Winter Dodge

January 11-13, 2019

We started an evasive action on Friday. 

Just like the fiddle-playing Devil, we’re going down to Georgia. Then we’ll turn right and stay south of winter as long as we’re able. We expect to be in Arizona sometime in February.

I’ll be happy never to see snow again.

So far we’ve stayed well ahead of a southerly blizzard. South Virginia had a forecast of 6 or 8 inches of snow. I wouldn’t know how much fell there, because we were already in North Carolina and heading due south through rain.

We’ve been pushing it a bit. We left Friday afternoon and reached Dover, Delaware, before dark, because I was unfamiliar with the area and needed to find the Comfort Inn. 

The route involved a couple of turns and then a search for the place. I wanted to do that in daylight. 

Good thing, too. It wasn’t easy to find. The marking of the side streets is exceptionally discreet. 

I was following Google Maps directions and knew I had missed the place. So I turned around. I was pretty sure that we’d passed it again going back and turned into a side road where I could phone the place to ask for help.

By dumb luck, I had turned into Leipsic Road, the one we were looking for.

The stop in Dover put us close to McGlynns Pub, apparently one of a regional chain of decent restaurants.

They put us at a table that looked out on the lake next door. the traffic lights left streaks of red, yellow and green on the water. It was like Van Gogh with cars.

Joanna had jambalaya, which came with tasty dirty rice. I opted for beef stew. Both were terrific. 

I started with a pale ale called Taylors Grog, made exclusively for McGlynns by Mispillion in Milton, Delaware, which is also the home of one of my favorite brewers, Dogfish Head. 

I also had an India pale ale, whose name I have forgotten, that was stronger and served in a 12-ounce chalice.

It was good, but I went back to the grog after that. 

Joanna has never crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. I’ve done it only once. So we were taking the Delmarva Peninsula route, mostly U.S. 13 south. It’s out of the way and slow going, but the spectacle of that crossing is worth the detour. 

We crossed from Delaware to Maryland without much to see, and then came to Virginia. Across the highway from the “Welcome to Virginia” sign is another, much bigger sign in front of a gas station declaring, “Dixieland. The South starts here.”

Maryland was a slave state too, but didn’t secede from the Union. So maybe that disqualifies them.

And in case that Jim Crow monument isn’t clear enough, there is also a scaled-down replica of the CSS Virginia next to the parking lot. 

It was the Rebels’ ironclad ship that in the north we call the Merrimac.

That was the ship’s name before it was captured and reconfigured with iron armor by the Confederates. Later the Union came up with an unseaworthy rival called the Monitor.

The two ships fought each other with no effect at Hampton Roads. The cannons couldn’t damage either ship, so the duel ended in a draw.

The Monitor was later being towed to the Carolinas when it was swamped and sank in a storm around Cape Hatteras. 

The only problem with Saturday’s travel was that I had underestimated the time it would take. It’s about seven hours of solid driving from Dover to Weldon, N.C., our next stop.

So we bypassed a number of signs for parks and historic towns that we might otherwise have detoured to see.

A return to the peninsula is on the list.

The official website describes the bay crossing as a 20-mile-long trestle bridge. 

The bridge starts with a high arc that lets ships pass. Then it levels out to a height that may clear some fishing boats. That’s the trestle part, I guess.

After a while, you descend into a tunnel. When we were crossing, a freighter in the distance was making for the gap where the tunnel ran under the bay.

You come up for daylight some distance away and travel a while more before you drive down into a second tunnel much like the first.

When you come out of that one, you’re getting close to Virginia Beach.

It’s a fun ride, on a par with the bridge from Hong Kong to Macau. Apparently not as long, but long enough to be satisfying. Especially if you like bridges.

Knowing that we had a long leg ahead of us, we left Dover early enough that we got to Weldon around 5 or so. We checked in and then drove across the highway to Ralph’s for some fried chicken and barbecue.

I’ve written about Ralph’s before. It’s the best BBQ shop I know. This is North Carolina pork barbecue, done with vinegar, not as sweet as the red barbecue.

Ralph’s also has Brunswick stew, a thick soup made with chicken, yellow corn, potato, onion, and other savory ingredients. There were no black-eyed peas to be had, alas, but they did have collard greens, so I was set. 

Joanna opted for chicken, possibly the best she has had anywhere, she tells me. One of her sides was green beans. They were tasty too, done my favorite way, cooked to death.

No beer here, so I had lemonade for the first time in as long as I can remember, years maybe.

Day three, Sunday, was a four-hour drive to Santee, S.C.

Everything south of Weldon was new country to Joanna.

She had never seen South of the Border. Hadn’t even heard of it. Wow, was she in for a treat.

It’s billed as a weird place, and it certainly is. After all, the billboards say “Pedro no shoots ze bool.”

It’s just inside South Carolina as you go south. The first thing you see as you approach the state line on I-95 is a tower with a yellow sombrero on top of it. 

I learned that it isn’t a parachute drop, but an observation tower. I don’t know what there is to observe in this part of the Carolinas, but then, I haven’t been up there, so I can’t judge.

South of the Border is like Wall Drug on steroids. It sprawls on both sides of U.S 501, just off Interstate 95.

We stopped in the Mexico Shop to pick up a couple of t-shirts that we’ll take to Joanna’s grandkids in Phoenix. We walked through Hats of the World. We skipped the restaurants and the reptile lagoon.

We stopped at Waffle House for some breakfast food before we merged back on the Interstate.

About 95 miles later, we were at Comfort Inn in Santee. 

A billboard said that Clark’s was a historic restaurant. Google told me that it was around the corner from the hotel. 

We could walk.

As we neared the place, Joanna noticed that the sign said it was established in 1946. That’s the year I was born.

We’re walking, she said. If they ask us where we’re from and we say New Jersey, they’ll ask how long did it take you to walk here. We can say since 1946.

We shared a plate of fried oysters. I was still feeling the effects of the grits and eggs at Waffle House, so I opted for shrimp cocktail instead of a full meal.

The heat from the cocktail sauce, which came with both the oysters and the shrimp, was exquisite.

Joanna had prime rib. I helped her with it, especially the parts that were too red for her taste.

On the way into the dining room we passed a small tray displaying samples (maybe inedible replicas) of desserts. One was pecan pie. 

I had to have that. And so we shared a piece of it.

I started with a Canyon Road Pinot Noir. I’ve had that before. It’s one of the wines that I drink at Houlihan’s, a chain restaurant near La Quinta in Fairfield, where I frequently stay when I’m in New Jersey.

To go with the shrimp, I changed to a Chardonnay from a label called La Torre. Then for dessert, I followed up with another familiar red, Canyon Road Merlot.

Tomorrow we go to Hilton Head to see Joanna’s friend Pat and her husband, Bob.

Be well, everyone, stay warm.

Harry