Georgia & Northern Florida

As we awoke from a shallow sleep in a deserted car park next to the still waters that surround Skidaway Island, I sat in the Beast and contemplated where we were. Looking at the map, the geography was obvious. I could see that Florida was within striking distance and that, after we tore ourselves from bed, we could reach the border within a couple of hours. However, the problem was that in my mind I had no idea about what made Georgia tick historically, politically and culturally and this left me feeling disorientated and unable to really understand what was around me.

I needed to do a little research…

With the British Carolina’s to the north, Spanish Florida to the South and French settlements emerging in modern day Alabama to the west, the state of Georgia started as a pocket of land that was being eyed by colonialists in every direction. Previously, it had been the home of an ancient ‘Moundbuilder’ culture that predated the native American tribes like the Yamasee, who in the late 17h Century allied with the British before the Yamasee War, a conflict that would become one of the most successful acts of defiance by Native Americans against colonialism and European rule (even though it did ultimately end in failure).

Anyway, with the Yamasee War won, the area was purposefully and actively depopulated. This paved the way for the ‘Province of Georgia’ to be established and named in honour of King George II. Unlike for previous British colonies, the early path of Georgia would be defined by the emerging British parliament rather then its troubled monarch. So in 1733 parliament funded the first boats for new settlers who were leaving from England. They also supported the invitation to encourage German Lutherans, Scottish Presbyterians, French Huguenots and Jews to also settle this land in a bid to ward off the influence of Spanish Catholicism to south. This decision proved pivotal. Understandably, upon settlement many of these communities were reluctant to embrace the Church of England and so dissented against British cultural rule. By 1776, this dissent had grown so strong that it directly influenced Georgia’s decision to sign and embrace the Declaration of Independence.

Despite this, the Georgian city of Savannah remained in British hands until they finally departed with the thousands of African slaves who had helped to defend it under the promise of freedom. Many of these people were rewarded with resettlement in Great Britain, the Caribbean or Canada, where thankfully, attitudes toward the slave trade were evolving. Back in Georgia however, this evolution was not being embraced at all, and with this policy, this state increasingly identified itself with the Confederacy, an allegiance that would result in it becoming one of the major battlefields of the American civil war.

St Augustine

Both the Southern identity and the Spanish influence were obvious as we approached Florida, where a surprising number of confederate flags could be seen fluttering in the breeze. Our first stop over the border was St Augustine, the US’s oldest colonial city which was established in 1565, and which to my eye, is an attractive town saturated with Spanish influence. Here, we parked up the Beast and dodged the numerous tacky tourist traps that dominate its centre as best we could. Eventually, in search of rest-bite we found a bizarre private house that had been part converted into a museum for random objects, and part converted into an eccentric café. Here we ate well, and with our bellies full, we ventured back out onto the intricately decorated streets and walked toward the ramparts that used to protect this coastline.

Despite its pleasantry, St Augustine doesn’t really justify more then a couple of hours of attention, so we swiftly departed and headed to the far more appealing stretch of coastline immediately to its south. Here we found Flagler Beach, home to many a beach bum and surfer. This was the perfect place to camp between the dunes and beside an ocean rippled with smooth waves that relentlessly pounded a flat golden beach. I liked it here a lot.

Georgia

After a much-needed breakfast of cream cheese and bagel we packed up ready to leave Charleston and continue our journey. The night before was still lingering behind my eyes as a dull rhythmic thud that was pounding gently, but this was tolerable. The night was an enjoyable one and I was glad that it had left its mark.

We had met a few locals who were, rather surprisingly, sat in a small dark bar watching English football (that’s soccer to the uneducated) on a small flickering television set. Intrigued by their enthusiasm for the beautiful game, I had got talking to them and before long I was exchanging rounds of drinks.

After many beers and several glasses of bourbon, they had told us about the tight social community and the few good places to let your hair down in the city. They had also shared their frustration at the limited choices they had to socialise and the appeal of fresh conversation with outsiders. I have to admit that for me, the community that they described was actually rather appealing, especially when compared to the anonymity that can dominate much of the big city experience. But I guess that it is human nature to see the appeal in other people’s reality, and to take the good in your own for granted.

Before we left Charleston, I got talking to a woman in our Hostel who had managed to carve out a career as a professional traveller courtesy of the French state. …I’ll explain. Basically, she told me that she had worked out that if she works for a minimum period with a company in France and then quits, she is then entitled to two thirds of her salary in benefits for up to 12 months. So with this in mind she had been hoping between temporary jobs and seeing the world ever since leaving college 10 years earlier. I still can’t work out if this makes her incredibly resourceful or incredibly lazy, but if I am being honest, the fact that she had seen and done so much made me slightly envious.

At least a couple of the people that we had met in Charleston had encouraged us to head straight for the state Georgia and specifically the town of Savannah, which was a short drive south on Highway 17. This journey really emphasised the transition in the landscape from the northern states. Now Spanish Moss could be seen drooping lazily from Bald Cypress trees in and between occasional cotton fields that once facilitated the abhorrence of slavery. The almost sinister beauty of this place was emphasised by a rolling mist that appeared to follow us as we progressed slowly and hesitantly.


Eventually we arrived in Savannah’s historic district, which quite simply, is the most beautiful that I have seen anywhere in America. It boasts 22 manicured squares that are each circled by perfect examples of ‘Federal’ and ‘English Regency’ architecture. Between these impressive buildings stand wide pedestrian friendly roads that are lined by lush green trees that hang majestically in the gentle autumn breeze. It honestly looks like nowhere I have ever seen. We both loved it here immediately.



To most back home this city is probably most recognisable as the location of Forrest Gumps’ bench in the successful movie that bore his name in the mid 1990’s. Unfortunately, that now famous piece of street furniture has long since been removed and placed in a museum. However, the square where that famous scene took place still stands for anyone keen enough to wear a tight pastel suite and offer friendly locals a chocolate whilst waiting for a bus. We managed to refrain from doing this.

Kamikaze Camping

After many hours pottering through the pretty streets and shops that make up Savannah, we reluctantly left to seek a safe and appropriate place to sleep. This on the face of it may have seemed like an easy task. America is indeed a vast and predominantly empty space, so how hard could it be to find a quiet little spot to park up the Beast, set up our sleeping platform and get some much needed shut eye. Well, the answer to that question is that it is ‘very hard indeed’. First of all you have to deal with the fact that even though most of America is indeed empty, most of its’ empty spaces are owned and sectioned off by miles and miles of fencing that prohibit entry. Marry this with the fact that in a lot of southern states landowners have the legal right to shoot (yes that’s shoot with a lethal weapon) trespassers on their property, and you have an understandable recipe for fear. The only choices left open in this situation are either to find public land, which all looks deeply spooky in the dead of night, or to find a car park where the presence of vehicles are tolerated after sunset. If you are lucky you can stumble on this kind of car park quickly. If you are not, the search can take many hours.

This night it took many hours. Thankfully, we eventually found a car park next to a public boat launch on Skidaway Island, where we felt safe enough to sleep undisturbed by the slow driving pick up trucks with tinted windows that appear to dominate many late night roads in this country.

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