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.

Dollywood - at last

Pigeon Forge. What a wonderful name for a town. We’re here to visit Dollywood. I am utterly unashamed of the fact that I have long wanted to visit Dollywood and that I think Dolly Parton is just a, well, a Dolly. I’ve loved the very idea of Dollywood albeit I was never quite sure how it manifested itself. So, we have traversed the glorious Blue Ridge Mountains into sweet Tennessee’s Smoky Mountains to find out. It has been a fascinating drive.

Until the traffic jams. It takes a tedious forever to get a mile through the town to our hotel. Jam, gridlock, backup, impasse, whatever. It is all of them. In this little Tennessee town. It is the Labor Day long weekend. It is one of the biggest family holiday weekends on the US calendar. And we have come to one of the most popular US family holiday locations on this weekend. It was not quite in our plans.

We are crawling past a mile of crass commercial kitsch: theme hotels, family entertainment enterprises and donut joints when my Google Maps speaks up. Out of the blue, in a sweet Aussie voice, she tells us that there is a way to beat the traffic. If we just turn off here and follow these winding back roads… We do as she suggests. It is a wonderful backstreet drive. And suddenly we are at our hotel. We love you Google Siri.

The Clarion Inn is just full of families. Oh, my. All of Pigeon Forge is packed. We load our mountainous luggage onto a hotel trolly. Bruce just loves these things. He now has his own litany of hotel likes and dislikes. Dislikes: valets, porters, offsite parking, paid WiFi. Likes: Being in control, easy parking, free breakfasts, fast internet.

The Clarion Inn is set in the middle of a great big carpark. Pretty it ain’t.

But fun it is. The view from our little balcony is of the madness of Pigeon Forge. For instance, there is a huge ferris wheel which, by night is a delight of ever-changing coloured lights and foreground to a nightly fireworks display. There are the illuminated carriages which live in our carpark and great grey horses, Sir Charles and Lady Diana, who come out at dusk to pull them through the streets giving people a romantic heritage carriage ride though the, um, traffic. We get to know a bit about this carriage business, chatting to the boss lady, Peggy. She’s from Georgia with one of those full Southern drawls. Don’t I remind you of Paula Deane, she laughs. Oh, the TV chef with all the butter. Yes.

Peggy has all the gossip. Yes, Dolly comes to town regularly. She has all these wonderful accommodations for tourists but she has never slept in any of them. She’s got a mansion in Brentwood. You always know when she is at Dollywood because her big, black SUV has a special park out the front. She doesn’t own it now, you know. She has only 10 per cent. But that brings in a million a week. Not bad, eh. She does own the water park.

We decide that, traffic being what it is, we will walk wherever we can. Firstly, it is to the supermarket to get drink supplies and pain killers. I have acquired a wicked neck ache. We’ve been scoping out restaurants in the area and I am not thrilled by the chains around us, so to speak. But there, just one street behind the hotel and tucked in a particularly nondescript row of offices, is Fusion Cafe Asian Grill. Bless. What’s more, this quaint little family business in its long room, darkened by wooden venetians to disguise the glorious carpark view outside, offers Malaysian fare as well as Chinese and Japanese. It has been so long. This becomes “our” restaurant in Pigeon Forge.

No one could say that Pigeon Forge is beautiful. It is set amid the spectacular Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, some of the most sumptuously glorious mountains in the world, but it is really just one big, dusty, garish family playground which has built up rapaciously around the enterprises of Dolly Parton. She has a hand in a few of the attractions, according to the billboards. There is a Dolly waterpark as well as Dollywood. And there are lots of wild-west and country-music dinner shows. There's even a Biblical Times dinner show.

We skipped it.

Dolly’s love of funfairs has spawned mini copy cats which enable families go on fun-park crawls up and down the main drag. They can ride zip-lines and mini rollercoasters, dodgems and mini drag cars. The can be lifted aloft on tethered hot air balloons. They can play mini golf and arcade games. And they can eat waffles, donuts, fried chicken, and ice-cream from a thousand outlets. Our fellow hotel guests with a squillion excited kids in tow, are here to do it all, especially the eating. There are some prodigious people here.

Our hotel receptionist tips Bruce off about the locals’ way to get to Dollywood so, when we whisk off it is with absolute ease right to the gate. We booked our tickets for Dollywood online, selecting Preferred Parking as an add-on. Anyone who ever intends to go there should follow suit. It makes a significant difference in the amount of hoofing and waiting. Instead of depending on shuttles from distant and massive carparks, one gets to park right by the main gate and stroll on in. The day is hot, hot, hot, so we are deliriously glad of our good choice of the parking option.

There’s a thorough security check at the gate. Bags scrupulously examined by good-natured guards. The first thing one notices in Dollywood

is how nice everyone is. They are all downright Tennessee friendly. A lot of the staff seems to have come from central casting - handsome, silver-haired gentlemen and weathered mountain grannies. The second thing you notice in Dollywood is all the images of Dolly Parton. She beams from all over the place. Music is piped. The atmosphere is set. Bright, warm, convivial, cheery - Dolly.

We’ve been told that if there is only one thing one does in Dollywood, it must be to eat a the cinnamon bread. One can smell the cinnamon in the air as soon as one enters the park.

But straight ahead of us is a music museum so we make it first port of call. It is a shrine to

country and western and gospel stars of the region. There is an animatronic quartet singing a capella; so unnervingly lifelike that one is stopped in one’s tracks on a double-take.

Outside there are merchandise shops and ice-cream shops and people swarming around. It is very colourful and cheerful. There are fewer children than one anticipated but lots of ample olds instead. Some of them are so ample that they move their mighty girths around on gophers, much like the ones

Walmart supplies for its obese clientele. They all seem to clutch large drinks containers. The Dolly souvenir special.

Here’s our first theatre. Come on in, says the granny at the door. The show has just started. It is a concert performance by the Kingdom Heirs. Great name. The auditorium is vast and almost full. We find aisle seats towards the back. People seem in quite a reverie. They are in some ways a tough looking, older crowd, mountain folk maybe, and many of the couples seem very openly and sweetly affectionate towards each other.

Caressing of shoulders, twirling of hair. I’m not used to seeing that as part of audience behaviour - and I’ve seen a lot of audiences. But these are religious people and this is a gospel group. They are country and western gospel rock, I think. They are very good. The vocal harmonies are exquisitely arranged and balanced and the bass singer has the most remarkable deep profundo bass we have ever heard. We sit in pleasure in the cool theatre for quite a long time - until, suddenly, the baritone MC breaks out into a Bible-quoting sermon which shows no sign of stopping. We tiptoe out, back into the hot Dolly day.

It’s time to hunt out the famous cinnamon buns. We follow our noses to an airy cafe where

several of Dolly’s central-casting helpers are serving a queue of people cakes and cookies and, yes, the famous cinnamon buns. Bruce orders us cups of tea and a bun each. Naughty Bruce. They are big buns. They are oven-fresh, their generous layers of icing still soft and delicate. With their deep swirls of cinnamon and light yeastiness, they are out of this world. We are both swooning, gazing at each other in guilty rapture. Looking at the fat

people outside and suddenly understanding how this could happen to them in the land of such sweet indulgences. It’s OK, says Bruce. We never do this. And we haven’t had lunch. This is lunch. It is not too bad. No, it is a definition of bliss. We eschew the six-pack cinnamon bun takeaway specials and the you-can’t-eat-just-one sign and waddle out on a sugar high.

Dollywood is immense. There are signposts and diverging paths. We check out the big display maps but still wander with more laid-back curiosity than purpose. Just letting it happen. There is a stream and a little bridge. There is as much prettiness as there is show and commerce. We come upon the Dolly dress shop where they brag that one can have Dolly clothes but in real

sizes. Dolly, of course, is petite. I cruise around and see if I want to be Dolly. No. Those ruffles and cinch skirts are not for me.

There’s a Dolly Life Story Museum and a 1950s theme cafe complete with period cars and petrol pumps. And there is another theatre. The big show is about to start. Perfect. We’re among the very last in and the smiling usher directs us to the front row - which has been kept for the disabled. What luck.

This is a stage show telling the story of Dolly’s life in music. It has a band on stage and six or so performers who, we’re told, are not blood to Dolly but they are considered family nonetheless. We are all family here in Dollywood

says the compere. So the performers are introduced as cousins and siblings. Dolly appears on a big screen at the back of the stage. This, it turns out, is a multimedia production and the live performers switch, swap and interact with big Dolly on the screen. It is a sophisticated and snappy production. Several of the male performers are in the

Kenny Rogers mould. Handsome. Long plaits, beards. Country-western long coats. Central casting again. The women are mixed. One looks like a gnarled elderly Dolly with a mass of long, blonde hair. Another is immensely ample. They are a terrific crew and they turn on some Dolly classics both in chorus with onscreen Dolly and as individual numbers. It’s a long, slick, thoroughly entertaining, warm-hearted show.

Out into the hot day again, we explore more of the avenues of Dollywood - past the most immense wooden roller coaster, past water flumes and crazy pseudo-rapids boat rides. There’s an old country store, more stages which are setting up for shows, more food areas selling hot dogs and pulled pork, donuts, and shakes. There are dress-up photo spots and zip-lines and more rides and more stages. Young performers are doing a

tribute show. We pause and listen for a while. There’s a craftsman in period gear making cowboy belts. Something new is around every bend.

We are now hot, tired, and thoroughly happy with the Dollywood experience. We have found it charming, innocent, good-natured - very Dolly. We are ready to call it a day. But, oh, where are we? This network of meandering paths and

diverse distractions has us quite lost. We’ve walked for miles. We go in the direction we think is towards the exit but it is not. We hover around the big mill and waterwheel. We are totally bamboozled. Finally I ask the man who looks like he's been here longest. It turns out we have gone in exactly the wrong direction. Go back and under the rail bridge and then fork right after Grandma’s store, he says.

We follow instructions and walk, and walk. There’s the rail bridge. Oh, no, it’s another sort of overpass. Which rail bridge? Keep going. Why didn’t we get a map? My, it’s hot. Aha! That must be a rail bridge. Of course. There’s Grandma.

Now, if we take this branch to the right. Eventually, eventually, back past the giddy perfumes of cinnamon and sugar, we find the exit gate.

It was a lovely day.

Backroads to Tennessee

Every night before a driving day, Bruce plots our route for the next day. He makes a little map on hotel notepaper, of which he is extremely fond, and somehow impresses the route to memory. This system of pure intellect has worked exceedingly well for most of this immense trip - and we have come 13,000 miles (20,000 KM) miles in the mystery green Rogue so far.

Today, we are foot down, humming confidently off through the magnificent Blue Ridge Mountains towards Tennessee when a big flashing highway sign throws a spanner in the works. It warns of the need for a detour. There’s been a road-closing accident ahead.

Bruce is furious and wonders if the warning is current. As we approach a chance to exit the expressway, we can see a plume of black smoke in the distance. Oh. A bad accident and the detour will be necessary. So, we get to see Christianburg, by default.

It’s a serviceable little Virginia town, white spires of churches, neatly mown lawns, lots of mowing, patriotic sculptures, a Christian school, a Dollar Store. Out of the town we pass a strange little valley of derelict buildings before the road delves us into the woods and along the Radford River valley.

And then we are in Radford, a university town. Famous. Where immense university buildings do not tower and sprawl, it seems an oddly squat little town, dominated by railway lines. Sports bar, gaming studio, a shop called Screamer, a drive-in burger joint with cars with trays on the windows. Oh, and look at that. Harris Climate-Controlled Mini Storage. Classy. How upmarket. Of course it is a Harris. Oh, I love mini storage.

We are now keeping track of the accident and detour situation on the local radio. Highway 81 is shut down. An articulated tractor trailer has overturned and caught fire on the median strip. The reports tell of miles of traffic backup. Our detour takes 30 minutes before we are back on 81 and heading towards Bristol, Tennessee.

We pause at Maccers for a quick Santa Fe salad and a clean rest room and head forth through rolling farmland. We are in cattle country interrupted by bits of minor commerce. Oddly, it features a vast acreage of used golf buggies. Ah, but there is one of those huge, mown, golf-course housing developments out there. Gee, they must thrash their buggies.

More cattle. Black Angus. Cornfields. Barns. Farms. Darling cornfields. A hoarding advises: Steer Yourself Towards Chicken. And so we do, as it happens, past a big chicken farm. Rolling land, fallow fields, more mature corn. No sign of tobacco.

We pass a lot of self-move vehicles, U-Hauls and rentals of all sizes. We wonder at their stories. Divorce? New job? Heading to college? America always had a very mobile population.

Here comes a steel welding factory with the sign Jesus is Lord. And a vast acreage of semi-trailer trailers.

And now Hungry Mother State Park. What a name. I Google and read out the story of Molly, who with her small child, escaped after being kidnapped by Indians, only to die of starvation in her flight to safety. All her child could say when she was found in the woods were the words “hungry mother". Oh, that is so touching. One can only imagine that poor Molly’s plight.

As is the cross-country way, the lovely landscape suddenly become utilitarian. Here’s a whole field of abandoned trailers. And now an elaborate log cabin alone in the centre of a spreading pasture. You never know.

Abingdon. Damascus. A big intersection with clusters of fast food joints, petrol stations and accommodation. And now we enter Tennessee - The Volunteer State.

A huge Confederate flag billows from the top of a hill. We spot deer at the roadside. Churches, churches - and mountains making pointy silhouettes on the horizon. Past miles of mown fields, falling-down barns, and forested slopes, we drive towards those rising beauties. On the radio a song choruses "dancing in the bed of my truck in the Tennessee moonlight”. It’s quite a cultural immersion.

And there’s more. A huge hoarding advertises The Holy Bible. Another touts Sweet Lips Diner - Home Cooking. And here comes the birthplace of Davy Crockett, the Davey Crockett State Park and the historic site of the Crockett Tavern.

The mountains are near now. A prettiness of blue ridges stretching in rows to the left of us. Bruce reminds me that some of his ancestors dwelt somewhere in them thar hills.

A distillery offers free tastings. We are amused but not tempted.

We take the Pigeon Forge turnoff and find ourselves on a multilane highway which will lead us right into the glorious Smoky Mountains. Oh, what a vast and spectacular backdrop they make. Beautiful mountains indeed. But this is a main road and soon it brings us big signs and an increasing density of commerce. We run a gauntlet of ticky-tack tourist shops: moccasin shops, trading posts, antique shops, vape shops, a pawn shop, carvings...

And our destination.

It is the road into Pigeon Forge. A bling church with golden spires and cupolas glitters among buildings ahead . A huge statue of Dolly Parton greets us.

Dollywood, here we come.

But wait. It won’t be fast. It seems we’ve hit a big Dolly traffic jam.