I can't think of many times that I have been as despondent on my travels as I was last night and the early part of today. Not helped by the restaurant in my hotel in Pensacola Beach closing at seven pm. Had it not been for the very helpful man at K Mart a couple of miles down the road, my first ever dinner in the Panhandle would have been a microwaved hamburger.
This morning, I washed and shaved in the kitchen sink in my room, there being no facilities in the bathroom to do so. Thank goodness I have remembered to bring my universal sink plug. This is not in the script and I am not at all a happy bunny. But the receptionist at the Paradise Inn is very chatty and friendly. Angel, the housekeeper is working on her birthday. I am not making this up. Truly, an Angel in Paradise!
Then, not ever being a lover of long distance driving, my recommended 'scenic route' to Apalachicola turned out to be endless apartment complexes, fast food joints and billboards. The gorgeous dazzling white sands and views of the ocean are completely obscured by tourist overdevelopment. Santa Rosa island offers a brief respite and is truly breathtaking in its' beauty.
Condominium country is not at all what is wanted, so I deviate from the route and head north. My Hertz 'NeverLost' GPS system complains bitterly, but I refuse to 'make a u turn when legally possible' and go in search for the Florida I want to discover. Mind you, the GPS is in disgrace, having failed in her first test to take me to Pensacola Beach.
At Highway 20, I head due East, the compass in the Volvo Estate reminding me that Navigation in the US of A is very much a case of knowing the four main points of the compass. Hurrah! Instant relief. There's very little traffic, views of wonderful forests, lakes and creeks. 'Never Lost' tries her best to direct me towards Niceville and Panama City, which I stoically ignore. I am told later that if I thought what I had seen was ghastly, I would have been appalled had I carried on to Panama City.
By the time I head south for the hour long drive through the Apalachicola Forest, I really do begin to believe that there is a point in this trip. I see almost no traffic, apart from enormous logging lorries. The road runs parallel with a railway line. At one point an hug train of oil wagons, probably half a mile long, potters ponderously north.
At Corinth Baptist Church, I am delighted that they have heard of my trip. They have run out of black apostrophes and Mike, so they use a red one and call me Kevin. But the thought is there.
I have never seen so many churches in my life. Every few yards, there's another one, of all shapes and hues. I am amused by the sign outside Sumatra's Baptish Church which offers 'Free Trips to Heaven. Details Inside'.
Rather alarmingly, an electronic message has started to appear in the Volvo that one of the tyres needs air. But the message has gone from a gentle prod to one of some insistence. so, at the first opportunity, I stop at a garage to pump it up again. As I need to leave early on Thursday for to go back to Pensacola for the King of Spain's speech, I decide to fill up the tank as well. After a bit of poking and prodding by both of us, the lady at the till rings her husband to find out where to locate the button to open the petrol catch!
My Hertz 'Never Lost' announces 'I have arrived at my destination' and I have discovered, with the help of Anita Grove of the Apalachicola Bay Chamber of Commerce EXACTLY what I have been looking for. The Coombs House Inn (www.coombshouseinn.com) dates from 1905 and has deservedly won many awards since it was completely restored in 1994. Beautifully decorated and filled with antiques from the collection of the co owner, interior designer, Lynn Wilson. It is utterly, utterly a delight.
I discover I have arrived an hour later than expected. Nobody has thought to tell me that, in this part of the State, we are back on Miami time. How confusing having two time zones in one state must be!
Anita takes me on a quick trip round the town, which has a really nice feel to it. It made its' original money from logging, and is doing very nicely thank you with a very successful oyster industry. So well is it doing that 10% of all of America's oysters come from Apalachicola.
Anita kindly takes me to the Boss Oyster restaurant, where there are 22 varieties of the delicacy on the menu. I have to confess, I have never, perhaps surprisingly, tasted an oyster, but Anita orders a variety which are baked with parmesan cheese, then placed on a saltine cracker, with a dash of Crystal sauce. The sauce, made just outside New Orleans, a three hour drive away, was hoarded locally after it was rumoured, quite wrongly, that the factory had been destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. Despite the warnings on the restaurant wall of terrible things that can happen if you eat a bad oyster, I am alive and well as I write this.
I chat away in Spanish to a Mexican and a Guatemalan, employed as 'shuckers', or shell openers. It reminds me that, down south in Miami, Spanish is spoken by more people than English.
Back at the hotel, I have a jolly banter about matters colonial with a group of Alabamans, visiting the 'Redneck Riviera'. They are all impressed with my time exposure photos of the hotel and persuade me to email copies to the hotel computer, so the receptionist can put them on her big screen.
The receptionist is great. She's not only washed and dried my laundry, but a little while ago, seeing I was still working, brought me a good night cup of tea.
What a difference a day makes.
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