The Big Apple has its attractions, but you need to head out of town to appreciate all that its state has to offer, writes Conor O'Clery
New York is wonderful, exciting, exhilarating, all of that, but sometimes one needs to get away from the buildings, the noise, the dirt, the pressure and the people. We have spent several weekends doing just that since we came to live here, four years ago, driving north, west and south of the city.
We have discovered, within a couple of hours' drive, picturesque villages with antiques shops, cafés with home-cooked food, pristine forest parks with hiking and ski trails, fake villages that turn out to be high-end shopping outlets, weird old hotels perched on hilltops, country inns with four-poster beds, and cultural oddities such as Boscobel.
We discovered Boscobel on a lovely early September day in our first year. We had driven north, up the western side of the Hudson river, going nowhere in particular. In the foothills of the Catskills we had stopped at Kingston, an early Dutch settlement with narrow streets, for a seafood lunch on a terrace overlooking a riverside park, where a troupe of acrobats from Cirque du Soleil, in Quebec, happened to be performing.
On the way back along Route 9D, on the east side of the Hudson, we came to Cold Spring, a charming village of antiques shops and old inns. On the far side of town we turned off the road to check out, as the Americans say, an old stately house called Boscobel. What we found was Shakespeare in a tent, or, to give its full title, Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival. A three-sided marquee had been erected in the meadows of a grand mansion to serve as a theatre, with tiers of seats inside. There was to be a performance later that evening of Romeo and Juliet; we bought the last two tickets.
Theatre-goers began arriving early, with picnic baskets and rugs, and spread themselves out on the lawns to sip white wine as the sun set beyond the magnificent sweep of the valley. Many brought folding picnic chairs and tables, which they weighed down with banquets of cold meats and cheeses. Thoughtfully, the organisers provided anti-mosquito spray and sweaters for those who came unprepared for the evening chill, like us.
The play began after dusk, with actors running in and out from the darkening meadow to do their stuff. It was magical. Since then, bearing our own Chardonnay and smoked salmon (socialists as we are), we have made an annual pilgrimage to Boscobel during the summer season, which runs from mid-June to early September and usually includes two plays. This year we went to see Macbeth, which, truth to tell, was not brilliant and was a bit short on actors - the same person played Lady Macbeth and one of the witches - but the mellow audience didn't seem to mind very much, and a few were happy to nod off.
Boscobel House, one of the most outstanding examples of federal domestic architecture in the US, is also one of those oddities that one often finds when exploring the country's stately homes. Nothing is quite what it seems. It is two centuries old but it wasn't here a half-century ago. (Good question for Trivial Pursuit: how could this be?)
The two-storey mansion was actually built far away, in the New York town of Montrose, but fell into disuse and in the 1950s faced demolition when it was declared "excess" by the government, which sold it to a demolition contractor for $35 to make way for a veterans' hospital. The neoclassical facade and much of the interior architectural details were sold to a private buyer on Long Island.
In a last-ditch effort to save the edifice, led by Benjamin West Frazier, funds were raised to buy the rest of the building and move it somewhere. Boscobel was dismantled and trucked piece by piece to the town of Garrison, where it was stored in barns and other vacant buildings. A 26-acre site was acquired outside Cold Springs, the facade was bought back and the house rebuilt to its original state in the 1970s. The grounds were landscaped to imitate a historic setting. You wouldn't know any of this if you didn't read the brochure. It beats Birnam Wood coming to Dunsinane.
Upstate New York has lots of similar buildings hidden away in the mountains and forests. On the way to Boscobel this year we visited an even more elaborate "historic" house at Katonah, just an hour north of Manhattan on the east side of the river. It appears to be an ancient Italian palazzo whose rooms contain centuries-old wooden carvings, ceilings and antiques. But the villa dates back only 75 years; everything from the panelling to the drapes was imported from Europe and Asia. Concerts are held in the summer in the courtyard and in the astonishing music room, which contains Renaissance paintings, tapestries, wrought iron and Urbino majolica.
On another outing, when looking for a cross-country-skiing site about 90 miles north of New York city, we came across Mohonk Mountain House, a spectacular Victorian-castle hotel perched on a peak of the Shawangunk Ridge, where classical concerts are also held.
But Boscobel remains the most special place. That day of our first visit was September 8th, 2001. I remember a Manhattan resident remarking as we left the theatre after Romeo and Juliet: "What a lovely day. Life doesn't get any better than this." Four days later our world crashed around us and the US went to war. Now, I suppose, going back to Boscobel is a way of reassuring ourselves that the relatively peaceful, almost idyllic life we lived before 9/11 still exists and can occasionally be recaptured.
What to do when you're in New York
New York's main attractions - Times Square, Central Park, Ellis Island, Broadway theatres, the Empire State Building - are familiar to everyone. They live up to their reputations. Here are some of the things I like doing that don't appear in guidebooks.
Strolling along the water's edge in Battery Park when the sun is setting behind Jersey City.
Browsing in the Strand second-hand book store, at Broadway and 12th, through eight miles of books (there's another downtown, at 95 Fulton Street).
Having breakfast in a real New York diner, such as the Gee Whizz (my local) on Greenwich Street.
Having a special - that is, expensive and to-hell-with-the-diet - evening out at a top-class restaurant such as the Tribeca Grill, Robert de Niro's occasional hang-out, also on Greenwich Street, or dining somewhere really trendy, like the Hudson Cafeteria, on West 58th Street, in midtown, or having a proper Chinese meal at Mr Tang's, at 50 Mott Street, in Chinatown.
Rollerblading in the very early morning (especially when feeling guilty after that special meal) along the ribbon of park that runs forever between West Side Highway and the Hudson.
Stocking up on fresh fruit and vegetables in Chelsea Market, on 9th Avenue between 15th and 16th, which is like a covered souk, with little cafés and bakeries guaranteed to tempt the strictest South Beach dieters.
Driving out of town on summer days to do some antiquing and on winter days to walk or ski in the snow-covered Catskills.
Going back in time to catch a decent (non-Hollywood) film in a 1950s-style independent cinema, such as Angelika Film Center or the Landmark Sunshine Cinema downtown. With popcorn, of course.
Three things I miss about Ireland
I have to be careful here. When living in Moscow, during Soviet times, I told RTÉ the thing I missed most about Ireland was marmalade, and I got more than a dozen jars of home-made marmalade from Irish tourists visiting Russia (to whom I am forever indebted). What I miss about Ireland here in New York can't be exported. I pine for the weather (sometimes). I'm a leather jacket rather than a T-shirt person, and I prefer cool to hot. I miss the flowers in Irish hedgerows in summer and the blackberries in autumn. And apart, of course, from family and friends, I really miss the odd civilised game of poker - real poker, like five-card stud or draw, not the Las Vegas versions now so popular here.
