he South's finest hospitality awaits you at The Willcox.

Walk the shady, oak-vaulted streets past clapboard cottages and rambling mansions, and you'll come upon The Willcox. An old-fashioned Southern hotel, a grand white-pillared glory. As lovely and genteel as a rose on a lapel. Every winter, the well-heeled of the Guilded Age came to Aiken seeking horse racing, fox hunting, and high society. The Willcox was the most stately of the hotels that sprang up to serve them. FDR would ride his private train car to the back door and slip in quietly.

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