Bardstown, KY

I woke up in the Mammoth Cave National Park campground after a quiet night—except for the walnuts that kept dropping onto the roof of the van. A few hit hard enough to trigger a beep from the van’s security system. I wasn’t all that hungry, so around 8 a.m., I drove over to the laundromat and shower building behind the camp store to start the day.

Afterward, I headed to the visitor center to get my National Parks Passport stamped. A long line stretched out the door—easily more than a hundred people. I asked what the line was for, and someone said, “The cave tours.” That surprised me since the day before, staff had told me the tours were suspended because of the government shutdown. When I finally reached the front desk, I found National Park staff working and asked if the government had reopened. “No,” the ranger said, “we got special private funding to open the cave tours. The shutdown’s been killing fall tourism.” Later, I read that the U.S. Travel Association estimated the travel industry was losing over a billion dollars a week because of the shutdown. After walking through the exhibits about the cave system, I left around 11:30 and started driving toward Bardstown.

National Park Center

Afterward, I headed to the visitor center to get my National Parks Passport stamped. A long line stretched out the door—easily more than a hundred people. I asked what the line was for, and someone said, “The cave tours.” That surprised me since the day before, staff had told me the tours were suspended because of the government shutdown.

When I finally reached the front desk, I found National Park staff working and asked if the government had reopened. “No,” the ranger said, “we got special private funding to open the cave tours. The shutdown’s been killing fall tourism.” Later, I read that the U.S. Travel Association estimated the travel industry was losing over a billion dollars a week because of the shutdown. After walking through the exhibits about the cave system, I left around 11:30 and started driving toward Bardstown.

On my way, I spotted an obelisk rising above the trees and pulled over—it was the Jefferson Davis State Historic Site. You can’t go up the obelisk because it’s currently closed for repairs, which is a shame because the view from the top must be incredible. I walked the grounds for a bit, but I’d already read plenty about Davis and didn’t feel the need to linger.

My next stop was in Hodgenville, famous for Lincoln’s birthplace, where I grabbed a coffee at Vibe and ordered avocado toast. The coffee was excellent, the service less so. The place was almost empty—just me and one other customer the entire 45 minutes I sat there. Across the street was a small hair salon with two immaculate Chevy Impalas parked out front. People kept stopping to admire them, and every few minutes another classic car would roll by, polished and gleaming. I later realized there was a big fall car show 20 minutes away.

Lincoln’s Birth Place

From there, I continued to Lincoln’s Birthplace, a national park, only to find it closed because of—you guessed it—the government shutdown. Of course it was closed.

I finally reached Bardstown around 4 p.m., later than expected. Parking wasn’t bad if you didn’t mind walking a block or two, which I didn’t. The visitor center, located in the old county courthouse, had just closed by the time I found it—after being sent in circles by well-meaning locals who pointed me in three different directions. Many of the town’s shops were closing for the weekend, but Bardstown still had plenty of energy left in it.

Stephen Foster’s presence looms large here. Known as the “father of American music,” he wrote over 200 songs, including “Oh! Susanna,” “Camptown Races,” and “Beautiful Dreamer.” His most enduring work, “My Old Kentucky Home,” was inspired by the mansion and grounds that now make up My Old Kentucky Home State Park. The song eventually became Kentucky’s state anthem and remains a fixture at the Kentucky Derby. Foster’s work bridged folk, parlor, and minstrel traditions—music that, for better or worse, helped define the sound of 19th-century America.

Bardstown wears its bourbon heritage proudly. As I walked through town, I saw bourbon everywhere—bottles in shop windows, barrels turned into planters, and old distillery logos repurposed as storefront art. The smell of charred oak and mash seemed to hang in the air. People sipped bourbon at lunch, debated their favorite distilleries, and talked about mash bills the way others talk about sports stats. It’s clear bourbon isn’t just an industry here—it’s an identity. The town’s connection to distilling dates back to the late 1700s when settlers discovered Kentucky’s limestone-filtered water and humid summers were perfect for whiskey. Today, names like Heaven Hill, Willett, and Barton 1792 still carry that legacy forward, and Bardstown continues to age gracefully alongside its barrels.

The Old Talbott Tavern sits right on Court Square in Bardstown and feels like stepping straight into the 1700s. Built in 1779, it’s said to be the oldest stagecoach inn still operating west of the Alleghenies. The building is made of thick limestone blocks—solid and rough-hewn in that early frontier way that looks like it was built to last forever. Back then, it was a major stop on the route between Louisville and Nashville, where travelers, soldiers, and politicians could get a meal, a bed, and probably a good pour of bourbon. Over the years, it’s hosted all kinds of characters—Daniel Boone, Abraham Lincoln, and even Jesse James, who supposedly left bullet holes in one of the upstairs walls. Today, it still serves food and drink, but more than that, it holds onto Bardstown’s early history, right down to the creak of the floors and the uneven stone walls.

I then walked the old town while the sun dropped in the west, taking photos of the homes, carriages, and neighborhoods that made up this town.

That evening, the town was buzzing with a beer fest downtown. Food trucks lined the street, and the smell of wood-fired dough pulled me toward a pizza stand. I ordered a 12-inch cheese pizza that turned out to be excellent—crisp crust, tangy sauce, and hot enough to burn my fingers. I ate standing near the stage, listening to a trio of local musicians—two women and a man—playing amplified acoustic guitars and harmonies that carried through the crowd. It was simple, unpolished, and perfect.

I spent a while walking the town and grabbing night photos.

When the music wound down, I drove about twenty minutes southeast to a small conservation area parking lot where I’d spend the night. It was remote but quiet, shielded from the nearby highway by a thick line of trees. The van was the only one there. After such a long and varied day—from cave parks to closed monuments, bourbon streets to campfire silence—it felt good to finally sit still.