Motorhome news from North America 29

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Motorhome News from North America 29 19th November - 3rd December 2006
‘Georgia on my mind’

Tourism is vital to the economy of most towns we visit on our journey south, and a rich history of colonisation, civil war, slavery and international trade make for a pot-pourri of interesting places to see and opportunities to learn. We often remark there is some danger of reaching the point of ‘tourist attraction’ saturation after so many months on the road. Such was the case at Beaufort in South Carolina (this one pronounced ‘boofoot’ to distinguish it from the Beaufort in North Carolina, pronounced 'bowfort'😉, a town boasting finely restored historic houses from the 18th and 19th centuries. Regrettably, they made it difficult for us to park: a 9ft height restriction at Visitor Information, ‘Parking for busses only’ in the town, meter spaces just long enough for small cars, and ‘Parking for Restaurant customers only’. The church car park sported a sign, saying, ‘Thou shalt not park unless on church business’. Boofoot clearly didn’t need this motorhomer’s money. We left in a huff, to see if Georgia could be more welcoming. ‘We’re just about “Historic Housed”-out anyway’, Janice said as we crossed the Savannah River Bridge - with Georgia on our minds.

The sound of the name Savannah evokes notions of the Old South: fine cotton, cigars, and the dark days of slavery. It remains an important seaport, eighteen miles from the sea, its narrow river deeply dredged. Giant freighters float languidly by to access the docks, seemingly close enough to touch from cobbled River Street, its tall brick warehouses now lined with restaurants and boutiques, a haven for tourists. It is rumoured they hung the architect who sliced the picturesque riverfront in two with a wall of concrete - now known as the Hyatt Hotel - on this street, where horse carts once trampled, trams rattled and stevedores sweated and swore. Savannah’s superb antebellum architecture is spectacular and elegant, painstakingly restored, brick, timber - white and pastel, framed with ornate ironwork, and set around leafy one-acre parks and squares in ‘London’ style. Forest Gump and John Berendt’s 'Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil' have put the city on the map in recent years, though it deserves much acclaim without them. The city is often compared with Charleston and locals would boast it is always preferred. For what it’s worth, we found it pleasant enough, rich in history and overwhelming in spectacular architecture, but somehow its display of commercial tourism lacks the natural warmth and friendly charm of Charleston.

Down the coast, the old port town of Brunswick plays host to the secluded Golden Isles: St Simons, Sea Island, Little St Simons and tranquil Jekyll Island, each blessed with long silvery-white beaches and glorious climate. Jekyll Island, six miles across a marsh-hemmed causeway, was once the summer playground of the rich and famous. Since 1947 it has been owned by the State of Georgia and careful stewardship has ensured that it remains largely undeveloped. After several failed attempts, we finally met up with a couple last encountered back in January when they were motorhoming in Arizona. Don and Ruth were resting up with other family members on their boat, their first home, in Jekyll Marina. We were spoiled rotten. They took us birding out across the dunes on a boardwalk to a shallow sandbank by the shore. A big group of laughing gulls, skimmers and royal terns rested there in the cool breeze; heads tucked in, eyes closed, listening to the swell of a gentle sea, as if smiling, patiently contemplating happy hour. Don and Ruth's local knowledge also led us to a tranquil green pool hidden in the woods. Sun drenched trees lined the opposite shore, draped like Christmas trees with dozens of roosting birds: great egrets, great blue heron, green heron, a little blue heron, anhingas - and black, and yellow-crowned night herons galore, basking in the warmth of a Georgian November afternoon. Absolute magic!

Santa arrived on Jekyll Island to switch on the tree lights whilst we were there. He stood in the spotlight up on the balcony in the local Park, hand on the switch and waving to the crowd while we all counted down: ‘Three, two, one…..’ and nothing happened. Not a single light! Total silence from the awe struck crowd and Santa red in the face. Finally the electrician woke up and the lights came on - to everyone’s disappointment. The tree was swathed in an illuminated net, like a ton of wet Newfoundland cod (if such a thing still exists) in a fishnet stocking. It was soon forgotten when the fireworks started, with oohs, wows and ahhs accompanying the whizzes, booms and bangs.


Thanksgiving is a special family event in North America, bringing thanks for everything: from family and friends to harvest, being alive in a world of peace, and work. Its strength is that it has no religious significance; no barriers other than the distance between loved ones. It also brings with it commercialism of course, this being North America. Bernard Matthews would love to be part of this celebration, where turkey is the main ingredient and any left over have to wait until December the 25th for their turn in the oven. 'Black Friday' Sales start the following day, some as early as 5am in the four-week run-up to Christmas. The term, Black Friday, is an indicator associated with poor sales the day after the Thanksgiving celebrations - a bit akin to Boxing Day in the UK. We were along the road on St Simon’s Island on Thanksgiving morning, walking the beach in bright sunshine and a chill wind. Smiling holidaymakers were out in family groups, children, bikes, and dogs on leads, whilst mother or granny slaved over the hot stove back home preparing the festive meal. Not being a part of all this, we were there strictly for the birds. A crowd gathered around us as we investigated the array of seabirds on a sandbank offshore with our telescope, eager to see what we were looking at. Mums, dads and all the kids took turns, their first real view of skimmers, dunlin, sandpipers, gulls and pelicans, up close. Lots more oohs, wows and ahhs! We were surely the talk of the town over dinner. ‘We saw a strange English couple on the beach…’

Along with much of the Carolinas, the coast of Georgia is a drab flat expanse, great swathes of marshland reaching far inland, where once rice fields, fed by freshwater rivers, reaped wealth for plantation owners - and where today, the seemingly endless reed-beds portray a change of fortune, as rich havens for wildlife. The rice harvest is long gone since the slaves were granted their freedom at the end of the Civil War and the rising cost of labour brought the curtain down on rice production. Shrimp boats now shelter on inland jetties along the wide river channels that sweep out to sea through a jigsaw of glistening waterways, winding aimlessly among the reeds on their way to the ocean.

High ground is scarce in these quarters. We ventured inland, forty miles as the crane flies, to the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge, hoping to spot a red-cockaded woodpecker or two in the longleaf pine forests. Our guidebook suggested the area ‘teems with wildlife’, surely sounding the death knell on our chances of seeing anything of interest! That’s often the way it goes. Much of Okefenokee, ‘Land of the Trembling Earth’, is wilderness, our sort of place, upland forest 140 ft above sea level, longleaf pine, live oak, black gum, magnolia, red maple and cypress, lining the shallow dark waters of peaty swamp - a tannin cocktail, coffee black, mirrored against the light - and alive with alligators!

Advice came thick and fast on where to find our woody-woodpecker and we searched among the pines for some hours on our first day on the refuge without success. The walking was good and the flora and fauna surprising: insectivorous plants, parrot pitcher-plants and sundews, an under-story of palmettos - deer tracks and bear scats everywhere along the footpaths. Bears are numerous here, though rarely seen, but alligators abound! The region is suffering a severe drought this year, sparking fear of fires, water levels are seriously low and alligators have taken refuge in ditches along the paths and roads. One mother-gator had her head sticking out of a mud-hole just a few feet across, keeping a watchful eye on one of her babies, no more than twelve inches long. A ranger suggested our bird was more active in the early morning and on the second day we rose early to drive from our campsite to the park, walking the pine forest edges again seeking out the elusive bird. Someone must have tipped him off we were coming looking for him. Nothing!

The swamp itself proved more exciting. Sandhill cranes were roosting on migration, the first we had seen since Oregon on the west coast last March. We continue to be fascinated by the migratory movement of some birds on this immense continent and the more localised nature of others. Our red-cockaded woodpecker is one such bird, only found in a few areas of this southeast corner of the USA in a very specialised habitat. The weekend over, there were few people about on the reserve and we took the sunset boat out along the Suwannee Canal into the swamp, just the two of us, and Chip, our guide. (The ‘Swanny River’ rises here in the swamp - we’ll get to see it as it enters the Gulf of Mexico in a month or so. Listen out, you might hear us singing). I didn’t know it was the ‘Suwannee River’, did you? There can surely be no more perfect way to blend with nature than this. A crescent moon reflected on still dark waters, huge flocks of egret and heron took to the air above the boat on silent wings, the echo of croaking sandhill cranes drifted across the deep blue starlit sky, wood storks on delicate legs circled their prey with outstretched wings, snipe wound haphazardly on the wing across the sunset - and the air was balmy and still. Peace, perfect peace, and that tingle of excitement to be part of a secret world where we don’t belong. This is the world of the alligator, the most densely gator populated region in North America. Returning quietly in the boat on the narrow waterway long after dark, we counted more than a hundred pairs of red beady eyes glowing in the light of Janice’s penlight torch, (flashlight to be US precise) some on the white sandy banks and others gliding unheard through the smooth glistening water. We were the last to leave the reserve that night. It was pitch dark. Chip had to unlock the gates to let us out. This one can be added to our top ten list of memorable moments if we can find a slot.

Despite our plans to head back out towards the Florida coast next morning, we were determined to give the red cockaded woodpecker another chance to see us. This time we set off from our camp at 6am and arrived in the dark as the gates were opened, the first visitors of the day; a grey mist shading distant pines in the first light of dawn as the early birds stirred in the quiet stillness of the wilderness. For two hours we scoured the trees - still without success. Somewhat downhearted, we eventually gave up and parked Winnie beside the road whilst we had breakfast and a late shower. A guy pulled up in a big white truck to see if we needed help. ‘J & J Logging’ it said on the side. “Arma larger,” he told us. “Werkin on the arland.” He smiled, a broad proud grin, showing nine brown teeth. “Hefta werk to s’port mar hebit.” We wondered what his hebit might be. “Spend narnty days each year in our camper, me an’ the mussus. She’s retard from ejercashan but her penshan only pays fer the healthcare.” That’s the cost of living here, I guess. But better living than dead.

Like all good stories, this one has a happy ending. We gave the woodpecker another shot with a short walk by the entrance gate on our way off the reserve. Whilst we didn’t get to see our red-cockaded, we did find another - a redheaded woodpecker, a first! That’s part of the fun of birding. Just when you least expect it, up pops something else. We particularly like woodpeckers: they’re generally noisy, often colourful - and easy to spot if they move! Of the 22 different species of woodpecker, (that includes flickers and sapsuckers) in North America, we have now seen 16. The hunt is on for the rest! It should keep us out of mischief for a few more days.

It’s not often we get to chat with other RV’ers, but when we do, it usually ends up with an exchange of email addresses. Pete and Pam joined us for a chat one evening up in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, some weeks back. They recommended we should visit Fernandina Beach to the north of Jacksonville, near their home in Orange Park. "As yet largely undeveloped, Fernandina is a pleasant little town of tasteful shops and homes of great character; a welcoming sort of place you might call ‘Small town America by the sea’", Peter said.
'You must come to see us when you come to Florida,’ Pam suggested. ‘You can park on the drive.’ And so we did. For three days. American hospitality overwhelmed us once again. ‘No, you are not to sleep in the motorhome. We’ve already made the beds up for you.’ Pam is from Yorkshire way back. She fed and watered us in true English fashion. They both know the UK rather well, so we had much in common to talk about. Pete helped to organise Winnie’s 45,000mile service at the local Ford dealer (free popcorn on Saturdays) and chauffeured us around the area ‘seeing the sights’. It rained constantly as we toured the extravagant riverside homes of local Jacksonville. There must be more millionaires than you can shake a stick at in this town.

Our first indication of early Spanish occupation in Florida came at St Augustine, America’s oldest city. The Castillo de San Marcos fortress was built to guard the town after Francis Drake had sacked it in 1586 - and British pirates flattened it once more in 1668. Others have had a go since. In recent years a fleet of concrete mixers landed along narrow St George Street off the city gate, replacing the sandy sidewalk with mortar along its length and totally ruining any potential of a historic Hispanic atmosphere. St Augustine boasts 43miles of beach by the way; another good reason to pay it a visit!

Florida’s campsites will be filling up over the next few weeks, with Christmas holidays, New Year and the first night-time Shuttle launch for some years bringing in the snowbirds from Canada and the northern states, plus all of those pale sun-seekers from the rest of the world. With luck we still have time to make our final plans and secure some site reservations where necessary - to avoid disappointment. Disney is also on the map just down the road and there’s every chance we’ll be there with the crowd. Todd, Sue and Janice are definitely going. Watch this space!


David and Janice. The grey-haired-nomads

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Photos

Savannah
Pastel houses

Jekyll Island
Birds in trees

St Simons Island
Spot the skimmers

Okefenokee
Alligators galore!

St Augustine
with Pete and Pam at Castillo san Marcos

Okefenokee
Look - no red-cockaded woodpeckers!