Leaving Baltimore and the beauts that are the Belz’s, much to my chagrin despite the distinct lack of a groupbath as proposed and even hashtagged by the Belz ladies, time had come for us wanderers to wander on. The girls insist that the mosey is all downhill from here on out but we soldier on.

Conny is in a foul mood. Given Conny’s mindset we depart the Belz’s for somewhat aptly, Nag’s Head. Somehow, within thirty seconds of getting in the car I had done a multitude of wrongness. Don’t quite know what still, but the mood didn’t lighten much. She drove a few hours, stopped at a shop, where she tried to make me look silly, but it backfired and it turned on her (I was even in good humour at this point!) and bit her on the arse…sadly this did not help matters. Conny pulled out her best condescend voice, I matched it with my finest shouty voice. Conny put in the GPS coordinates of a national park rest area and away we headed. We arrived at, super aptly if awkwardly named Dismal Swamp National Park. You couldn’t write this if you tried. Conny, despite her incredible English, had not heard the word dismal before. The place was actually far from dismal and a sort of Entente Cordiale was struck, at least for the evening. Morning came and I dunno, maybe the destination had got into Conny’s head but the treaty was definitely no more. Not entirely sure what I did to set her off this morning, I probably made the coffee wrong, or brushed my teeth in the wrong direction, but it must have been something, because off she went. My point is, it ain’t always buttercups and sunshine on the Mosey!

If ever a cure there was, Nag’s Head is it. I love places like this. It is an island cum peninsular by way of two ridiculous bridges. The dunes of Jockey’s Ridge are beautiful for a little wander and the coastal road is the kind of stuff that makes you want to move. Even though it received a lick of Matthew’s (Hurricane, not Nip) Wrath, it is still one of those places that brings a warming to ones cockles, a bit like a gentle smear of Vick’s Vaporub. The shacks with their crow’s nests and other nautica. The pastel coloured houses that line the shore, the grass speckled sand dunes. Sure there was a bit more water on the street, the odd patchy roof and few piles of tiles or broken signage on the ground, but it’s charm was no less. We were lucky enough to have the hottest October weather imaginable too, nearing the 30° mark, Conny and I put our ill feeling aside and donned our swimwear to breach the surprisingly warm Atlantic. A beachside shower and zero arguments later, we are headed onwards. Next up Alligator River! Hopefully via bear country and we can locate one of those pesky buggers.

Alligator River. Apparently named after its famed residents has a wildlife refuge there. I use the word refuge lightly, as I see many signs showing the various ways and times one may hunt and kill those seeking refuge. From designated areas for hunting with dogs, hunting with guns or hunting with dogs and guns together…I must admit, it seems more like a fish in a barrel hunting ground than a refuge, I’m pretty sure it’s the exact opposite of a refuge.

Either way Conny and I, on much better terms by now after our sea dip, sought to find a bear or an alligator or bears and alligators. Our timing was off but we thought we’d have a drive around the various areas (even wildlife refuges in swamps are drive thru over here) to chance our arm anyway. We came across a dude parked up by the side of the road, one rifle-on-stand pointed into the woods, the other somewhat worryingly pointed down the road we were headed.

Conny winds down the window.

“Hi there!” she cheerfully exclaims “what are you hunting?”

“Durrr, arm hurr furr durr” (roughly translated we figure that meant he was “here for deer”) “It’s durr hunt’n season now, yup”

“Ah, deer, we were hoping to see some bears”

“Oh hooouuueeee, yeah y’all can see beers hurr, BIG black’uns, we got boo-coo beers hurr yup!”

“Really?”

“Heck yeah! Aa’s hurr th’othr morn’n wi’ma gurlfri-end, we’s a saw boo-coo beer, BOO-COO BEER in them fields jus thurr. Ah mean we’s a looked an counted head, mussa bin 37 beer look like a field uh Aberdeen Aingus Beef cayttle y’know! Big suckas”

“Really?”

“Them about as big as yo’van thurr” he eyes over Black Beauty’s stature “yup, you just gotta be hurr at dawn, they like them peas they harvesting (we guess its peanuts as there ain’t no pea fields in sight)”

“Ah well, we have to be elsewhere, but thanks for the tip”

“No worries y’all, you ain’t close to home is ya?”

“No, I’m from Austria”

“Hooooooooo-eeeeeee y’all is a long way from the house! Now good luck y’all and stay safe”

The next thing that comes from his mouth is exactly the wrong thing to say to Conny, I am not allowed to speak of two S’s to Conny sharks and…

“y’all wanna be careful them snakes, they more active than normal, they still out there hungry chompin’ on the frogs thats makin’ a rackit in the swamps thurr. Jus’now I seen two of’em a black thing and then a rattler jus’cross the road thurr”

“RATTLER?!”

“Yup, o’yeah, rattle snake, we got copperheads, diamond backs and cotton mouths hurr, so stay safe y’all”

This was not the ideal thing for Conny to have on her mind as we pulled in to the trail head we had planned on sleeping in. Next to a swamp. So a new location was sought, and we happened upon a car park at Indian Lake, with the added bonus of the Lord (in whom I don’t believe)’s protection as we were parked between two of his churches.

Morning came, zero snakes had chomped on us and after a hearty breakfast and another tour of Black Beauty for the inquisitive public, we headed out for Asheville.

Arriving mid afternoon at the house of our wonderful host Mr Patrick O’Cain and his two dogs Beatrice and Arthur.

Patrick is an old colleague of Conny’s and friend of ours from the Nice days where they worked in the Snug and Cellar. Now in those days Patrick had an interest in food, had done a degree in English and French and was a thoroughly decent sort. Skip forward a few years and he is now the owner/head chef at his amazing restaurant, but enough of that because the restaurant gets its own post on here. Sufficed to say that Patrick was generous and welcoming at both home and restaurant.

Patrick O’Cain is also one of a select group (at least I assume) to have been out riding his bike one time and crashing into a bear. Yes. A bear. It even broke his bike in two. How’s that for a feather to wear in one’s cap. They don’t call him Patrick “Bear Crasher” O’Cain for nothing you know.

Asheville is an interesting place. Nestled in the Appalachia of North Carolina, it’s a small, seemingly friendly city full of hippies and liberal minded folk. We experienced a slice of the community market (complete with free samples of two of Patrick’s soups) some of the coffee places including one in an old routemaster, a brewery with beer and pizza from a truck outside plus a few of nights out, one intellectual, the others less so.

The people of Asheville, as I mentioned seem very nice, we only encountered warm and friendly folk with a certain joie de vivre. First up, Patrick’s family who welcomed us to their house for a Sunday breakfast of Heinz beans, toast, eggs, grits, coffee and most importantly/impressively Man Utd on the big screen TV. Turns out The O’Cain Parents are massive Man Utd Fans! Even got my coffee in a Utd mug. Shame the enthusiasm of us fans in the US was not mirrored by the players on the pitch for this was the dismal display that ended in us getting spanked 4-0 by Chelsea.

Then there was Joe and Mallory. Never a nicer couple could you expect to find. Salt of the earth, kind, warm and funny folk they are farmers who supply Patrick’s restaurant. We, despite my vegetarianness, headed for the local barbecue place (called Buxton Hall no less) with the advice that Ii could eat Hodge Podge* and that there would be plenty for me.

We entered the hall, turns out there was a wait for a table but that doesn’t really matter because it was here we encountered Andy. A local artist who whiles away the time painting and playing music, having coffee’s, walking his dog and getting smashed with his new sweetheart, the barman at the barbecue place. He and Conny decided they would spark conversation mostly by hurling sly insults at one another. This, strangely, went down quite well. Joe ordered Hodge Podge* at the bar, which although delicious, kind of ruined my plan for my dinner. We sat for dinner (minus Andy who was already engaged at the bar) and set about ordering some fine barbecue. The menu did not suit me! Not in a nasty way, but even the sprouts came in bacon and the beans came in beef or swine or some other death morcel. I was however permitted to order a bunch of sides, tapas style which made quite the feast.

More impressively, it turns out that Patrick and Joe are quite the dudes to look after in town. We had about three times more food come to our table than was ordered. All of it (I am told) was delicious. Conny was in heaven with pork belly this, pork sirloin that, beef this and beef the other, not to mention the free flowing alcohol. Andy finished his engagement at the bar and joined us for the post dinner beverages, I say post dinner, that was what it was supposed to be but seeing as the kitchen saw fit to throw food at us, there was plenty for him to have his second supper on our leftovers, but he almost instantly saw fit to order shots, which was to everyone’s delight (notable exception of course). All in all a fabulous night out with a cast of characters to remember, I bid adieu to Andy, but as I had eaten so much and I was in my slightly dubious slightly MC Hammer style jeans, as I attempted to hurl my legs around him mid hug, I just made an awkward looking dry hump of a move, but spirits unblemished, Conny and I arranged to go see the farm the next day and with that bid the JoeMallory goodnight.

Joe’s farm is as close to heaven as the non believer such as myself can get. Only a small holding of about 5 acres, set in the lush mountains, he has fields of kale, turnips, broccoli, squash and radishes, he had just done with the tomatoes, and the aubergine and was preparing a flower field. The place was fantastic. His produce all cultivated with care and attention just like the moustache on his face. A work in progress (the farm, perhaps his moustache too, but that wasn’t discussed…) he is still figuring out what suits where best, finding the best way from the knowledge of his 90 year old neighbour and his foxfire books, he organically grows some deliciously tasty crops (we sampled them straight from the ground) and spends his days finding native peoples arrowheads as he tills the land.

Post tour we headed to town for a beverage. An awesome little “bar” it looked more like a cross between goodwill, a library and an arthouse cafe than a bar, but it served beer and crackers with meat and cheese. We discussed, among other things, guns, dogs, Halloween costumes, food, beer, American Gladiators (and of course the UK version, even the international challenge).

If that conversation wasn’t smart enough for you, Conny and I got all intellectual and went to a talk at the local university. Part of the secular spirituality week, where the various faith oriented faculties collaborated in putting together some lectures on some vaguely associated topics, this talk was introduced by Krista Tippet, a radio host who had several times along our journey come to our rescue when the same seven songs on the radio were getting tiresome and the God botherers of Christian radio were shouting at us that we were sinners, that we must change our ungodly ways, that we must repent, that we are already forgiven anyway, that we must live our lives with love but we must fight the devil, destroy the ungodly, believe in His all powerful all present grace yet fight His uncontrollable and devious enemy. Anyway I digress, my point is that they shout silly non-sensical stuff, and Krista and her “On Being” show had a few times bought some rational thinking and human decency into our ears along the dusty highways.

This night she was interviewing a writer called Isabel Wilkerson, the author of The Warmth of Other Suns. A non-fictional account of the great migration of people of colour in the 20^th century mostly from the Southern States to the more liberal North and West. It focused on the stories of three people each migrating in consecutive decades from the 1930’s (I believe, don’t quote me) 40’s and 50’s. The stories took 15 years to research and write and the conversation throughout the evening touched on some poignant and moving tales and themes of the human condition. Much of which is relevant in the current crises of migration and the rise of right-wing thought that much of the world faces today.

It was nice to hang around a couple of dogs again too. Beatrice and Arthur are a couple of mutts that you can’t help but love. Beatrice a handsome girl with some mix of what looks a bit Appenzeller, bit Shepard and a bit something else, she is calm and steady but loves her squeaky toy. Arrthur however, who might have some bull in him, might not, but is entirely adorable is in that toothy stage of pupdom that means every thing is for gnawing on, this includes arms, legs, furniture and even Beatrice, in fact especially Beatrice. Occasionally it gets to te point where she has to put the smackdown on him, but it’s all fun and games, no real nasty stuff.

On the leads these two are useless, they drag us up to the woods where we can let them off almost the entire way around, they were reasonably calm, never went to far then, just as we neared the end of the trail. They disappeared. I look left, I look right, and there it is. A boggy wallow, complete with two up to the armpit dogs. The wallow must be a cocaine wallow because those two got some pep in them and went berserk chasing one another all over the shop, getting filthier and stinkier by the second, off into the woods they beamed, finding new patches of filth as they did, it is at this point I get a text from Patrick, “how is it with the dogs?”

“Erm good…filthy but good” is all I can reply.

Despite their filth, these two were and are awesome, and made our stay in Asheville all the better and even enhanced my pitch to Conny for a couple of hounds in the house when we do finally settle in Austria.

Add to this the delights of Gan Shan Station and a fantastic Indian street food restaurant, Asheville, we salute you. You can tell those Belz girls to stick their pinnacles in some dark places.

*Hodge Podge is clearly not a thing. It is Conny Speak for Hush Puppies (eg. “Lets go to the barbecue, fuck David and his vegetarianism, I want meat, he can have Hodge-Podge”) which in my mind are shoes anyway, but apparently here they are a delicacy. A bit like a grit-donut. The ones we ate even had the added bonus of a jalapeno kick, and were served with tartar sauce, more to the point were entirely delicious…although, as Patrick rightly pointed out, not made to order, they had been sat under heat lamps, which is odd for short order food, that by its very nature should be cooked to order. Still, delicious.