Author: Mark

Today was another lovely day for cycling. I have yet to experience anything else. More blossom, more empty roads, more ice cream to revive me in the warm afternoon, more bottles of cold lemonade from gas stations.

I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so quiet today, because I spent most of the afternoon on Historic Route 1, which runs the length of the east coast. Previous encounters have been a mixed bag, with some busy stretches. But not here in Southside Virginia. Interstate 85 runs in parallel and takes almost all the traffic. There are very few small towns in these parts and I found myself alone on the broadest of highways.

One of the few towns, Alberta, was practically a ghost town. I turned off to see what was there. Once it had a bank, a coin laundromat and a small row of stores on its wide Main Street. Now there is a US post office, which every tiny community seems to posses, and nothing else. There was a lovely little square with a gazebo next to an old railroad engine and some swings. It was rather a sweet little place to sit and enjoy my sandwiches. But I saw not a soul the whole time I was there. Not even a car moved. I just had two huge, black bees for company.

The next town, another hour away, was McKenney. It had a bit more life, especially around a little ice cream cafe with a window to place your order and outside tables. I had a cherry sundae, which consisted of ice cream, walnuts and lots of maraschino cherries, which made me happy, and gave me enough energy to finish the day’s ride to the large town of Petersburg.

Traffic finally began to appear from the town of Dinwiddie onwards. This was an important battle site during the civil war. On March 31st 1865, the battle of Dinwiddie Courthouse was one of a series of encounters near Petersburg that, 2 days later, left the north victorious, cutting southern supply lines to under siege Petersburg by road (the very one I was riding along) and rail. Petersburg was evacuated on 2nd April and the Confederate army was pursued heading west. General Lee surrendered at the battle of Appomattox Courthouse a week later.

Petersburg has a historic centre, with cobbled streets and old brick buildings by the railway, including a handsome passenger train station. There were many notable church towers and spires and it had enough interest to make you glad you bothered to look. The areas leading in and away, however, seem very run down, including where I am staying. It’s very cheap, and it does the job, but you really do get what you pay for. I wouldn’t recommend this motel, except for the shower, which was excellent. I crossed the street to a nearby restaurant tonight and had a very pleasant pasta dish and a bottle of Guinness in the most bizarre surroundings. The music was not to my usual taste (I recognised Shaggy, but it all sounded similar) and was being played by a DJ in the corner of an otherwise empty room at ear splitting volume. It was so loud that I couldn’t speak to the lady who took my order from across the counter a foot away. Everyone was very nice to me, but I saw no-one else remotely like me inside all the time I was there. Big screens silently showed US college basketball games while I ate. I got there and back just fine; but to get inside the very friendly bouncer on the door first checked my ID and then frisked me for weapons. I offered to let him frisk me again when I left, which he found very amusing.

A long day of two pretty distinct parts. I spent all the morning and the early part of the afternoon trying to escape the clutches of Raleigh, a big and fast growing metropolitan area that I thought I had left more then once. Then, from early afternoon until I entered Virginia, my fifth state of this trip, the cycling was a most enjoyable experience along empty country roads that wound and gently undulated their way to the Roanoke River Valley, just over the state line. My final destination, Bracey, is a nothing sort of place. It’s the first junction up Interstate 95 from North Carolina, but the small road that it sits on seems inconsequential and the whole place is quiet. There are a couple of motels and gas stations, but only a fraction of the usual gaggle of tall signs, truck stops, fast food and so on. It’s quite a backwater.

Downtown Raleigh was easily reached from last night’s stop, and it turned out to be rather pleasing. I had forgotten that this is also the state capital of North Carolina, and the Capitol building sits proudly to the north side of the main downtown area, surrounded by a park with statues of presidents who came from these parts (James Knox Polk, 1845-49, who “enlarged the nation’s boundaries”, Andrew Jackson, 1829-37, who “revitalised American democracy”, and Andrew Johnson, 1865-69, who “defended the constitution”). Given current political events and the upheaval that tarriffs were having on world stock markets at the very moment I was there, one wondered what words might appear by statues of today’s president – should there ever be any – in years to come.

Despite the chaos being reported on the TV, things out in the real world of peoples daily lives looked quite normal. I stopped for tea and a cinnamon roll at a bakery, and then pushed on, knowing I had a long day still to tackle. The weather, once again, was pretty much perfect, and I thought everything was going well until I checked the map. I can’t blame anyone but myself, but I must have turned right when I should have turned left. Anyway, I managed to add on quite a few extra miles that I could have done without. It did give me the chance to use a fine looking bike trail up a pretty valley until, after a couple of miles, it turned into an unfinished construction zone and the trail turned to deep sand. My on the spot reroute required me to drag my bike across the grassy central median of a large divided Highway, but I got away with it.

It felt like wherever I went for the next couple of hours I was surrounded by recently built homes or large building sites for more. It was all around. Presumably there is demand for these suburban homes. They looked quite nice on the whole. It will add a lot more traffic on already quite busy roads, if this morning’s experience was anything to go by. But development seems to know no bounds here, and there is so much available land that they just keep on clearing trees and building.

Conscious of time and distance and the work still required of me to reach Bracey in daylight, I restricted my stops hereafter to a Publix supermarket, whose layout and freshly edible wares I have come to know quite well, and a couple of gas stations for drinks and ice cream. The rest of the time I basically just cycled. And just when I thought that every road would be busy like this all day, it all suddenly changed.

I took a side road out of the Main Street of a small town and found myself on the quietest of roads that basically stayed that way until I reached Virginia. I’m not sure why the transformation was so sudden and complete; but I was ready for it. The last forty miles or so were a delight. I passed a Cowboy Church, and a large lady who was trying to fasten her wheelie bin to the tow bar of her pickup truck. Otherwise things were unremarkable, in a good way. The blossom and flowers I had been enjoying these past days were still much in evidence. I even managed not to get lost again.

I reached Bracey around sunset. The state boundary on my small road was at a place that offered no obvious geographical barrier, unlike the broad Roanoke River that I crossed twenty minutes later. That is a much more obvious geographical dividing line. Who knows what they were thinking.

And so I have moved to within three days cycling of the nation’s capital, and the way things are going there may be no one left in a government job when I arrive. These are bizarre times indeed, especially here in this country. Today I passed a couple of very frayed and tattered US flags flying outside people’s homes, which is unusual in this patriotic land where the flag is such a potent symbol. You can’t help wondering whether it is a metaphor of some kind. Of course the flags can be replaced for newer, better ones. We live in hope.

I’m trying to get myself caught up so here are two days in one. I left Dillon after a morning at the local laundromat. All the machines are coin operated, which required a very large quantity of quarters. A lovely lady gave me some soap for the washing machine and now all my clothes are sweet smelling once again! There comes a point where this can’t be avoided any longer, and I was past that point.

That left half a day to cycle. As I left, I had a great conversation with one of the maids who wanted to clean my motel room. She was very curious about my trip and where I come from. Like many Americans, she wrongly placed my accent as Australian. This is a constant mystery to me. I am obviously not a local, and I dare say that in Dillon SC there are not a lot of foreign visitors; but every one watches movies, don’t they? Anyway, she asked me if the UK was like it is here in Dillon. The simple answer, obviously, was no. But then how do you start to explain why and how everything is so different to someone who has, for example, been to the coast (an hour away by car) just once in her life? I settled on everything here is much bigger. Which is true. Even the laundrette!

I found myself having a similar conversation with people working in the small family restaurant where I stopped for lunch in the middle of nowhere, after slipping unnoticed into North Carolina a few miles after Dillon. An empty road ran right along the state border between flat fields, and I took delight in weaving my way along the road crossing repeatedly from one state to the other. At no point in these back roads did I see a sign welcoming me to North Carolina. There were only signs for folks going the other way into South Carolina. Oh well.

I have made a habit these last three days of eating lunch in some very traditional, simple southern restaurants. You don’t get a menu to choose from, they just tell you what they have today. It is mostly things like fried chicken, yams, rice and gravy, cabbage, onion rings and so on, and it comes for a fixed price with a “beverage”. I always choose lemonade, which is sometimes pink. The other diners all seem to be simple, everyday folk and the staff are friendly and polite. And they always remark on my accent. Today, one waitress – who initially just asked me to talk – quizzed me at length and spoke about her dreams to see the world. But I couldn’t help thinking that these will likely remain dreams. For all the wealth in this rich country, there are a lot of people for whom life beyond their immediate jobs and surroundings is unfathomable. This lady, in her forties, spoke to me about her fear of dying, or being left alone when her family and friends were no longer around. It’s quite hard to know what to say, except to wish everyone luck and tell them anything is possible.

The cycling in North Carolina was a delight. I spent hours on deserted roads and passed through very few towns. It got a bit busier as I got close to Fayetteville, a big city, but my motel in the city centre was in a quiet area near the deserted train station, behind which was a small, modern baseball stadium where a game was taking place. Not wishing to miss out on a cultural experience, I walked down there and enjoyed the last five innings of a pre-season exhibition game between the Fayetteville Woodpeckers and the Asheville Tourists (both minor league affiliates of the Houston Astros, it turned out). I knew from previous experience that this would be a great way to spend the evening and enjoy food and drink in a relaxed, friendly setting, while not paying too much attention to the rather dull sport going on in front of me. And so it proved. You don’t really need to appreciate baseball too much, because they do this kind of sporting occasion very well in this country. It wasn’t a big crowd tonight but everyone was having a great time. I was even given a free pretzel, which partly compensated for the astronomical price of the surprisingly good beer on sale. And that is why I never wrote my blog last night. But I went to bed happy.

This morning I returned to start my journey in the city centre of Fayetteville and found it to my liking. There were murals, sculptures, a park being enjoyed by many school kids, a museum and some good old brick buildings that were now mostly bars and restaurants, just opening up for the day. At the main intersection, in the middle of a traffic circle, stood the old market hall with a red brick clock tower that faced in all four directions. All very pleasing, in a modest way.

It wasn’t really the city centre, because in minutes I was rolling through the countryside on rural roads past some very nice homes. I stopped after an hour for another traditional restaurant experience. The grandmotherly lady at the counter helped me decide what I would eat, wrote it down and gave me a slip to take to another lady at a serving hatch, who disappeared to cook my meal and then called my name when it was ready. I felt like I was in a bygone era. I don’t think they get too many visitors like me, but they were very kind and welcoming,

I still had perhaps fifty miles to go to reach Raleigh, and at about this point in the day, hills started to appear. Not big hills, but for the first time since Key West, the land was definitely no longer flat. I thought it was all the better for it, too. Things continued to be generally attractive for the rest of the way, with an ever increasing abundance of fruit blossom on the trees in peoples’ gardens, complemented by the continuing presence of azaleas and wisteria. I was also now in farming country, with large, open fields of crops all around. I rode in the slipstream of a JCB for a couple of miles on a quiet lane, much to the amusement of the driver. I reached speeds I can’t usually touch with almost no effort. But he wasn’t going my way, so we parted with a friendly wave and I went back to enjoying a following breeze to propel me along on this lovely warm sunny day – my twenty-second in a row in a row since landing in Miami in mid March.

I followed my nose though the countryside and crossed an area full of historical marker signs to commemorate the Civil War battle of Averasboro. The I stopped for an impromptu cup of Earl Grey in a coffee shop in a small town of a Buies Creek, which turned out to be dominated almost completely by the smart buildings of Campbell University, whose mascot is a fighting camel. They have a life size sculpture of one in the centre of town, Really.

Around this point in the afternoon I accidentally regained the route of the East Coast Greenway, and saw a smattering of cycle signs by the side of the road. But it didn’t last long, as it never seems to. Notwithstanding it was an excellent day of cycling. All of which brings me to roughly the half way point in my journey between Key West and Boston. I hope to reach Washington DC in four days from here; but that is a whole state and more away. After tonight’s huge Mexican meal, however, I may not need to eat again before I arrive!

I turned away from the coast today. It had to happen at some point. I decided that was now, in the hope of not adding unnecessary miles in my route to Washington DC. And so I took to the back roads of the interior and headed north through rural South Carolina. From a cycling perspective the day was what I would I have hoped for: 85 miles on very quiet roads and good alternatives to the main routes without adding miles. In between there were a handful of small, country towns to break up the trees and empty spaces, and provide refreshment when it was required.

The weather was again fabulous. The morning offered a little cloud cover, but the sun broke through around lunchtime and stayed until the end of the day. Temperatures were in the low seventies. That’s two weeks of nothing but sunshine and gentle breezes. Not bad.

The roadsides were regularly punctuated by small churches. There is even a warning sign you often pass that simply says ‘Church’ on it when one is approaching. Perhaps there is reason to apply extra caution. They were quite simple affairs from the outside. There were many versions of Baptist, Methodist, Anglican and Pentecostal to choose between, including a couple of African Methodist churches, which I didn’t expect. The towns were mostly quite run down, but an exception was Marion, which was actually rather pretty and had a good collection of beautiful homes either side of the town centre. But my general impression of this part of the state is that it is quite poor, and there was much evidence of people living in fairly basic housing, often not in the best repair.

I stopped for lunch on the edge of Johnsonville at the Shady Rest Family Restaurant, and walked into another decade. It was a large, simply furnished place with many diners, mostly older than me. I sat at the counter and chose from the daily specials board: fried chicken plus three sides (rice and gravy, string beans and corn), It was filling and good value. Around me various conversations could be overheard in southern drawls. At the end, I was momentarily thrown when I paid by credit card and included the tip on the merchant’s copy of the receipt, that you have to sign. That is standard practice. I was then handed that amount in cash from the till where I paid, as if they owed me change. This is not. The nice lady explained that I should now take that cash and place it where I had been seated. “We like to do things the old fashioned way here”, she said.

Everyone in the restaurant, expect for a couple of staff, was white. But most people I see as I cycle along, or when I stop in gas stations, are black. Many wave or nod as I go past. Tonight in a Japanese restaurant I was served by an a Indian looking waitress who spoke with as strong a southern accent as a I have heard. It’s good to have your expectations challenged. It was a mutual process, because she had just mopped the floor as I entered half an hour before closing time which, as I pointed out, left plenty of time for them to serve me a delicious meal. And, to be fair, after the initial reset, that’s exactly what they did. They had no beer, so I made do with Mr Pibb.

Like Savannah before it, I was reluctant, and therefore slow, to leave Charleston. I had enjoyed its historic charms and could happily have lingered. But I am operating to a schedule and my destination further up the coast, Georgetown, was over 80 miles of cycling away. There were puddles on the ground as I left, a sign of overnight rain. This morning the skies were cloudy and the forecast contained the threat of rain for the first time on this entire trip. It was time to move.

I paused in the old city market in Charleston to grab some breakfast, but also to get a long overdue beard trim. And then I was off, cycling up and over the Arthur J Ravenel Suspension bridge over the broad Cooper River, and then spinning off into suburban streets to avoid the larger highways. It was all very well to do on this side of the water, but modern and ubiquitous development that could have been anywhere in the USA. I was surprised after a few miles to bump into my East Coast cycling acquaintances from a couple of days ago, Emma and Sequoia. They had caught me up over my rest day and fate had thrown us together again, guitar and all. We rode together for a few miles and then parted when I chose to head away from their busier route in search of quieter back roads. A few miles later, I found the solitude I was hoping for, and I was very glad.

For the next couple of hours at least I was alone on roads that took me through endless pine woods. Unlike other rural roads in recent days, there were almost no homes along here. I felt I could have been miles from anywhere. In the middle of nowhere I came across a ruined wooden church next to which was a graveyard still in use. This was Halfway Creek Church. It was a moving spot, so quiet and removed from the busy highways and towns, surrounded by nature, and apparently half abandoned. There was nothing for miles either side until I reached a small road junction where a village of sorts was scattered. All I saw apart from houses was a small, pretty white church, an even smaller fire station house, the size of a single garage, and a large furniture store whose sign read “prices are born here and raised elsewhere”.

It was another hour before I was reunited with the wider world as my empty road reached route 17 once again. A Circle K gas station and store occupied the junction and I was ready for refuelling. While I was staring at the doughnut selection, a voice asked how far I was riding. A rather unlikely looking man, whom I would judge to be older than I am, turned out to be on his way towards Key West to start his own cycling trip. He sounded like he was an old hand at these big trips. He rode a recumbent bike, which is both lower and wider than mine. Neither of these factors sounded good for riding along the fringes of some of America’s bigger and busier highways. He said he usually has his dog with him on the bike, but had not brought it this time. He was from Ohio and had vague plans to cycle west across Florida and then up the Mississippi valley.

The weather now was sunny and hot and any sign of rain had disappeared for the moment. I had put on sun cream a couple of hours ago. But I felt an urge to finish off the remaining miles as quickly as possible, so I rode 26 fast, wind assisted miles in top gear along route 17, a broad divided highway that was mercifully light on traffic. The miles disappeared, but so too did the sunshine. By the time Georgetown arrived, it seemed wise to get inside. Sightseeing here would have to wait. I arrived dry at my Airbnb, but they were concerned about me getting caught in a storm that was apparently due quite soon. Sure enough, within the hour there was thunder and lightning and some rain. I wouldn’t have enjoyed being out in that!

After some deliberation, I have decided that this is the point from which tomorrow I will head north, away from the coast in the direction of Washington DC. I expect that to take another seven days. That feels like a milestone. I have more or less stayed along the coast, or close to it, up to this point. I’m approaching a thousand miles now on this trip so far. Tomorrow it will be April, so I have twenty days left, of which I might be cycling for fifteen. That means tomorrow I should be about half way to Boston by most measures. It still feels very far away!

I set out from Beaufort expecting another day of cycling along the shoulder of busy highways. But, not so! Today began with six miles of traffic free cycle path, and became a succession of pretty back lanes and quiet roads through more flat, swampy, forested countryside. At times I had them all to myself. It was quite a contrast to the last couple of days of riding. These long, straight, largely empty roads kept me away from the much busier main route 17, which in any case seemed to be truck-free today on the short sections I couldn’t avoid. There seemed to be very little in the way of proper settlements or services during today’s eighty miles. I was on my own.

The network of smaller roads took me past a succession of rural dwellings, but they were sufficiently spread out that rarely did you get a proper sense of arriving anywhere. The homes were mostly rather run down and many were just large trailers or mobile homes that in some cases had been extended. They didn’t lack for land, or vehicles, but together gave the general impression that this was not an affluent area. Despite the lack of a store or gas station or any other sign of community, almost all of these long roads featured regular roadside churches and chapels, sometimes as often as a every mile. They were mostly quite simple affairs, but well cared for, neat and tidy, with a large sign outside to identify one from its neighbour.

But the big revelation today was the presence of vast quantities of purple flowering wisteria all along the roadside. It was stunning. I have never seen it on such a truly magnificent scale before. There were places where it spread right up to the canopy of the tall pine trees, engulfing the trunks in colour. I’m used to seeing it around a doorway at home, or along the walls of a house. But here in South Carolina, the stuff grows unchecked. It’s pretty amazing.

I found refreshment at a couple of gas station convenience stores when I reached major road junctions, but I was almost into the US equivalent of “never pass an open cafe”. So when the chance arose I indulged in the unhealthy wares of a Circle K, with its vast array of fridges and shelves of junk food. I needed it, I told myself, and I was probably right.Things picked up a little in the last twenty miles before Charleston, as I passed through the linear town of Hollywood. I wouldn’t be fooled by the name, though. It wasn’t glamorous. And then the day ended as it had begun, with the last few miles on a linear bike path that ran right up to where I was staying. It took me through more swampy, salty, tidal creeks where people were out fishing on the fringes of the Ashley River. And then suddenly I was surrounded by the usual strip development of fast food and motels that marks the beginning of any American town, and I had arrived.

I knew that not seeing Charleston would be a huge missed opportunity so I had found a cheap motel in these unprepossessing outskirts (next to a McDonalds and across the street from a Taco Bell) and booked in for two nights. As with Savannah, I was very glad that I did. I took an Uber into the historic part of town on Sunday morning and spent the whole day there until after dinner. There was plenty to enjoy.

Charleston goes back to the seventeenth century when English settlers arrived in these shores for the first time. In 1690 the first town, Charles Town – named after the present King Charles II – was laid out on the peninsula it still occupies today. It soon became one of the most important strongholds in the American colonies. It has seen plenty of conflict over the years, being at the centre of both the Revolutionary and the American Civil wars. In the 1860s the Union lay siege to Charleston – as it was renamed post-independence – and reduced many of the older buildings to ruins. But today, there are many streets of beautiful Antebellum homes and churches, many dating back to the mid 1700s, and it has a graceful, almost timeless feel. The biggest street, Broad Street, runs right across the peninsula from one side to the other, and below this the city is exclusively residential.

It is small enough to explore on foot, and many of the buildings have historical plaques explaining their origin and ownership over the years. The great and good all lived here, including several signatories of the Declaration of Independence. Many of the home are brick built, with sweeping porches and columns along one side, and wooden shutters beside every window. The gardens the properties enclose are delightful, too, containing plants that ranged from flowering cherry blossom to palm trees. There were lots of flowers, too. It was about as nice as city living gets. Horses pulled carriages of interested visitors slowly around these streets, adding to the scene. There was nothing out of place, except for the cars parked in the streets, and I could have taken hundreds of pictures. A lot of the homes were painted in different pastel shades, adding subtle colour to the rows of homes. One particular parade of houses is known as rainbow row, but there is nothing garish about any of it. Even the smaller alleyways that run between the larger streets are like stylish London mews. I loved it.

Above Broad Street was the commercial part of the old city. Here, too, are attractive buildings, wide stone pavements, trendy shops and a Covent Garden like City Market. Nothing apart from the many spires and towers of Charleston’s churches rises above its neighbour, making it all feel like it belongs together. Anything modern has been kept at a safe distance. You get as good a sense as you can in 2025 of how aa city like this would have been before the modern era. It has had its ups and downs: not only the ravages of war, but also a major earthquake in 1886, the most destructive in the history of the eastern USA. But Charleston appears to have fallen on good times today.

At the end of my time in Charleston, I walked from the waterfront all the way north up King Street, the principal shopping thoroughfare. This marked the start of the original King’s Highway, a road ordered by Charles II to link together Charleston and Boston, by way of Philadelphia and New York. It’s route will be something close to the route I now have ahead of me, starting tomorrow. It is 600 miles from fhere to Washington DC. I hope to reach it in a week or so, before my next rest day. First, there is much work to do!

The journey from Savannah to Charleston, my next stopover, is too far for a single day of cycling. The only place of note in between is Beaufort (pronounced Byewfurt) and I was told by local folk, correctly, that it was worth seeing. This much smaller historic coastal city came at the end of the shorter of two unequal days of cycling, so I was in no hurry to leave lovely Savannah. I found a bike shop right in the old centre and called in for a couple of small items and a chat. They were lovely people and gave me some banana bread!

You can leave Savannah by free ferry across the wide river, but you can’t avoid the traffic for long. There were better and worse sections but no real respite, and in most directions there was just swamp and open water. At a supermarket half way along I bumped into a young couple of cyclists who were the first people I had met so far doing the same trip as me. They were doing it more slowly and carrying all manner of additional luxury items on their bikes, including a guitar! They were very cheerful, but they agreed they didn’t need everything they were carrying. So far we really haven’t had any hills to contend with. That usually makes all the difference. I wish them well in their journey.

I reached my motel on the edge of Beaufort in the late afternoon and ditched my bags. A fancy cycle track, the Spanish Moss Trail, passed right by and transported me easily down to the tip of the peninsula and the small coastal village of Port Royal. It was a beautiful, quiet spot with large houses surrounded by old live oak trees, and lovely views out across the lagoon towards the low sun. But best was the area just before the road reached the end. Here you could walk out across a boardwalk to view a huge rookery of wading birds that were gathering to nest in trees on small islands in an area called Cypress Wetlands. The place was alive with noise and activity. Storks flew low over our heads carrying large branches for their nests, landing next to their partner on surprisingly spindly trees that were already full to overloaded with storks, different types of egret, ibis and smaller birds. The taller trees behind were festooned with hundreds of white birds. It was truly a spectacle that I stumbled upon quite by accident at just the right time of year. What a treat. In the lake are turtles and alligators, which keep other animals like raccoon and otters away from the nests, so the site is perfect. Word had clearly got out!

I just had time to get a few miles back up to the historic centre of Beaufort, with its grand old mansions and pretty waterfront, where I bought an ice cream. As the sky turned orange, the colours were reflected in the calm water, and a large porpoise popped up above the surface to say good evening. Which all seemed highly appropriate.

I still haven’t seen a hill in ten days of cycling up the east coast of America. But today I certainly saw plenty of traffic. Sometimes, it can be hard to avoid in this country. There seem to be main roads and dirt roads, but often there isn’t much in between. Dirt roads in this part of Georgia means sand, and it can be like riding on ice, especially with my panniers. After a short experiment, I decided firmly this wasn’t an option, however much Google Maps wanted to encourage the practice. We have history. When it is good, it is a very helpful app indeed. But when it is bad, it can be horrid! I learned that fact two years ago in the deep gravel of Washington state. I don’t want a repeat.

Instead, I was resigned to more than I would have liked today cycling on the shoulder of a four lane highway. There was plenty of space for me to the right of all the traffic. We were never in each other’s way. But the constant noise is not relaxing, and the trucks – even when they give you a whole lane of space – are big and angry looking. It wasn’t all like that, but today was the first day I have had to put up with it for many miles, and it isn’t something I would choose to repeat. The stretches in between were pleasant enough, with more of yesterday’s swampy pine forests and a couple of larger towns, Hinesville and Richmond Hill.

I had an odd experience in Hinesville. I made a left turn on a suburban road, past a supermarket, then a school, and then some new housing estates. It all seemed quite normal. And then a couple of miles along the road I suddenly came, without notice, to the entrance to a military base, Fort Stewart. The road continued and a lot of the traffic did too, but it turned out you needed a pass, which obviously I didn’t have. On the map it all looked quite normal. But the guards at the gate pleasantly but firmly said I had to turn around. So that was an extra four miles I could have lived without! It was another lovely day and I didn’t really mind, except that there really wasn’t anything to tell me I couldn’t use this road – because I checked when I found myself back by the supermarket. Is that too much to ask?

I made it comfortably to the edge of Savannah and found my pleasant motel. I was still a ten minute Uber ride from the historic city centre, but it was the only affordable choice for the long distance adventure cyclist. I duly got my lift into the old part of town to get some dinner, and was pleased to discover my driver, a Jamaican, was a lifelong Liverpool FC fan with a special fondness for John Barnes. It’s fun to chat to these people. It always seems to take at least a couple of times of me saying that I cycled here from Key West for it to sink in. Not surprising, perhaps, given that I have now covered 800 miles.

I saw a line of people a block long leading to Leopold’s ice cream shop on busy Broughton Street in downtown Savannah, so after I found some dinner I returned to see why. The queue had gone at 9.30pm, so I went inside and treated myself to a double waffle cone. First, it was huge. Second, it was divine. One of the best ice cream eating experiences I have ever had, which is saying something. I slept well.

I had already planned to take a day off and see Savannah. I am so glad that I did. By day it is truly a beautiful city. Apparently it gets uncomfortably hot and humid here during the summer months; but it was perfect for me. Sunshine and blue skies, warm but not hot. The city is built around more than twenty large green squares and parks, and the genteel streets in between are shaded by huge old live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss. The mid nineteenth century houses are beautiful, with balconies, turrets and iron railings aplenty. Many squares have a pretty church or some other large civic building to photograph. Most have either a statue or a fountain, or both. There were bright pink azaleas everywhere. There is so much to admire. I wandered around for most of the afternoon and never got tired of it.

And then there is the riverfront, where old, multi level brick warehouses and a power station have now been converted into into hotels and restaurants alongside a cobbled riverfront walk. Upstream is a large, modern suspension bridge leading into South Carolina, and beyond that are huge docks. A massive container ship sailed slowly past as I watched. Inside the old power station is a full size, shiny metal cast of a brontosaurus, dominating what is also perhaps the funkiest, fossil filled hotel lobby I have ever seen.

Savannah had been on my list for many years. It exceeded my already high expectations. I would be tempted to say it has been the highlight of my journey so far. I will see it all again in the morning as I leave, and I will be sad to go. But go I must, into my third state. There is still a very long way ahead of me.

Today was my first day of cycling away from the Florida coast, and it was a completely different experience. My route took me inland a little and across an area that I think is know as the Pinelands. It certainly contains a large number of pine trees, and is otherwise a combination of sandy and swampy country alongside the long, mostly empty roads. For much of the day I didn’t really pass through anywhere of significance.

Kingsland turned out to be just a small high street on a quiet intersection, apart from the motel and gas station village by the interstate. Pleasant little Woodbine, an hour up the wide, empty highway, was smaller still, but it did have an open cafe that provided me with an overdue breakfast. They were cooking up burgers on a BBQ on the sidewalk, and the local sheriff stopped by for something to eat. He declared himself bored, and I could see why that might be. It was a quiet place. My approach to Woodbine was along an old railway trail that culminated in an avenue of live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, and then a boardwalk bridge that made it halfway across the broad, blue Satilla River before abruptly stopping.

Back on the highway and over the newer bridge, I headed on past small, run down homes with pickup trucks parked randomly outside and yards full of junk. Some of the properties were neat and tidy, but many were quite dilapidated. This was a different America. At a large intersection that made up most of the community of Atkinson, I stopped at a welcome roadside sandwich shop – little more that a shed with wooden tables outside – and fell into a long and interesting conversation with the guy who popped his head out of the small window where they took the orders. He was at least my age, was from Dallas, and had lived in various places. He had family in England and spoke fondly of past trips to visit them. But his fondest memories were of kindergarten in Japan, where he was the only child out of sixteen (he said) who was not the offspring of a US serviceman and a geisha! Besides that we bonded over British 80s bands that were his favourite music growing up, especially the Human League. He knew about several 80s bands from Sheffield and I was very impressed. It was a meeting of minds. He was also the first local person I have met who spoke openly – and disparagingly – about the current White House administration.

The rest of the journey to Jesup was long and very straight. But it passed. I counted down the mile markers and stopped every five or so for a drink and a quick rest. After five miles I met an old guy outside his house, who seemed surprised to see me and even more surprised by what I was doing. He told me to keep my door locked in Jesup. At least I think he did. He appeared to have no teeth under his droopy grey moustache. But Jesup doesn’t feel like the kind of place where bad people are. It feels like a lot of people here live under some level of constant fear. Even my exuberant Human League friend talked about there being lots of crazy people around. A common refrain I hear is “stay safe”. I’m glad people care about me, but I do feel safe, the same as I did when I cycled right across America in 2023. People seem friendly and well meaning. I hope my feelings aren’t misplaced.

I enjoyed today. The weather was about perfect for cycling, the breeze helpful, and in this top corner of NE Florida I passed through a greater proportion of natural landscapes. It continued to be flat, but there were some sweeping views across estuaries and coastal wetlands, and I even came across a large, wild tortoise by the side of the cycle trail!

Before that, soon after lunch, I picked up my first ferry of the trip across the St John’s River. Any trip is made better by a ferry, even when it is all over in less than ten minutes. Breakfast and lunch were simple but extremely pleasant affairs enjoyed outdoors, and – except for some unavoidable busy roads towards the end between Amelia Island and Interstate 95 – it was all a delight, and a slightly different side of Florida than the previous seven days. The beaches today were of the whitest sand and wouldn’t have looked it of place in the Outer Hebrides. In that department at least, Florida is truly blessed.

It has taken me eight long days to cycle from a Key West to the border with Georgia, and a new state. Already, within five miles, people sound very different. The two people who served me dinner and ice cream tonight sounded like they came from the Deep South. I hadn’t heard that twang in Florida, where more often I would be hearing Spanish, or at least accented English. There was also a warmth and politeness about these people that I liked. One waitress gave me a free bottle of root beer to take back to my motel, and the other girl made me a Dairy Queen Blizzard even though the restaurant was actually closed. I will be in Georgia for a few more days, so we will see what else lies ahead. I’m staying tonight in a motel by an interstate junction, and for the first time this trip I am surrounded by a forest of tall plastic signs, all competing to attract passing motorists to their motel, restaurant or gas station, all of which are present here in abundance. I was able to walk across the driveways to get dinner.