Georgia ho!

I’ve seen some souvenir ticky-tack in my day but nothing beats the road out of Pigeon Forge for overkill. Oh, Dolly Parton, what has your sweet success done to the old Smoky Mountains home town. We’re heading for them thar mountains and on

our way to Georgia but first we must drive past what is probably the world’s only giant catfish which looms absurdly outside a souvenir shop, past pancake houses, waffle houses, cafes, cheap tobacco stores, buffet all-you-can-eat joints, burger joints, pizza joints, icecream parlors, more donut places, every chain restaurant in the country, more donut places, motels, did I mention pancakes?

And then, suddenly, all the rampant, frantic, rapacious commerce runs slap into the face of a giant mountain - and stops. It can go no further.

We can, and do. The road delves into a

tunnel of mighty trees and winds into the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The dappled morning light is beautiful upon the rich greens of the trees and it sparks brightly on the little rocky streams which appear beside the road. Barely a mile and we are a world away from the crass commercial clamour of Pigeon Forge. We recall Dolly talking of her father in her Dollywood show. Dirt

poor and with no job, he went to Chicago for work but only three weeks in, he could stay no longer. Poverty was preferable to being parted from his beloved Smoky Mountains. We get it now.

Around a bend, a scenic overlook presents itself to drive home the point. A glorious expanse of mountain ranges one behind the other goes on and on into a smoky blue infinity beyond the horizon. A bride in a romance of flowing white veils stands in front of this stunning vista as a professional photographer sets up light reflectors. Now there’s a classy wedding photo. We slow but don’t stop.

We open the windows to let in the fresh mountain air. It is moist and fragrant.

The road winds, often precariously, through the mountains. I shy away from the window when it is too vertiginous. Bruce drives gently round the bends. He knows I’m nervous with such heights. But in the valleys where rushing streams twist and shimmer along their courses, I am rhapsodic. It is intensely lovely.

Eventually we emerge into a broad valley. The road straightens and widens. A whole new genre of

American culture materialises. We are in a Cherokee Indian village. Houses are a bit run down. Dominating all are huge billboards touting the services of criminal defence lawyers who specialise in tribal issues or tribal criminal family law.

Now farm stands dot the road. They advertise boiled peanuts, local mountain apples, sourwood honey. Yum. I’d love some boiled peanuts. Not here, says Bruce. Wait for Georgia. We are crossing the border into North Carolina, the state of his birth.

The stream beside the road broadens into a river. Kudzu, that notorious invasive creeper, hugs the roadside vegetation creating towering green sculptural forms. It is suffocating life beneath it but it has a certain aesthetic grandeur.

The road is now a handsome highway. We pass Uncle Bill’s Flea Market which seems to go on for miles stretched out under a long, thin shed.

Oh, heavens, a Christmas theme park way out here. What is with this American obsession with Christmas? There are Christmas stores absolutely everywhere right across the land. It is as if the country can’t bear to leave Christmas as a season but must have its kitschy contraptions all year long. We ponder this as we pass river rafters and mini storage, humming down this curving valley road.

We turn off at Dillsboro and over the rushing Tuckasegee River, past Grandma and Grandpa’s Motel and Baptist and Seventh Day Adventist churches to behold a violent outbreak of mini storage. These parks for excess possessions are a national cultural phenomenon. No wonder there are TV shows about their contents. They are the true reflection of the great consumer culture. I’ve even seen mini storage units built right behind the great shopping malls, as if people can’t resist buying stuff but, having nowhere to put it, take it straight from the store to the storage. Well, this is a theory. It has amused us on the road from time to time. I add mini storage to my list of massive unheralded industries in which one should invest in the USA. Already on the list are US flags, paint, and lawn mowers.

By the Franklin turnoff we figure we must now be in Georgia. Carolina never posted a goodbye sign and Georgia not a hello. We are driving past fields of old corn, very old corn. From baby fields in the west to these dried out crops in the east. And we never saw a single tobacco crop through all the famous tobacco-growing states. There’s a sign of the times. But, hey, here’s another crop of mini storage.

The countryside is lush and mountainous. A sign advertises Dillard’s Southern Cuisine - cornpone, collard greens. Another promotes deer apples. Never heard of them. Dr Google says they are damaged apples used to bait deer. Hmm.

Signs for sunflowers, fresh peaches.

Turnoffs indicate the routes to Cornelia, Tallulah - wonderful musical names.

And there’s the sign for which we’ve been waiting. Welcome to North Georgia.