A two-week road trip during the height of Texas’s summer is not perhaps the holiday you would expect a pale non-meat-eating Brit to choose. But the Lone Star State lured me in. It’s not the guns — which are everywhere — and it’s not the widespread devotion to Donald Trump, who when I was there had just received a felony conviction. It’s the sheer size and variety of this one state; so culturally and geographically different to England that it is hard to comprehend.
Texas has huge masses of desert land: my American friend Peter and I drove for five-hour stretches past low-lying shrubs and prickly pear cactuses as far as the eye could see — and I prayed to all the gods that we wouldn’t get a flat tyre. Temperatures rise into the 110s (this is the land of Fahrenheit not Celsius) and humidity rivals that of tropical countries. But we also saw thriving cities packed with the very best live music, western fashion — and real cowboys.
Waking up the first morning on the trip — disoriented after a nightmarish string of flights through thunderstorms and closed airports — I headed straight for coffee and a big breakfast at Cafe No Se, at Austin’s South Congress Hotel. Then I set out to explore. South Congress is the Main Street that crosses the Colorado River into central and East Austin. If you’re in town to shop, this is where you want to be: it has everything from vintage to modern designer and all kinds of boutiques.
Just across from the hotel were two incredible shops, Prototype and Feather Vintage. The former was more affordable, and I picked up a floaty black beaded dress and a leopard jacket. The latter was a Mecca of designer vintage where I marvelled at fringed and patchwork jackets in red leather and pink suede and couldn’t afford anything.
Next up was Allen’s, a cathedral of cowboy boots in every single shade and style, and racks of Stetson hats under taxidermy ferrets and bull heads. A word of warning: do not think you can pick up a pair of boots cheaply! I couldn’t see any for less than $500, but I wanted them all.
That afternoon we went to Barton Springs, a natural source that stays cold enough to cool you in the thick Austin heat, where thousands of people sit and tan and drink and climb tall trees to dive into the water. To your left, you pay to sit, and the grass is green and there are real steps down into the water, even diving boards. To your right, it’s free, and a free-for-all. Techno thumps out of speakers and the crowds are a mass of colour and varying degrees of drunkenness.
Then we headed into sprawling east Austin, with streets of fun bars and quirky restaurants. There is everything from Tex-Mex, to Italian, to classic Diner food. In a real witch shop, I bought a lucky charm, and we had dinner at Uptown Sports Shop. I had a fried green tomato sandwich the size of my arm, which I’m told is a local delicacy.
Next on our road trip was San Antonio. Apparently the “third-fattest” city in America, it’s only about an hour from Austin, but it feels like another country. On the way there we stopped at two roadside institutions. At Buc-ees, a service station the size of the O2 arena, they serve supersized everything: brisket sandwiches, jerky, jalapeno brittle (disgusting) and coffees in pint cups with scoops of coffee creamer. The second: Cabelas, was another airport-sized building that not only sells hiking equipment but also hosts installations of taxidermied animals from mountain lions to cobras. Oh, and a gun library where you can buy or sell any type of firearm.
In San Antonio we stayed at Hotel Emma in the Pearl district (like a huge Coal Drops Yard). The hotel was an old distillery with the vats turned into seating areas in the bar, and the hotel built around all the machinery. We had dinner just across the street at La Gloria, a friendly Mexican restaurant where we had huge plates of ceviche and tacos, and we were so full could barely walk back. For breakfast we tried a San Antonio classic, Mi Tierra: a Mexican restaurant where golden streamers line the ceilings, waitresses are in red flamenco dresses and traditional Mexican music blares from the speakers. Despite the sensory overload, the whole place is conspicuously loved by all its customers.
Two hours further west, and the landscape changes to hill country. We stopped for a night in a two- street town, Bandera, known as the “cowboy capital of the world”. As we pulled in, two huge boots appeared blinking in neon above a shop, alongside a huge sign saying, “Come on in Y’all!”. The two men who owned the gun shop next door laughed when I nervously refused to hold an automatic. “We don’t have these in England!” I told them.
Bandera boasts not only a real saloon bar, Arkey Blues, where you can still smoke indoors underground, but also the massive 11th Street Cowboy Bar. Here, on ‘bring your own steak Wednesdays’, over a thousand people arrive in their best boots and hats to drink and dance.
We checked in to Dixie Dude Ranch and were summoned to meals from across the ranch by a bell (6pm is first bell; the second bell tells you you’re already too late) to have family-style dinners with all the other guests. We ate next to a couple who had not only met on the ranch, but got married there – we saw the photo album – and have visited every year since. Another woman from Sheffield had come on a whim the year before, made friends with the rest of her table and vowed to return. They had all bonded with particular horses and called Dixie Dude’s the best place on earth.
The heat was overwhelming, so after seeing the horses and meeting Bubba Estes — a real cowboy with spurs and all — whose line, I kid you not, was “whadda you do? Apart from look purty…” — we found a makeshift way to open a bottle of white wine and drank it out of plastic cups with huge chunks of ice, while sitting in Adirondack chairs on the veranda and watched the horses stroll about in this surreal spot.
The next morning, just after breakfast, we went out riding. I was terrified, and it didn’t help that the horse I was given was called Psycho
After dinner we went to the 11th Street Cowboy Bar for margaritas and beer. Underneath the bras hanging from the ceiling, the bartender told us a story of how her inner spirit had led her to Bandera (abandoning a husband along the way). The other woman in the bar turned out to be the mayor of Bandera, so the four of us talked happily about the wonders of this town for many hours. At Arkey Blues I got into a long political debate with two Texans in head-to-toe camo.
The next morning, just after breakfast, we went out riding. I was terrified, and it didn’t help that the horse I was given was called Psycho. But as we rode slowly but surely into the sloping hills around the ranch, I settled into the experience. As a novice rider the instructions to lean backwards as you go steeply downhill and forwards as you go uphill did not come naturally, but I found the gentle pace of the ride soothing. When we left Bandera, I understood why people find themselves returning.
The next leg of the drive was five hours — and we watched the green hills fade to sparse shrub and then desert, while we listened to as many Texan songs as we could find on Spotify (before the phone signal stopped). We passed almost nothing for a long time, and then, out of nowhere, like a mirage, we arrived in Marfa.
Marfa is a strange place, made famous by the architect Donald Judd, who brought with him a host of liberal creatives. You drive in past the gas station’s mural that asks, “does thinking about happiness prevent it?” It’s a town that has a disproportionate amount of money in it to the rest of Texas, apart from the huge cities. Cyprus trees and vividly green grass line certain streets, and the bars could have been transplanted from Dalston — but you’re aware the desert surrounds you, no other life to be seen.
We were staying in El Cosmico, a vintage trailer park where each van had been remodelled into the perfect 1970s home. Ours was the golden trailer 14, with two Gatsby-esque eyes on the side. Inside, it was thankfully cool.
We ate at Margaret’s, a hugely upmarket restaurant offering retro snacks like pink beetroot devilled eggs and sardines on toast with salsa verde. Peter tried the bavette steak with Caesar salad covered in a cloud of Parmesan cheese, and I went for salmon and salad. To finish we had the key lime pie, tart and sweet with a maraschino cherry on top.
Waking up the next day, I made a Chemex of hot coffee in the trailer, and then had an outdoor shower, attempting to wash my hair with a hippie solid shampoo bar. We ate breakfast from Asters — where, thrilled that vegetarian food was again easy to find, I had a hummus and tomato bagel, and then explored the galleries and shops. I bought some thermal print pieces at the gallery shop Garza, and marvelled at the embroidered denim pieces in Mark Wilkerson’s gallery. We settled in to write and read in the Sentinel with iced matcha, and aubergine sandwiches for lunch.
That afternoon as some ominous storm clouds rolled in, we made the pilgrimage to the (Instagram) famous Prada Marfa store — which I had assumed was just outside the town but was actually a half-hour drive into the middle of the desert. Just like in Marfa itself, there’s nothing to see for miles and miles, and then it’s there. Peter and I debated how effective the installation is; how useless Prada is in the desert; the re- contextualising of luxury when the only houses we saw were in extreme poverty. As we left, a girl with a Prada bag arrived with her unwilling husband to start a photo shoot.
After Marfa we headed on to Big Bend national park — specifically to the ghost town of Terlingua. This landscape is like the surface of the moon, with gigantic chunks of white rocks against pale blue skies. The ground is grey then sand, then deep red or purple dirt. It doesn’t look as though human beings should live, let alone survive here. We spent the night at the odd but perfectly fine Big Bend Holiday Hotel. Our room was “the most recently renovated”; probably in the 1970s.
A $30 visitor pass for a private vehicle lasts a week. It’s about an hour’s drive further to the most famous hike, Santa Elena Canyon, which traces the Rio Grande River. If you’re brave enough to cross the murky brown opaque waters on foot, you can touch the stone on the other side and revel in having crossed into Mexico. The drive around the park is one of the most beautiful drives I’ve ever seen. You take huge sweeping turns under dwarfing mountains, some with perfectly flat tops, some jagged like sharp teeth – all at a scale that doesn’t seem real.
After a full morning in the park we had a late lunch from Venga, one of the only places I could find that served vegetarian food! In Texas, even beans come with added beef. That evening we drove into the park for sunset at Windows Peak trail — despite my fear of the bears and lions they say are around. If you encounter a mountain lion, the signs tells you to “appear large” and “fight aggressively”. Luckily we didn’t have to put this into practice.
The next morning was our longest stretch of driving — eight hours back to city civilisation in the shape of Fort Worth. We were staying at Bowie House, Auberge resort, which was close-to-faultless. The hotel had heaps of personality: rich Texan leather detailing and textured wall hangings, and a rooftop pool area with a bar whose wonderful bartenders ensure it is the perfect place to sweat out the heavy afternoon sun. For dinner we went to the institution of Joe T Garcia’s, a sprawling huge Mexican restaurant with a garden and water features. We ordered way too much food and were instantly defeated. My brother — who had newly joined us from South America — pronounced the beef cheek street tacos delicious, and I chose the vegetarian fajitas, alongside a huge pitcher of Grand Marnier margaritas with heaps of tajin.
Breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant Bricks and Horses was satisfying and artfully done, but still felt healthy. Ricotta scrambled eggs and greens for me, and Eggs Benedict for my brother. We made it into the Fort Worth stockyards just in time to see the 11.30am cattle drive (they happen twice a day, the second at 4pm): crowds line the streets and then bulls with horns wider than a car stroll down the street just in front of you, driven by a cowboy. In the boot and western stores that line the streets, I fell in love with yet more thousand pound rhinestone-studded and fringed leather patchwork jackets.
For lunch we went to Emilia’s in the cultural district near the hotel. We had a selection of starters for a light lunch to try as much as possible: scallop and tuna crudo alongside burrata with poached peaches and focaccia, and an octopus salad on top of edamame bean hummus.
The final stop on the Texan road trip was Dallas. In just 40 minutes you trade in the smaller-city feel of Fort Worth for financial-district skyscrapers. We stayed at the hotel Swexan, which opened just last year. Half Swiss influence, half Texan, the interiors were different on each of the 20 floors. We settled by the pool on floor 20 to admire the views of the new city just below us, from the Margaret Hunt bridge to the American Airlines concert hall.
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That night we went to Stillwell’s for dinner on the 7th floor. The draw here is the steak: ribeye wagyu and cowboy priced in ounces and cooked any which way — all wasted on me, but my brother managed to finish a 22oz cowboy steak and declared it incredible. There are also delicious non-meat options: my sea bass on a bed of beans and crab was perfectly salty and flaky. After dinner we randomly chose the nearby bar Parliament which turned out to be a great find. We both had gin-based Frida Kahlo cocktails printed with her face.
The next morning thunderstorms were brewing, so before the skies broke open, we went for a long walk around the Highland Park area, and realising the village mall there had no options cheaper than Hermes. This was such a wealthy area that all we really saw were glass-fronted mansions and perfectly thick green grass.
We had lunch at the very classic and traditional Cafe Pacific. Even though we weren’t allowed to sit inside because my brother was wearing shorts, all the staff were warm and welcoming to us on the patio. We did what you can only really do on a long holiday like this and had martinis and oysters at midday, ridiculous and decadent but perfect. We soaked up the atmosphere there for a good couple of hours and were sad to leave.
You can’t go to Dallas without going to see where JFK was assassinated in 1963. Dealey Plaza is a strange place to stand: almost totally unchanged since that day. It’s a busy intersection with some nondescript buildings. A man stopped us to share lots of conspiracy theories about the grassy knoll – and was disappointed we didn’t want to pay for a JFK walking tour.
Next up was a wander around Deep Ellum, which was our favourite part of the city, crammed with amazing vintage shops, coffees and bars. It feels worlds away from downtown Dallas, and, unless you’re there on a Monday, is the best place for a late-night drink or dance.
Dinner that evening was right at the top of the orb-shaped Reunion Tower. If you want a special dinner while in Dallas, Crown Block is a great option – especially if you’re new to the city, because it’s much easier to make sense from that great height. We started with homemade sushi, which was light and delicate, followed by salmon (which I would leave in favour of more sushi).
The final stop of the trip was probably the highlight of Dallas: the Nasher Sculpture gallery and garden. It was a perfect morning, and the gardens offered moments of peace amongst the swell of the city. At one point I said to my brother how much one sculpture looked like a Picasso face — only to discover it was indeed a Picasso. At lunch out by the water fountains we soaked in those precious last moments of Texas — blue-skied and bright. It was a perfect June day.
