Road Trip: French Toast and Fast Horses

 First of all, a big thank you to the chef at our Nashville hotel breakfast who was making omelettes and such to order. I said that sadly I wouldn't have the French toast because I didn't eat cinnamon and it was bound to have cinnamon, wasn't it? "Yes", he admitted,  "But I can make you some without!"  It made my day. I was never so phobic about cinnamon till I came to America and realised they put it - and far too much of it - into everything.
  We were headed for Belle Meade, a stately home on the southern outskirts of Nashville. These days it's surrounded by large, expensive houses - a little like some parts of Surrey,  though at one time it had huge expanses of land and was, in the 19th century, a renowned Thoroughbred stud farm.

Just a couple of horses in a field left now for the tourists to look at but the house didn't disappoint. A costumed guide in bustle and bonnet launched into an elaborate history of the family and led us around the dark Victorian interior...

...the walls hung with equine paintings, the rooms full of delicious Victorian knick-knacks such as elaborate china "parlor vases", ordered from Paris no less, bedecked with  turtle doves and flowers and fruit and coiling snakes, one symbolising weddings, the other funerals.   A room in which a son of the family had expired of some Victorian disease was especially poignant, with gloomy drapes and dark greens, vintage sports team pennants on the walls and riding boots still standing in a corner.
  Interesting to hear that American Thoroughbreds in the 19th century were sent to race in Britain. Most were far too seasick after four weeks on a ship to perform but one, called Iroquois, actually won the 1881 Derby and St Leger and came second in the Guineas. 

  They had trained him on an English-style grass track and presumably coddled him carefully through the 19th century equivalent of jet lag.  The owner of Belle Meade was so taken with him that he spent thousands of dollars to buy him, which eventually bankrupted the family and cleared the path for the Surrey-style suburb and the mansion's eventual takeover by the state of Tennessee, which seems to be looking after it very lovingly.
  Our guide, a proud Tennessee-an, claimed that Kentucky pulled a fast one on them by relaxing its drinking and gambling laws just when Tennessee was tightening its own and thus enticing the lucrative horse-racing industry over the border. Where American horse racing and breeding is concerned, Kentucky now reigns supreme. My Florida neighbour, who is from Kentucky, vehemently denied any skulduggery.

To be continued.

Road Trip: What's at the End of the Drive?

Find out shortly... watch this space.

Road Trip: Nashville, Tennessee, Home of .....Guess What?

Ha! Bet you thought I was going to say 'country music". Well OK, it is the capital of country music but there's so much more to Nashville. For one thing it has the spectacular Lane motor museum.

Specialising in the European quirky..

Right up my street then. Well actually the above, the 1950 Martin Stationette, was manufactured in New York City but it's too sweet to leave out. In fact there were several microcars.

I looked in vain for a Goggomobil, like the one my parents had when I was a toddler.  (This isn't it but it's similar).

I remember falling asleep and rolling off the back seat (no kiddie seats to spoil things in those days) on the fabled day we drove to The Airport to see off my aunt and grandmother who were flying to Canada. Half the neighbours in the street came with us with their children, so they could brag to their friends that they'd been to The Airport. In those days you could get right up to the planes - I remember, in a fleeting wisp of memory which will always stay with me, being held up against the fence and watching the giant propellers spinning round.
  I told the man at the museum that I'd been looking for our Goggo. They did have one - he found it on his computer - but sadly it was in storage. (I mentioned that our Goggo was not the most reliable of cars. It ran on delicately balanced lawnmower fuel and was always breaking down, usually in an awkward place. My dad used to bemoan the fact that, uncannily, every time he broke down, his neighbour, whose wheels were considerably more expensive, would unfailingly drive past and crow,  "Need help?")
  But there were other things to feast the eye.

Like this push-me-pull-you, which wasn't a joke. It was actually designed for the French fire brigade, for when they needed to reverse in a hurry.

 

Even more fantastical was this 1932 Helicron, the one and only propeller-driven car.

In the French equivalent of a lot of good old American yarns, it was found in 2000 in a barn, into which it had been driven in the late 1930s. It is apparently approved for driving on French roads, which says something about French roads.

We ended our day in Nashville taking in the lovely Cathedral for the Saturday vigil Mass - and wow what a delight. A perfectly normal Mass with no "Good Morning Everyone!" (All right, it was afternoon), no "Now all visitors stand up and introduce yourselves!", no "Now turn to your neighbour and give them a hug!" I could have been back in London. Bliss. Thank you Nashville.
  We rounded up the day at a fun bar called The Stillery, where we got an enormous plateful of deep fried pickles. They were delicious on the night. They were not delicious the next day after we'd made the mistake of asking,  in time-houred American style, for a box to take home the leftovers.  Deep fried pickles don't keep well.

To be continued.

Elections Upon Us

A typical scene on a road trip in October in election year. 

Personally I think the forests of signs at every street corner for all kinds of different positions and causes make it more, not less confusing. Well long live democracy. I'm not sure how accurate a pointer they are - though memorably, in 2016, we managed to drive down right to Florida without seeing a single Hillary Clinton sign (except one in a field, saying simply "Lock Her Up". ) It gave me a better tip on how that election was going to go than anything else. 
  This year, in our little enclave in south-west Florida,  I've seen more Governor signs for the Democrat, Andrew Gillum, than I have for the Republican, Ron de Santis, but that's neither here nor there.
  As a foreigner I don't think I should get involved in the fray - unlike a British guy mentioned in the Wall Street Journal busy drumming up support for his favoured candidate on dating apps. Apparently that's the way millennials do their electioneering these days. He should mind his own business.
   The press is getting fearfully excited, speaking of turmoil, high anxiety, a frantic last day and so on. Well of course the more turmoil the better for a good story. Here in south-west Florida I don't see much evidence of turmoil. "I'll just be pleased when it's all over", said my neighbour, wearily. 

Road Trip: Kentucky Fair and Foul

Sister-in-law and I were bowling through Kentucky, revelling in some gorgeous hilly scenery. As always, we looked for a coffee place, preferably serving food as well. The Masterpiece Cafe had the former but not the latter but there was an interesting gift shop selling T-shirts.

We were to see similar T-shirts again, further along the road, saying "A Little Coffee and a Whole Latte Jesus", which is a bit cleverer, I suppose.
We passed a very vain car...

 And my hopes were raised by the following...

  Wow - complete coverage of UK football! Well no. The phrase contained two misunderstandings. UK wasn't UK but the University of Kentucky. And football, of course, wasn't football. Oh well.
  The biggest disappointment of the day, however, was lunch. We ended up in possibly the worst restaurant I've ever been to and believe me I've been to a few bad restaurants.   As soon as we went through the door we knew we'd made a mistake but the owner, a sprightly elderly lady, was onto us like a guided missile. The place was tiny. We couldn't escape without seeming rude. The room was cluttered with junk and toys but eventually we spotted the buffet from which we tried to salvage something palatable. An indefinable green vegetable cooked in what tasted like dishwater. Fishcakes worse than any school dinner nightmare. The thing about fishcakes is that they usually taste better than they look. This one didn't. It tasted of very old fish.  Worst of all, the owner's four-year-old grandson rampaged around our table, wielding a big stick and periodically clouting a sweet dispenser on the wall right behind our ears, "I've fixed it Nana!" He then changed weapons and grabbed a toy - or possibly real- telephone,monotonously shouting, "Call me Nanaaaaa!  Call me! CALL ME!!"  ratchetting it up until she dropped everything and did so and every so often emitting an ear-piercing shriek worthy of a Hitchcock film. She shrugged her shoulders,  "He's got, whadya call it, ADHD."
  "They called that something else in my day", muttered sister-in-law, looking around for a wooden spoon.
  We were the only customers. I forced down what I could, thinking of the time I enjoyed the hospitality of some Mongolian nomads and couldn't refuse the meal for fear of giving offence. The horse meat on offer was Michelin starred compared with that fishcake.  We stumbled out into the fresh air, cursing the Tripadvisor reviewers who'd extolled the "home cooking."  (I did subsequently read the fine print of the reviews and several had seen through the benevolent granny set up and queried why the place hadn't been shut down long ago.  One simply said, "Gross!")  Incidentally one of the best restaurants I ever went to was in Lexington, Kentucky, so I can't blame the state.

Halloween Interlude

Here for your delectation, the Blog's favourite 2018 Halloween ephemera on the road trip and elsewhere.

In third place, at the  Home Depot (America's version of B and Q), this handsome, bigger-than-lifesize werewolf. The lumberjack flannel shirt is a nice touch.

(It had a bigger-than-lifesize price tag too)

Are some people really that crazy?   In second place, at Huntsville Botanical Gardens in Alabama, a dragon made of tiny pumpkins. It would have won but it looks a little too friendly.

And first prize to the Home Depot again (no, I don't work for them) for these sprightly wolf skeletons. They don't say if sound effects are included.

What will they think of next?

More on the road trip shortly.

Road Trip: A Foggy Morning

 In the morning, after an English (aka American) breakfast worthy of an ocean liner, we hit the road again. The Ohio river was blanked out by fog. Beyond the bushes, you'd think there was nothing there.

As we drove along the river - resplendent with all kinds of industrial stuff - we saw mist swirling up from the surface. "Got to take a photo!" I said.  But we had no end of trouble finding a place where we could get close to the river. We ended up driving over the bridge to West Virginia, to Parkersburg where we'd stayed three years previously. (Goodness, was it really three years?) Too late, we discovered it was a toll bridge but the friendly toll lady pointed us in the direction of some likely spots for taking photos, mentioning a hospital and a car dealers, both of which we found but not the road to the river. I remember the last time we were here we found it hard to get to the river too but this time we were more tenacious. Sister-in-law discovered a road that went upwards - if we couldn't get level with the river we could at least look down on it.  And we found Fort Boreman. And there was frost on the ground.

Fort Boreman, built by Union troops in the Civil War to protect the Ohio railway, had a viewpoint high up on a hill, looking out over the confluence of the Ohio and Little Kanawha rivers.

And the swirling mist was still there.

It was a chilly morning and we were the  only tourists.  Fort Boreman had recently been turned into a park. It was fun to think we might be the only people to know about it. A moment to savour.

To be continued...