In 1978, in a village of 160 people an hour and a half west of Washington, D.C., master chef Patrick O’Connell and his partner, Reinhardt Lynch, opened a restaurant that grew into a legend, at-tracting guests from all over the world to these eastern foothills of the Blue Ridge. From the outside, the three-story white-frame building looks like any other quiet Southern hotel; only the Chinese Chippendale balustrade on the second-floor porch suggests the decorative fantasy within. The garden, with crabapple trees, fountain, and fishpond, cries out to be used as a stage backdrop.
The rich interior of the inn is the work of British designer Joyce Conway-Evans, who has designed theatrical sets and rooms in English royal houses. The settees in the inn bear as many as 13 elegantly mismatched pillows each. One bedroom has a bed with a bold plaid spread, shaded by a floral-print half-canopy—and, amazingly, the mélange works. In the slate-floor dining room with William Morris wallpaper, a fabric-swathed ceiling makes guests feel like pashas romantically sequestered in a tent.
A room and a suite in the guest house across the street are good for two couples traveling together, but they lack the sumptuousness of the main building. At press time, the kitchen was being expanded and two junior suites were being added over it.
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