Charlotte (NC) to Houston (TX)

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It was late morning when I headed down to Heathrow. The Continental Airlines afternoon flight to New York was uneventful. I had a seat in an empty row at the rear of the plane and had a relaxing flight, managing to stretch out and sleep for a while. We landed at Newark at around 6pm local time and I had about 3 hours before the next flight was due to take off. Getting through immigration took an hour and a half and then customs had a tea break and that queue took 20 min. This left me just over an hour before my next flight down to Charlotte. The security queue took a further 40 minutes, by this time I was getting nervous. I reached the gate 20 minutes before take off at 9pm and hardly anyone was there. The plane was quite small with about 25 rows of seats. Two on the right and one on the left. From what I could see, the cabin crew was one stewardess. I had a seat at the back on my own. It was a cloudless sky with a full moon, floating level with the plane for the 90 minute flight, its reflection mirrored in the, rivers lakes and swamps that we flew over. The entire landscape was bathed in moonlight. It was a flight that I will always remember. Landing in Charlotte was easy, no customs or immigration and as it was around 11pm very few people were around. I used the courtesy phone to call the hotel and was told that their shuttle would be there at 11.20. I waited and watched and at 11.40 I called again. They assured me that the shuttle had been and would be there again at 11.50. At 12.10am I called again and finally saw the shuttle stop outside at 12.20. This would be 5.20am at home and I had been up for 22 hours, which possibly explained my stupidity. I was the only passenger and talking to the driver he explained that he was also the security at the hotel. For a day job he was a bounty hunter. He went on to tell me about his firearms collection and the various gun licenses on offer and how they differed in each state. When I asked him if perpetrators ever resisted arrest he replied "Not when they see what I'm carrying". I finally fell asleep at 1 am. After 6 hours I woke, dressed and at 7 am was on the shuttle back to the airport to pick up my rental car. On arriving I realised that I had left my driving license behind in the hotel room. It was a different shuttle driver and once again we got talking. He had lived in America for about 15 years, coming from India. He loved the life, even though he did not earn a lot. I got the next shuttle back and the same friendly driver insisted on dropping me at the rental lot to save me having to wait for the Budget shuttle bus from the airport terminal. The car was ready and I drove it back to the hotel to pick up my luggage. I had a brief business meeting and by midday I was on the highway heading out of Charlotte listening to Mavis. That's what I call the nicely spoken lady inside my Tom Tom (GPS). I drove from North Carolina into South Carolina, stopping for a short break. The day was warm with just a few clouds in the sky. I passed exits for Atlanta and turned of the highway at dusk to find somewhere to eat. It was already dark when I headed out again and the weather forecasts predicted snow in Tennessee, right where I was headed. After a couple of hours I had left Georgia and entered Tennessee via Alabama. Passing signs for Chattanooga, the terrain became very hilly and occasional snowflakes were melting on the windscreen. When I finally arrived at my motel in Winchester the air was cold yet dry. I had checked in and fallen asleep by 9 pm, or so I thought. The next morning I awoke before sunrise and studied the falling snow. The TV forecast mentioned no more that a light sprinkling, so I went down to reception at 7 am for the bland coffee, juice and doughnut breakfast. This place had bran flakes with raisins so I went for that. By 8 am I had checked out, even though the Jack Daniels distillery did not open until 9.30. The snow was still falling and the radio guy was telling me that the main roads were clear but the roads through the hills were not. I was headed for the hills. Soon after this I realised that I had gone back in time, literally. "The time is 7.15" said the same guy that kept unnerving me with words like heavy snow settling. I had of course gone from Eastern Time to Mountain Time and had two hours fifteen minutes to make (according to Mavis) a thirty minute journey. As the snow fell I began wondering if I would get there at all. Initially the road was flat and until the pick-up truck that I had been following for a few miles, turned into a farm, I had been optimistic. After another ten minutes the gradient changed and I found myself driving through what must have been very pretty countryside. However, it was hard to appreciate with demented wiper-blades frantically trying to clear the melting snowflakes on the windscreen and the wheels of the car hinting that their grip on the road had room for improvement. At one point I felt the car slide on a downhill gradient and my imagination ran through the scenario of leaving the rental car in a ditch and walking back to Winchester. My concentration was sharpened further as a snow-plough rounded the next bend s it passed in the opposite direction. Other than that, I saw no other vehicles until I reached the edge of Lynchburg. Although it had stopped snowing a white, even blanket covered the town. I waited patiently for over an hour in the Jack Daniels car park until they opened up at 9.30. Ironically, due to the snow our tour group had to be driven around by bus and we had to wait another hour until paths were cleared. The tour was very interesting and highly recommended. Leaving Lynchburg just before noon, the temperature was rising and all signs of snow were gone by the time I joined the highway north to Nashville. In spite of making an early start I was now a good hour behind schedule. US highways often harbor police patrol cars, like predators lurking behind foliage, waiting for speeding motorists. The beauty of driving in the winter means that you can see them ahead of you. Where the central reservation is narrow they can catch you traveling in the opposite direction with their radars. If you do exceed the limits you need to be very careful with anyone following and constantly check your rear-view mirrors. I have to state that I always stick to speed limits. This is just hearsay advise. I passed Nashville without turning off and by late afternoon I entered Memphis. I stopped for a coffee and just for fun drove across the Henando-Desoto Bridge over the Mississippi River into Arkansas and then back again to pick up the famous Highway 61 in order to head south to Clarksdale. Crossing the state line from Tennessee into Mississippi was abrupt. The road surface changed from smooth concrete to cracks and pot-holes. That may sound harsh but it was almost that severe. Ideally I wanted to reach Clarksdale before dark as the hotel that I had booked into was not in the most affluent neigbourhood. This stretch of Highway 61 was flat, straight and apart from Casino signs, rather boring. Needless to say, the sun set and approaching Clarksdale I listened carefully to Mavis as she instructed me to take the next right. GPS/satellite navigation is a wonderful tool until it goes wrong, mainly due to lack of information. On this occasion when Mavis told me "You have arrived at your destination" I replied "Oh no we haven't." I carried on down the street, studying the dark shapes of broken shacks and skeletal trees. Turning the car around I drove back. "You have arrived at your destination" she insisted once more. I pulled over and parked outside an old shack, partly concealed by climbers and wire fencing. I scanned for house numbers without success and as I was about to move off I saw a sign. Riverside Hotel. Using my cell phone, I called Frank, the owner and within ten minutes he appeared with a bunch of keys. A sprightly, amicable octogenarian he showed me around and offered me Ike Turner's, John Lee Hooker's or the Blind Boys of Alabama's room. What a choice. I went for John Lee Hooker. He pulled out a key and tried the lock. He tried the lock again. Third time lucky? No. "Looks like the lock don't work." he offered. I settled on the Blind Boys of Alabama. There was only one bed and I asked did they all stay there at the same time. I had an image of the seven dwarves. Perhaps it was my accent or simply the stupidity of the question but it remained unanswered. We went into his office to 'check in' and Frank turned our to be a very interesting guy. I wish I could go back and spend a few more hours listening to more of his stories. I had planned to grab an evening meal at Ground Zero, the blues venue owned by Morgan Freeman. Failing that, Reds was a well known blues joint and I was looking forward to having a beer and hanging out in some place drenched in Delta Blues history. "Pity it's Tuesday" said Frank. "Ground Zero and Reds are both closed Tuesday nights." I ended up with a very tasty but somehow uninspiring Mexican meal and another early night.

I should add that luckily I was the only guest, as the shared bathroom was not ideal. I awoke at 7am and went to take a shower. The sun had risen when I peeked out the window observing a crisp coating of frost over everything in sight. My room was also close to freezing and I tried in vain to ignite the 1950's gas fire on the wall, pushing one knob while twisting another. It looked so simple when Frank did it. Failing this, I found a sheet of paper and folding it into a strip I poked it into the gas fire in the hall and once it started burning I headed back to my room. The paper flared up and burnt quickly dropping smouldering pieces onto the wooden floor as I hurried to get to the fire. Holding the impromptu taper in one hand I pushed and turned buttons with the other, praying for ignition without the take-off. It worked, but I had to drop the paper before my fingers singed and then quickly stamped out the flame on what appeared to be an easily combustible floor. Whew! Before I could thaw out I had to go back down the corridor and clean up the charred remnants of paper from the historic timbered floor. I went down to the crossroads (honestly) and looked for somewhere to eat. Apart from Delta Donuts there was little evidence of eateries. I photographed the famous crossroads sign, realising that my camera was equal to a month's wages to the average onlooker. I was just another white guy pretending to understand the blues. I went back to the Riverside, took a few photos (including the Bessie Smith room) and opted for the express check-out, sliding the keys under the door of Frank's office. It was about 8.30 when I ventured into a supermarket nearby. I purchased a bun and some fruit and resigned to finding a coffee shop en route. Before departing Clarksdale I had one final shot at finding Ground Zero. I asked a white guy (about my age) if he could direct me. "Follow me" he said. I did. On the way he stopped his pick-up outside the Riverside, jumped out and ran up to my window. "If you're into blues, that place is where Bessie Smith died and guys like John Lee Hooker and Ike Turner lived there" he said excitedly. "I stayed there last night" I replied. A broad grin reached across his face. "Hi, I'm Dave" he said extending a hand. "Pleased to meet you. Where you from?" I told him and we shook hands. "I grew up in the countryside about ten miles out of town." he said, "Our neighbours were all black people and I played with their kids. We used to hang out at their house on Saturdays and early evening I would be sent home because they had a juke joint going on. You know what that is?" I nodded "They used to have some good parties." "Wow," I enthused. I followed his truck to the Ground Zero blues club, then he waved and drove off. My hopes of enjoying breakfast here were dashed when I read the opening hours. Out came the Nikon and I snapped away at this old warehouse as if it were the Chrysler Building. I also investigated the (closed) Delta Blues Museum and various (closed) shop fronts. The ghosts that surely haunted the old railway tracks must have had a few stories to tell but it was also too early for them. By 9 am I was listening to Mavis guide me back onto Highway 61. It was a beautiful day for driving, The temperature climbed as I ventured further south. I stopped a few times to photograph old shotgun shacks, churches, swamps and historic landmarks related to the Civil War and Teddy Roosevelt. The road was mostly straight and single lane, the surface quality and signage better than anticipated. I crossed many bridges over the multitude of streams and rivers running into the Mississippi. I had been following a truck towing a trailer with a piece of farm machinery on board. As it crossed one of the bridges the protruding machinery hit the side of the bridge sending a piece of metal into the air, bouncing off of the road in front of me to settle in the centre of the lane of the oncoming traffic. Did the truck driver stop and clear the road or secure his load? No. Luckily there was nothing coming the other way and there seems to be very little need to hurry . Although Vicksburg was my main stop I had no time to explore. I viewed the mighty river once again, appreciating its importance to this town, to the point where they had to reroute the river back after it changed course. This was an important Confederate stronghold and held out remarkably well under Union bombardment, beaten only by a prolonged siege. I had late afternoon lunch in xxxxxx. I had not realised until walking in and studying the wall menu that I was the only white person. Possibly for miles. However, I felt more comfortable here than walking into a South London pub. The staff were helpful (as I couldn't quite figure out what was on offer) and even one of the customers made a friendly comment.

Leaving here I crossed country, obeying Mavis, despite my doubts as to where she was leading me. The terrain was hilly and reminded me of some affluent areas with large houses and horses grazing in some of the fields. It was hard to believe that I was still in Mississippi. Having joined the I-59 I made up some lost time and crossed the state line into Louisiana. The sun was hanging by a thread and I was still quite a way out from New Orleans. After some miles of driving on the highway suspended over the swamps I turned off to photograph the sunset. It was dark when I entered the heart of the city. With a little help from Mavis the traffic system was easy to navigate and I soon arrived at the hotel, although parking was not easy. The hotel was perfect. Nothing ostentatious, just typical New Orland tourist quality. It was clean, comfortable and safe. On discovering that I had left my Blackberry charger at the Riverside I found a friendly guy on the desk who offered to give the phone a boost while I went in search of Radio Shack and an evening meal. The adaptor was not easy to find so I ended up with an in-car charger. For dinner I wandered into the French Quarter and due to my seafood/fish allergy, shunned the various Cajun offerings opting for my stand-by favourite, Pizza. There was a bar on the left-hand side of the restaurant entrance with a few guys balanced on stools. Their derrières overflowed the seats like extra-large scoops of ice cream in small cones. I sat on a table next to two NOPD cops. They looked like Samurai Warriors with their 21st century array of arms and armour. They were part of the SWAT team and appeared friendly and relaxed. The pizza was good and I eventually fell into bed at 10.30. It would be a couple of days later that a Houston businessman disappeared from the French Quarter and several Houstonians would tell me how dangerous that area was and that nobody in their right mind would wander around New Orleans alone at night. Armed with camera and lenses I walked down Canal Street as the sun rose over the Mississippi River. Reflecting the bright orange and crimson tones of the sunrise its waters looked more bloody than muddy. After taking a few shots I boarded the ferry to Algiers. This is just a ten minute cruise across the river. At 6am travelling in the opposite direction to the daily commuters I realised that I was one of only two passengers. I discovered my co-adventurer when he asked for the time. What he really wanted was money. Not aggressively but it a homeless-beggar kind of way. His clothes were mismatched and dirty and he smelled of alcohol. The story ran that he was stranded in New Orleans and had to reach his girlfriend in New York and had lost his money. Wow. Unfortunately for him the only passenger on the ferry had left his hotel room in such a hurry that he had not put a single cent in his pocket. It's strange how his interest waned immediately on hearing my reply. The return or round-trip was quite exhilarating in the cool early-morning air. Before returning to the hotel I photographed St Louis Cathedral and some other areas of the French Quarter.

An hour later Mavis directed me out of the city in the direction of New Iberia. The roads were not busy and I enjoyed a leisurely cruise in the glorious southern sunshine. The sign for Gibson caught my attention. I had no time to divert my route but then another Gibson sign was beckoning. It can be scary how some unplanned, impetuous events are just meant to be. This was not one of those. I turned off to investigate Gibson, ignoring Mavis as she tried to steer me back onto the highway. Gibson was little more than a road with a creek and an ensemble of houses and nothing else. Perhaps I didn't go far enough. One three-point-turn later Mavis had her way with me. Had we been an item she probably would have said "Gibson was a waste of time, wasn't it? I told you so." The landscape was mostly swamp or swamp. Moss covered trees reaching out from the dark murky waters concealing, frogs, turtles, snakes, alligators, nutria and lots of little creatures that I had no intention of meeting at close range. New Iberia was about an hour from Lake Martin and due to my desire to catch an air-boat ride I had no time to stop and explore this interesting town. The town of New Iberia is home to Dave Robicheau, the unpredictable, recovering alcoholic detective character created by James Lee Burke, featured in numerous novels. I felt that I knew this town, with its timbered, French influenced, shop-fronts. The lights were green and I had little chance to snap any photos. The road out of town was a memorable treat. The avenue of live oaks, that gets at least one mention in each Robicheau story was ahead of me. Pulling over and parking was not ideal, but I did so and took a few more shots. In the summer, this must be a beautiful sight. This is the point where I got hopelessly lost. Mavis had no idea where Lake Martin was and even though the people that I asked gave me directions, each was vague or failed to mention which way to turn at the T junction. I finally arrived at 4.30 to find all of the boat rides were out. Although I was disappointed and hungry the entire area was inspiring. The bald cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss looked superb, even though they lacked lush green leaves and vegetation it was genuine Louisiana Bayou country. Figuring that I had a couple of hours before sunset and the hotel was only a 20 minute drive I decided to check in and then return to take some photos. I had booked a room in Lafayette which was only a 15 minute drive but poor Mavis found the address confusing and landed me a quarter mile away on the opposite side of the street. The room was clean and tidy but like a lot of budget hotels in this area it had a high percentage of long term residents. Lake Martin was at peace when I retuned and the lone cyprus tree was silhouetted against the sun as it slid gently into the deep crimson swamp. I stood there for a while marvelling at the sounds and smells of this beautifully tranquil place. As the light faded my stomach reminded me that it was time to eat. I retuned to Lafayette for dinner and an early night. The intro of the 3 Doors Down track Here Without You penetrated my subconscious at 6am. By 6.30 I was racing down empty roads in a desperate bid to reach Lake Martin before the first rays of the sun. It was going to be a splendid day. The cloudless pre-dawn mercury sky receded begrudgingly as a lemon-orange stain spread from the west. A thin frost covered the fields and swamps on either side of the road, evaporating into a thin mist, too lazy to move away from its low lying origins. I reached the edge of the lake just as the first brilliant light of dawn illuminated the tops of the trees rapidly reaching down, radiating heat and light over the bayou. I had fallen in love with this place and knew that once the sun was up, I would move on, never to return. As if covered with heat-sensitive material the sky turned from the bitter-sweet, citrus colours of dawn to the turquoise and blue shades of precious gems. The insects and small creatures were awake and the birds flickered in the sunlight. A few pick-up trucks had arrived and men were lowering their boats into the water. Another day was in motion. The thin layer of fog was evaporating into the warm air as I turned over the engine on the rental car. This was to be my last day on my own. I was heading west, to Houston, Texas. I had a few hundred miles to cover and although I tuned off the highway for coffee, lunch and whatever, I did not venture too far from my route. I had to get through Friday afternoon traffic and meet up with my friends on the far side of the city. I had one very pleasant stop. This was at the Ben J. Rogers Visitor Centre, near Beaumont, Texas. A very helpful guy offered me cold water or coffee and after talking about my origins we touched on Texas and Galveston. I recalled a building on Galveston Beach that I had visited briefly a few year prior. This was on old timber construction that back in the 1950's had been a nightclub and casino. It was called the Balinese Room and sadly destroyed in 2008 by hurricane Ike. "I worked there for a while." my guide informed me and went on to tell a story. The club was owned by Salvatore "Sam" Maceo and Rosario "Papa Rose" Maceo Sr, Sicilian immigrants. This guy waited tables and said that he never had any problems with the owners but one of his colleagues tried to rip them off in some way and nobody ever heard from him again. "They were very generous people to work for as long as you and did a good job." The Balinese Room was part of a 600 feet pier extending into the Gulf of Mexico and frequented by celebrities such as Frank Sinatra and Bob Hope. It was home to an illegal casino which was finally closed down ny the Texas Rangers in 1957. I said farewell to the friendly people at the centre and carried on towards Houston, eventually reaching my hotel at 5pm. I met up with two old school friends, just arrived from England and the three of us headed out to meet up with another of our friends for his daughters Rehearsal Dinner. The next three days are a whole different story, but not for public disclosure (yet)!

It was late morning when I headed down to Heathrow. The Continental Airlines afternoon flight to New York was uneventful. I had a seat in an empty row at the rear of the plane and had a relaxing flight, managing to stretch out and sleep for a while. We landed at Newark at around 6pm local time and I had about 3 hours before the next flight was due to take off. Getting through immigration took an hour and a half and then customs had a tea break and that queue took 20 min. This left me just over an hour before my next flight down to Charlotte. The security queue took a further 40 minutes, by this time I was getting nervous. I reached the gate 20 minutes before take off at 9pm and hardly anyone was there. The plane was quite small with about 25 rows of seats. Two on the right and one on the left. From what I could see, the cabin crew was one stewardess. I had a seat at the back on my own. It was a cloudless sky with a full moon, floating level with the plane for the 90 minute flight, its reflection mirrored in the, rivers lakes and swamps that we flew over. It was a flight that I will always remember. Landing in Charlotte was easy, no customs or immigration and as it was around 11pm very few people were around. I used the courtesy phone to call the hotel and was told that their shuttle would be there at 11.20. I waited and watched and at 11.40 I called again. They assured me that the shuttle had been and would be there again at 11.50. At 12.10am I called again and finally saw the shuttle stop outside at 12.20. This would be 5.20 at home and I had been up for 22 hours, which possibly explained my stupidity. I was the only passenger and talking to the driver he explained that he was also the security at the hotel. For a day job he was a bounty hunter. He went on to tell me about his firearms collection and the various gun licences on offer and how they differed in each state. When I asked him if perpetrators ever resisted arrest he replied "Not when they see what I'm carrying". I finally fell asleep at 1 am. After 6 hours I woke, dressed and at 7 am was on the shuttle back to the airport to pick up my rental car. On arriving I realised that I had left my driving licence behind in the hotel room. It was a different shuttle driver and once again we got talking. He had lived in America for about 15 years, coming from India. He loved the life, even though he did not earn a lot. I got the next shuttle back and the same friendly driver insisted on dropping me at the rental lot to save me having to wait for the Budget shuttle bus from the airport terminal. The car was ready and I drove it back to the hotel to pick up my luggage. I had a brief business meeting and by midday I was on the highway heading out of Charlotte listening to Mavis. That's what I call the nicely spoken lady inside my Tom Tom (GPS). I drove from North Carolina into South Carolina, stopping for a short break. The day was warm with just a few clouds in the sky. I passed exits for Atlanta and turned of the highway at dusk to find somewhere to eat. It was already dark when I headed out again and the weather forecasts predicted snow in Tennessee, right where I was headed. After a couple of hours I had left Georgia and entered Tennessee via Alabama. Passing signs for Chattanooga, the terrain became very hilly and occasional snowflakes were melting on the windscreen. When I finally arrived at my motel in Winchester the air was cold yet dry. I had checked in and fallen asleep by 9 pm, or so I thought. The next morning I awoke before sunrise and studied the falling snow. The TV forecast mentioned no more that a light sprinkling, so I went down to reception at 7 am for the bland coffee, juice and doughnut breakfast. This place had bran flakes with raisins so I went for that. By 8 am I had checked out, even though the Jack Daniels distillery did not open until 9.30. The snow was still falling and the radio guy was telling me that the main roads were clear but the roads through the hills were not. I was headed for the hills. Soon after this I realised that I had gone back in time, literally. "The time is 7.15" said the same guy that kept unnerving me with words like heavy snow settling. I had of course gone from Eastern Time to Mountain Time and had two hours fifteen minutes to make (according to Mavis) a thirty minute journey. As the snow fell I began wondering if I would get there at all. Initially the road was flat and until the pick-up truck that I had been following for a few miles, turned into a farm, I had been optimistic. After another ten minutes the gradient changed and I found myself driving through what must have been very pretty countryside. However, it was hard to appreciate with demented wiper-blades frantically trying to clear the melting snowflakes on the windscreen and the wheels of the car hinting that their grip on the road had room for improvement. At one point I felt the car slide on a downhill gradient and my imagination ran through the scenario of leaving the rental car in a ditch and walking back to Winchester. My concentration was sharpened further as a snow-plough rounded the next bend s it passed in the opposite direction. Other than that, I saw no other vehicles until I reached the edge of Lynchburg. Although it had stopped snowing a white, even blanket covered the town. I waited patiently for over an hour in the Jack Daniels car park until they opened up at 9.30. Ironically, due to the snow our tour group had to be driven around by bus and we had to wait another hour until paths were cleared. The tour was very interesting and highly recommended. Leaving Lynchburg just before noon, the temperature was rising and all signs of snow were gone by the time I joined the highway north to Nashville. In spite of making an early start I was now a good hour behind schedule. US highways often harbour police patrol cars, like predators lurking behind foliage, waiting for speeding motorists. The beauty of driving in the winter means that you can see them ahead of you. Where the central reservation is narrow they can catch you travelling in the opposite direction with their radars. The trick is to speed up when the road splits wide. You also need to be very careful with anyone following and constantly check rear-view mirrors. I have to state that I always stick to speed limits. This is just hearsay advise. I passed Nashville without turning off and by late afternoon I entered Memphis. I stopped for a coffee and just for fun drove across the Henando-Desoto Bridge over the Mississippi River into Arkansas and then back again to pick up the famous Highway 61 in order to head south to Clarksdale. Crossing the state line from Tennessee into Mississippi was abrupt. The road surface changed from smooth concrete to cracks and pot-holes. That may sound harsh but it was almost that severe. Ideally I wanted to reach Clarksdale before dark as the hotel that I had booked into was not in the most affluent neigbourhood. This stretch of Highway 61 was flat, straight and apart from Casino signs, rather boring. Needless to say, the sun set and approaching Clarksdale I listened carefully to Mavis as she instructed me to take the next right. GPS/satellite navigation is a wonderful tool until it goes wrong, mainly due to lack of information. On this occasion when Mavis told me "You have arrived at your destination" I replied "Oh no we haven't." I carried on down the street, studying the dark shapes of broken shacks and skeletal trees. Turning the car around I drove back. "You have arrived at your destination" she insisted once more. I pulled over and parked outside an old shack, partly concealed by climbers and wire fencing. I scanned for house numbers without success and as I was about to move off I saw a sign. Riverside Hotel. Using my cell phone, I called Frank, the owner and within ten minutes he appeared with a bunch of keys. A sprightly, amicable octogenarian he showed me around and offered me Ike Turner's, John Lee Hooker's or the Blind Boys of Alabama's room. What a choice. I went for John Lee Hooker. He pulled out a key and tried the lock. He tried the lock again. Third time lucky? No. "Looks like the lock don't work." he offered. I settled on the Blind Boys of Alabama. There was only one bed and I asked did they all stay there at the same time. I had an image of the seven dwarves. Perhaps it was my accent or simply the stupidity of the question but it remained unanswered. We went into his office to 'check in' and Frank turned our to be a very interesting guy. I wish I could go back and spend a few more hours listening to more of his stories. I had planned to grab an evening meal at Ground Zero, the blues venue owned by Morgan Freeman. Failing that, Reds was a well known blues joint and I was looking forward to having a beer and hanging out in some place drenched in Delta Blues history. "Pity it's Tuesday" said Frank. "Ground Zero and Reds are both closed Tuesday nights." I ended up with a very tasty but somehow uninspiring Mexican meal and another early night.

I should add that luckily I was the only guest, as the shared bathroom was not ideal. I awoke at 7am and went to take a shower. The sun had risen when I peeked out the window observing a crisp coating of frost over everything in sight. My room was also close to freezing and I tried in vain to ignite the 1950's gas fire on the wall, pushing one knob while twisting another. It looked so simple when Frank did it. Failing this, I found a sheet of paper and folding it into a strip I poked it into the gas fire in the hall and once it started burning I headed back to my room. The paper flared up and burnt quickly dropping smouldering pieces onto the wooden floor as I hurried to get to the fire. Holding the impromptu taper in one hand I pushed and turned buttons with the other, praying for ignition without the take-off. It worked, but I had to drop the paper before my fingers singed and then quickly stamped out the flame on what appeared to be an easily combustible floor. Whew! Before I could thaw out I had to go back down the corridor and clean up the charred remnants of paper from the historic timbered floor. I went down to the crossroads (honestly) and looked for somewhere to eat. Apart from Delta Donuts there was little evidence of eateries. I photographed the famous crossroads sign, realising that my camera was equal to a month's wages to the average onlooker. I was just another white guy pretending to understand the blues. I went back to the Riverside, took a few photos (including the Bessie Smith room) and opted for the express check-out, sliding the keys under the door of Frank's office. It was about 8.30 when I ventured into a supermarket nearby. I purchased a bun and some fruit and resigned to finding a coffee shop en route. Before departing Clarksdale I had one final shot at finding Ground Zero. I asked a white guy (about my age) if he could direct me. "Follow me" he said. I did. On the way he stopped his pick-up outside the Riverside, jumped out and ran up to my window. "If you're into blues, that place is where Bessie Smith died and guys like John Lee Hooker and Ike Turner lived there" he said excitedly. "I stayed there last night" I replied. A broad grin reached across his face. "Hi, I'm Dave" he said extending a hand. "Pleased to meet you. Where you from?" I told him and we shook hands. "I grew up in the countryside about ten miles out of town." he said, "Our neighbours were all black people and I played with their kids. We used to hang out at their house on Saturdays and early evening I would be sent home because they had a juke joint going on. You know what that is?" I nodded "They used to have some good parties." "Wow," I enthused. I followed his truck to the Ground Zero blues club, then he waved and drove off. My hopes of enjoying breakfast here were dashed when I read the opening hours. Out came the Nikon and I snapped away at this old warehouse as if it were the Chrysler Building. I also investigated the (closed) Delta Blues Museum and various (closed) shop fronts. The ghosts that surely haunted the old railway tracks must have had a few stories to tell but it was also too early for them. By 9 am I was listening to Mavis guide me back onto Highway 61. It was a beautiful day for driving, The temperature climbed as I ventured further south. I stopped a few times to photograph old shotgun shacks, churches, swamps and historic landmarks related to the Civil War and Teddy Roosevelt. The road was mostly straight and single lane, the surface quality and signage better than anticipated. I crossed many bridges over the multitude of streams and rivers running into the Mississippi. I had been following a truck towing a trailer with a piece of farm machinery on board. As it crossed one of the bridges the protruding machinery hit the side of the bridge sending a piece of metal into the air, bouncing off of the road in front of me to settle in the centre of the lane of the oncoming traffic. Did the truck driver stop and clear the road or secure his load? No. Luckily there was nothing coming the other way and there seems to be very little need to hurry . Although Vicksburg was my main stop I had no time to explore. I viewed the mighty river once again, appreciating its importance to this town, to the point where they had to reroute the river back after it changed course. This was an important Confederate stronghold and held out remarkably well under Union bombardment, beaten only by a prolonged siege. I had late afternoon lunch in xxxxxx. I had not realised until walking in and studying the wall menu that I was the only white person. Possibly for miles. However, I felt more comfortable here than walking into a South London pub. The staff were helpful (as I couldn't quite figure out what was on offer) and even one of the customers made a friendly comment.

Leaving here I crossed country, obeying Mavis, despite my doubts as to where she was leading me. The terrain was hilly and reminded me of some affluent areas with large houses and horses grazing in some of the fields. It was hard to believe that I was still in Mississippi. Having joined the I-59 I made up some lost time and crossed the state line into Louisiana. The sun was hanging by a thread and I was still quite a way out from New Orleans. After some miles of driving on the highway suspended over the swamps I turned off to photograph the sunset. It was dark when I entered the heart of the city. With a little help from Mavis the traffic system was easy to navigate and I soon arrived at the hotel, although parking was not easy. The hotel was perfect. Nothing ostentatious, just typical New Orland tourist quality. It was clean, comfortable and safe. On discovering that I had left my Blackberry charger at the Riverside I found a friendly guy on the desk who offered to give the phone a boost while I went in search of Radio Shack and an evening meal. The adaptor was not easy to find so I ended up with an in-car charger. For dinner I wandered into the French Quarter and due to my seafood/fish allergy, shunned the various Cajun offerings opting for my stand-by favourite, Pizza. There was a bar on the left-hand side of the restaurant entrance with a few guys balanced on stools. Their derrières overflowed the seats like extra-large scoops of ice cream in small cones. I sat on a table next to two NOPD cops. They looked like Samurai Warriors with their 21st century array of arms and armour. They were part of the SWAT team and appeared friendly and relaxed. The pizza was good and I eventually fell into bed at 10.30. It would be a couple of days later that a Houston businessman disappeared from the French Quarter and several Houstonians would tell me how dangerous that area was and that nobody in their right mind would wander around New Orleans alone at night. Armed with camera and lenses I walked down Canal Street as the sun rose over the Mississippi River. Reflecting the bright orange and crimson tones of the sunrise its waters looked more bloody than muddy. After taking a few shots I boarded the ferry to Algiers. This is just a ten minute cruise across the river. At 6am travelling in the opposite direction to the daily commuters I realised that I was one of only two passengers. I discovered my co-adventurer when he asked for the time. What he really wanted was money. Not aggressively but it a homeless-beggar kind of way. His clothes were mismatched and dirty and he smelled of alcohol. The story ran that he was stranded in New Orleans and had to reach his girlfriend in New York and had lost his money. Wow. Unfortunately for him the only passenger on the ferry had left his hotel room in such a hurry that he had not put a single cent in his pocket. It's strange how his interest waned immediately on hearing my reply. The return or round-trip was quite exhilarating in the cool early-morning air. Before returning to the hotel I photographed St Louis Cathedral and some other areas of the French Quarter.

An hour later Mavis directed me out of the city in the direction of New Iberia. The roads were not busy and I enjoyed a leisurely cruise in the glorious southern sunshine. The sign for Gibson caught my attention. I had no time to divert my route but then another Gibson sign was beckoning. It can be scary how some unplanned, impetuous events are just meant to be. This was not one of those. I turned off to investigate Gibson, ignoring Mavis as she tried to steer me back onto the highway. Gibson was little more than a road with a creek and an ensemble of houses and nothing else. Perhaps I didn't go far enough. One three-point-turn later Mavis had her way with me. Had we been an item she probably would have said "Gibson was a waste of time, wasn't it? I told you so." The landscape was mostly swamp or swamp. Moss covered trees reaching out from the dark murky waters concealing, frogs, turtles, snakes, alligators, nutria and lots of little creatures that I had no intention of meeting at close range. New Iberia was about an hour from Lake Martin and due to my desire to catch an air-boat ride I had no time to stop and explore this interesting town. The town of New Iberia is home to Dave Robicheau, the unpredictable, recovering alcoholic detective character created by James Lee Burke, featured in numerous novels. I felt that I knew this town, with its timbered, French influenced, shop-fronts. The lights were green and I had little chance to snap any photos. The road out of town was a memorable treat. The avenue of live oaks, that gets at least one mention in each Robicheau story was ahead of me. Pulling over and parking was not ideal, but I did so and took a few more shots. In the summer, this must be a beautiful sight. This is the point where I got hopelessly lost. Mavis had no idea where Lake Martin was and even though the people that I asked gave me directions, each was vague or failed to mention which way to turn at the T junction. I finally arrived at 4.30 to find all of the boat rides were out. Although I was disappointed and hungry the entire area was inspiring. The bald cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss looked superb, even though they lacked lush green leaves and vegetation it was genuine Louisiana Bayou country. Figuring that I had a couple of hours before sunset and the hotel was only a 20 minute drive I decided to check in and then return to take some photos. I had booked a room in Lafayette which was only a 15 minute drive but poor Mavis found the address confusing and landed me a quarter mile away on the opposite side of the street. The room was clean and tidy but like a lot of budget hotels in this area it had a high percentage of long term residents. Lake Martin was at peace when I retuned and the lone cyprus tree was silhouetted against the sun as it slid gently into the deep crimson swamp. I stood there for a while marvelling at the sounds and smells of this beautifully tranquil place. As the light faded my stomach reminded me that it was time to eat. I retuned to Lafayette for dinner and an early night. The intro of the 3 Doors Down track Here Without You penetrated my subconscious at 6am. By 6.30 I was racing down empty roads in a desperate bid to reach Lake Martin before the first rays of the sun. It was going to be a splendid day. The cloudless pre-dawn mercury sky receded begrudgingly as a lemon-orange stain spread from the west. A thin frost covered the fields and swamps on either side of the road, evaporating into a thin mist, too lazy to move away from its low lying origins. I reached the edge of the lake just as the first brilliant light of dawn illuminated the tops of the trees rapidly reaching down, radiating heat and light over the bayou. I had fallen in love with this place and knew that once the sun was up, I would move on, never to return. As if covered with heat-sensitive material the sky turned from the bitter-sweet, citrus colours of dawn to the turquoise and blue shades of precious gems. The insects and small creatures were awake and the birds flickered in the sunlight. A few pick-up trucks had arrived and men were lowering their boats into the water. Another day was in motion. The thin layer of fog was evaporating into the warm air as I turned over the engine on the rental car. This was to be my last day on my own. I was heading west, to Houston, Texas. I had a few hundred miles to cover and although I tuned off the highway for coffee, lunch and whatever, I did not venture too far from my route. I had to get through Friday afternoon traffic and meet up with my friends on the far side of the city. I had one very pleasant stop. This was at the Ben J. Rogers Visitor Centre, near Beaumont, Texas. A very helpful guy offered me cold water or coffee and after talking about my origins we touched on Texas and Galveston. I recalled a building on Galveston Beach that I had visited briefly a few year prior. This was on old timber construction that back in the 1950's had been a nightclub and casino. It was called the Balinese Room and sadly destroyed in 2008 by hurricane Ike. "I worked there for a while." my guide informed me and went on to tell a story. The club was owned by Salvatore "Sam" Maceo and Rosario "Papa Rose" Maceo Sr, Sicilian immigrants. This guy waited tables and said that he never had any problems with the owners but one of his colleagues tried to rip them off in some way and nobody ever heard from him again. "They were very generous people to work for as long as you and did a good job." The Balinese Room was part of a 600 feet pier extending into the Gulf of Mexico and frequented by celebrities such as Frank Sinatra and Bob Hope. It was home to an illegal casino which was finally closed down ny the Texas Rangers in 1957. I said farewell to the friendly people at the centre and carried on towards Houston, eventually reaching my hotel at 5pm. I met up with two old school friends, just arrived from England and the three of us headed out to meet up with another of our friends for his daughters Rehearsal Dinner. The next three days are a whole different story, but not for public disclosure (yet)!