Blues, haints and bayous: snippets from the Deep South: In the footsteps of the Cherokee

The ancient Cherokee travelled this route before us. Then came the English and French fur traders. I love these parkways that cut through hard access country like this that have been well travelled before. This route offers a lovely symmetry to balance the Natchez Trace Parkway that we loved at the beginning of this particular road trip. This route the Cherokees called the Great Blue Hills of God. Today it has been named the Cherokee Foothills Scenic Highway and we spent the day on it.

The road is quiet as it winds along the lower reaches of the great spine of the Blue Ridge Mountains. There are occasional glimpses of expensive homes blasted into the rock high on our right. Madness. It must have cost a fortune just to cut an access road through all that granite; but still, they can see right to Georgia on a clear day. If they ever turn up to occupy their massive mountain weekenders.

We could not have chosen a better week to drive this route, except perhaps the Fall. Now, along with the dogwood we have cultivated peach trees in flower. Gaffney is the Peach Capital of South Carolina and from Gaffney to Campbello — which, in Italian, means “beautiful fields” — the splashes of pink in the fields is straight out of a Degas painting.

The fruit will follow the flower, and in May the clingstone peaches, where the seed clings still to the flesh when you cut, will be ready to harvest, while the freestone variety will be later, harvested in early June.

South Carolina is second only to California in peach production in the States and most of it grows right here across the fields the Cherokee once walked. Like a roll of pink velvet.

Beneath the blossoms, under white plastic, still, for protection, are millions of strawberry plants. They, too, will soon be ready to harvest. It is so lovely to be amongst fruit trees, reminds us of the fields of Turkey. So productive.

Little businesses dot the route: fruit sellers, jam and compote makers, antiques. Many a house or trailer is selling second hand stuff, much of it from the huge collections of the family: clothes, records, DVDs, photos, books, toys, — all laid out in the hope of a possible sale or two. Some leave it laying all over the outdoors, then forget to pick it up for years. Others stack it in old barns and work from that year after year.

We stopped at Strawberry Hill farm to try their home-churned strawberry ice-cream. They said it was the best in the world and after the first taste we were inclined to agree. Indulgent and creamy with that magic flavour of rich, red, ripe strawberries. Not a smidgen of plastic flavour anywhere. So yum.

We lunched with a team of bikies at Blinky Bill’s Dig the Pig BBQ. On rusted chairs and plastic tables under an awning of canvas. We ate shredded pork, coleslaw and fries and were served so much food we had enough to take home for dinner.

The Bikies were all seniors. Crusaders for Jesus. Their bike jackets identifying them as the Kingdom Riders of the Motorcycle Ministry. Crucified with Christ, some of their jackets said.

They offered up a communal Grace before their pulled pork burgers without one demur, and dotted their conversation with Jesus words. Along with a bit of blasphemy, just to even the score. None of them clearly wanted a bar of either Hilary or Bernie for President, though we hardly needed to ask that. Had it been a Sunday we could have added them to our list of churches within our radius, as they are on active duty today, as soon as they rev up their big Harley beasts growling on the grass nearby they are gone about God’s business.

Occasionally along our route there are walks and waterfalls, bush tracks and lakes with waterfront mansions on them. For weekend fishing, no doubt. We didn’t bother trying to access the lakefront as we now know that the mansion owners will be hogging all the waterfront sites, and that trespassers like us will be prosecuted. Even the Bikie Ministers can’t pray for that access to be repealed. So we are learning.