Tapping into the roots of old Vermont
The lake was stormy. Guests driven inside by steady rain leaned against door frames and flopped on antique couches. A couple sneaked outside to the patio with glasses of beet-flavored sangria, but their brief stand was thwarted by a drippy awning.
The true character of an inn can be measured on days like this: days when the gloom stretches long, lending time to notice the threadbare carpet edges and cracks in the flowerpots. Freed from the glint of blue skies and rapturous foliage, you settle in and pay attention. At the Inn at Shelburne Farms, the curious explorer is well rewarded.
The inn is the heart of Shelburne Farms, 1,400 acres that sweep along the banks of Lake Champlain on Vermont's northwestern border, one of the nation's premier getaways for fall color. Though the hues are peaking now, it's a trip to consider next year if you aren't already planning a late-season escape.
In 1886, William Seward Webb and his wife, Lila Vanderbilt Webb, set out to build a model farm informed by the latest agricultural innovations. But, being that they were of Vanderbilt ilk, they didn't just buy a farm; they bought 32, eventually amassing 3,800 acres that Frederick Law Olmstead would landscape.
On a rise above the lake, the Webbs built their home, a 25-bedroom, gabled manse. Nowadays the sprawling Shelburne House retains its original glory. But the farm is smaller. And the trees are bigger: You find a stump here and there, gaps left like pulled teeth to clear the view Olmstead intended to frame, not block. The family is still involved, but the farm is incorporated as a non-profit educational organization that offers programming for adults and kids. At its core, though, the mission is the same: finding the best in agriculture, which today means conservation and sustainability.
"Even though we inhabit these wonderful historic buildings, and they are impressive for sure, we know the key to everything is to have a sustainable future," said Marshall Webb, a great-grandson of the farm's founders who manages the property's 400 acres of woodlands as well as special products. "All these kids that come through here, hopefully they're learning about the connection that good stewardship of the land means a good life."
On a bare wooden table in the hallway leading to the Shelburne Farms dining room, a clutch of sunflowers watch over a pile of beets, strings of dusty roots still attached. They're part of the harvest that will be our dinner. But it's still too early for that. We grab an early evening drink--a gin Rickey muddled with ginger beer and fresh coriander--and settle in on a couch overlooking the sloping lawn.
Flipping through a brochure of coming events, we wish we'd planned better: We could have learned how to keep backyard chickens (if Chicago would let us) or brushed up our canning skills. But we decide the grounds are more than enough to keep us busy.
Before the rain came, we had wandered outside, walking along wooded paths that snake for miles. Past an English garden and a half-hidden hammock strung between trees, we walked along the bluff. Rounding a corner, we found a free-standing fireplace and a collection of deck chairs nestled into a small clearing. It was just the spot to gaze across the lake into New York state, where the Adirondacks stood as dusky lumps on the horizon.
A guided tour offers the full sweep and scale of the farm: views from winding roads that seem to change every second, a stop to watch milk and rennet slosh around in the cheesemaking facility, a chance to get face to face with animals that may wind up on your dinner plate. It ends with a tasting of buttery, sharp and smoked cheddars made from the milk from Shelburne's 125 Brown Swiss cows.
As fascinating as it is, we already have fallen in love with the surprises found by opening doors and keeping a keen eye. Back in the inn, having just escaped the deluge outside, we keep walking. The halls are quiet, and even though the inn is booked, we feel like it's ours for the weekend.
It's early enough that not all guests have checked in. We know because the doors to their rooms stand open and ready: Keys dangle from the locks and, rather than room numbers, handwritten placards announce the arriving guests' names. We peek in, comparing our digs--a relatively spare room with a walk-in closet and a bay window overlooking the parking lot--with our neighbors'. This one has a sweeping view of the lake. That one has a sleigh bed. Some have fireplaces. All have antique furniture and decor that would make Laura Ashley swoon.
On the third floor, just beyond the door to our cheerful pink-and-white room, we find a playroom complete with a large, wooden dollhouse. The dollhouse sits in two halves below a giant model ship suspended from the ceiling. A yellow wooden truck has been abandoned midplay. A doll flops on top of a window seat doubling as storage for kids' dress-up clothes.
We continue down a back set of stairs and stumble upon the game room; inside, a heavy, carved cabinet conceals a stash of board games.
It's too cold to go swimming. I know that, but I want to dip my toe in Lake Champlain anyway. The beach is a pile of black-and-white striated rocks, smooth and flat, perfect for skipping. Along the opposite bank, kayaks and canoes are tipped upside down, waiting for guests at the inn to take them out. I step into the icy water and then taunt myself, knowing I would have just dived in as a kid. Now I'm a wimp. I coax myself out a little farther until I feel the muck suck at my rubber shoes: Just like a lake ought to.
At dinnertime, we rustled ourselves up off of the garden steps, where we had been watching the bats swoop, and tramped back up to the inn. The large communal table original to the Webbs' dining room has been replaced, but the room's red, silk wall coverings remain. White and black tiles gleam dramatically from the floor.
The menu reads like a New England map: Vermont pig, Nantucket scallops, Maine lobster. We recognize some of the names on the list of food suppliers from the Burlington Farmers Market we had visited that morning. The star of the evening turns out to be a plate of local rabbit. A loin rack, belly and leg sat atop a bed of quinoa, studded with the liver and kidney--all from the same animal, all lending their own unique texture and taste.
Executive chef Rick Gencarelli said his kitchen uses old methods of saving food; pickling, preserving and charcuterie became more essential to his repertoire after moving five years ago from New York.
"It's the nature of the local food system: You have to deal with abundant crops," he said. "In New York, I didn't buy whole animals. Here I've got tongue and all the rest of it that we don't want to throw away, so we learn how to cook it. I've learned to be a better cook here in Vermont just out necessity."
We're exhausted by the end of our meal. We reluctantly forgo dessert but take coffee with us up to our room. By the time we've climbed the steps to our room, we regret our decision. Lucky for us, a treat is waiting for us inside: a hunk of cheddar, aged six months, and a shiny red apple.
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