums, coyotes, deer. But look out for skunks, the stench of which will permeate the car for five malodorous minutes with windows and sunroof open. They alone are enough to drive you to drink.

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