A slow morning spent writing and trying to make sense of everything. These long, indulgent days drag at our heels, slowing everything down to a Southern rhythm. An almost empty bus takes us out of town to Belle Meade Plantation. It’s the first time I’ve walked on grass in a week. Marietta, with her hoop skirt, crinolines and Southern drawl, outlines the history of a plantation that at its peak housed 130 slaves. The house overflows with antiques and portraits of the family’s finest thoroughbreds.
“So I hope y’all enjoyed the house, now let’s go taste some wine!” Marietta’s chipper conclusion to a tour largely concerning mass slave ownership and a family home put to rest by untimely death and debt is, to be honest, quite welcome. We leave Belle Meade in the knowledge that Tennessean Muscadine wine is quite something.
Nashville soon comes back into earshot. I consider buying a pair of the most demure cowboy boots I can find, but still struggle with the idea of walking through Chiswick in them. Whilst sitting in the common area eating noodles out of a takeout box – the hostel receptionist still jamming to Johnny Cash – I decide that it’s probably best I leave Nashville before I’m unrecognisable to myself. Not that I have much hope of saving my soul in the next few days: tomorrow we head to Memphis.
To The Table 