Signs of the South

The day dawned clear and cold, grass bent over laden with moisture. We set off as the sun was rising above the trees, revealing bucolic pastures under blue skies. Fields of tall grass, white painted fences and small ponds under oak trees (some with park benches aesthetically positioned on the banks).

The riding was easy, the road rising and falling in gentle rollers. We passed some plantation style houses and historic looking towns (likely pulled together more recently from rescued farm buildings). We crossed a swollen brown river, swirling with mud and debris like a torrent of hot chocolate and cinnamon sticks.

When we arrived at our campground it was a sodden field with pools of water occupying the dips, and mosquitos occupying the water, so the search was on for slight rises in ground level big enough to pitch a tent on. There were large spiders hanging around — in the barely functional shower, for example. It was quickly voted "worst accommodations so far" by the group.


Jim has an interesting post today about what it takes to sing the Blues.


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