Catch Your Hare

After my days of long driving (often four or five hours), I’m relieved by the two hour drive to Charleston.

Again, Charleston proves to be a city which rewards wandering. When I first start walking, it’s not particularly remarkable. Then I strike off into sidestreets and find quiet residential streets with beautiful houses. Many have “McCain” signs outside.

My day in Charleston consists, pretty much, of meandering through these streets. There’s a brief break in Waterfront Park, where I get annoyed by an obnoxious child and worry about whether I should talk to a particularly beautiful girl.

I have lunch in…some…tropical…place.  I’d meant to stop for a beer, but the menu looked good, so I ate: shrimp etoufee, with grits and a buttermilk biscuit. The beer was good, too.

For an early dinner, I stop in Jestine’s, and have some superb fried chicken, and coleslaw that worries me as I try to work out what’s in it.

Then, again, it’s too expensive to stay, so I head north.

The drive across Florida’s panhandle is monotonous. I eventually arrive in Savannah.

Savannah seemed to be designed to repel incoming tourists. At one point, the road split, with both bits signposted “Savannah”. After much swearing, a therapeutic thump of the steering wheel, and two stops to ask for directions, I arrive in Savannah proper.

It’s Labor Day and the waterfront is heaving with tourists. But, quickly, I realise that the best part of Savannah is back from the waterfront. It’s a network of dreamy, quiet little squares, with fountains, trees and beautiful houses. As the twilight comes in, it’s even more fantastic. I wander aimlessly and happily.

I go to the Olde Pink House for dinner. They reply to my “Do you have a table for one?” with “Would you like to sit in the Arches?”. I’m suspicious and they explain that the Arches is a converted stable. They show me through.

The Arches proves to be a quiet little sideroom with a bar, tables for two, soft lighting and a fucking great television showing American football. Why? Why would you do that? I ask to be moved and go outside, where the air is cooling rapidly. Shortly afterwards, a rather obnoxious family of four behind me chooses to move into the bar. They all perch along the bar, facing the television, as they eat their meals.

(And again, seriously, why would you put that television there? Who thought: “What this restaurant really needs is a bad imitation of a sports bar at the back”?)

My waiter is wonderfully pleasant and witty. “You’re on your own this evening?”. Yes, yes, I am. “Would you mind if I sat down? I’m rather hungry.”

He highly recommends an appetiser called Angel Wings, which proves to be unremarkable deboned spicy chicken. The bread, though, is extraordinary: a wonderfully sweet cornbread. The main course is flounder, fried in a sweet batter and cut into diamond-shaped medallions, which you lift from the bone. It’s delicious but strangely sweet. My memory of the meal is a pervading, almost cloying, sweetness.

I have one last walk around Savannah. It’s too expensive to stay here, especially on Labour Day weekend. I head north.

Through Friday, I drive east, until I am out of the cone of error: that is, outside the area where the hurricane might conceivably hit. On the Florida panhandle, at 2pm, I am suddenly aware I am too tired to drive.

I stop in Quincy, Florida, and check into an upmarket business hotel.

“So, what’s around here?” I ask the receptionist.

“Nothing.” she says, confirming my suspicions.

For the afternoon, I take a bath, update this blog, and drink coffee. I fall asleep early.