Moochdocking Pensacola

“Ok” Layne said, “you’ve sold me. We should probably visit Padre Island.” We were alone in the waters off St George Island State Park at eight o’clock in the morning and it was glorious swimming. Rusty was tucked up in the van with the rooftop air conditioning on as pets aren’t allowed on the beach. 

I had suggested that after we spend a few days in New Orleans we might want to check out the beaches of south Texas and there is in fact a dog friendly state park sharing Padre Island with the not dog friendly National Seashore. We don’t plan to be swimming again till we get to southern Mexico’s Guerrero State so I had been pushing for a Texas bathe before we plunge inland and cross the Rio Grande. 

Spending the night at St George Island near Appalachicola seems to have turned the tide and reminded Layne of The pleasures of salt water. As if she needed reminding! We stood outside GANNET2 and turned the kitchen water faucet on ourselves to rinse off. Then we got on US Highway 98 towards Pensacola. The sandy flatlands surrounding the state park: 

It’s a pleasant winding coastal drive along the Panhandle if you aren’t in a hurry and don’t need to take I-10. We wound through Port St Joe and switched to Central Time at Mexico Beach which was in the news a few years ago for the usual hurricane devastation. No hurricane wreckage visible anymore and it’s just another beach town now. 

Therèse lives on a cliff top in Pensacola’s wooded East Hill neighborhood and the bluff puts her fifty feet above sea level, out of reach of any hurricane created waves. This was where Layne and Rusty used to take refuge when an impending hurricane closed the schools in the Keys. The next day they would be gone before official evacuations clogged the roads and I would be home alone making preparations to be locked down at work. Rusty likes hanging out at the house. 

We leave Saturday to spend a few days in New Orleans in an AirBnb but while in Pensacola we had some van chores to do, an oil change and a wheel alignment in particular and Baughn’s Tire did a brilliant job of sorting out a persistent minor alignment problem which no one else ever figured out. He told me the engine cradle was slightly out when they checked it by hand. Brilliant! I knew the slight misalignment was there all these miles but I believe they may have fixed it. $261 is the most I’ve ever paid for an alignment but it was worth every penny. 

It’s been raining every afternoon, huge thunderstorms freaking Rusty out until I dose him with the miracle CBD oil on his gums. To every problem there is a solution. We solved the hunger issue one night with a fish dinner at John Seafood. 

You choose the seafood, the sauce and the level of spiciness and they bring you a ballon to the table. 

Potatoes, boiled eggs, sausage slices, crawfish, king crab, mussels, shrimp and do forth. All steamed in a bag, weird but delicious and we ate a mound of it. 

Deliciously messy with bibs, endless paper towels and even latex gloves if you want them. 

Pensacola has dozens of unusual authentic delicious and unexpected ethnic food choices. This town is a foodie’s unexpected paradise. We try to take advantage every visit. Look up “Pensacola Nassau grits” if you like to surprised by a simple diner. 

I’m reading several novels at once to pass the time while we are relaxing off the travel route. This stop has been a great opportunity to do a lot of a very little as we wait for summer’s heat to dissipate a bit and for dry season in Central America to assert itself. You can do worse than hang a few days in Pensacola. 

Back To Florida

It was a long drive south from Nashville to the Florida state line. I am not a fan of the Governor but I am very fond of the Sunshine State and I was glad to be back. Nowhere has felt more like home to me. 

We stopped at the welcome center just south of Alabama and spent a quiet night off Highway 231. Look at that blue sky. It’s Florida. 

To make it easier to get a Temporary Import Permit in Mexico we decided to re-title GANNET2 as a motor  home so the plan was to get to a Florida tax collectors office in a small town ( for shorter lines we hoped) and change the type on the title from “VN” to “MH.” Thus it was,  the first courthouse we found in Florida, as it happens was in Marianna, the main town in Jackson County. 

If you think you suffer under the jackbooted heel of insufferable bureaucracy you should try doing this in Europe where it will take months and innumerable inspections and certificates and expense. We were out in less than an hour and $200. The only reason it took so long was because this isn’t done very often and the forms are rather obscure even to the employees. They were lovely people and the whole process was actually pretty fun. Our motor home:

We celebrated our title conversion with breakfast in the shade, coffee and sausage and biscuit a slice of egg for Rusty off Layne’s plate and a pleasant sense of the ease of being retired. Day follows day and with no deadlines life is very nice. 

So naturally herself had another deadline in mind more moochdocking this time in Pensacola so we had to drive. 

We skimmed through the woods and the long straight stretches of highway that comprise the back country of the Florida panhandle. 

Last year in winter I spent a couple of nights with Rusty on the shores of the Carrabelle River while Layne was in California and we liked it so I wanted to bring Layne back. 

Tate lost his dog in these woods the story goes, and when he and the dog finally staggered out he looked back and told his rescuers “It’s hell back there” and promptly died. 

It’s rather more pleasant now with levees and dirt roads but it was rather hellish in one hundred degrees and not much breeze. 

Nah, we said to ourselves and retreated to a forty dollar a night spot with hookups and saltwater to swim in.

St. George Island happens to have a state park with a campground and we needed a spot to spend one night. 

It’s a five mile long park on the barrier island in front of Carrabelle. 

There are parking bays along the beach where we could leave Rusty in air conditioned comfort while we swim. 

And the campground has all facilities so it is quite decadent. 

This is the third time the summer heat has pushed us to plug in for our air conditioner. Not bad over the course of months during the hottest summer on record. 

Not Quite Nashville

It’s called the Lane Museum and I had wanted to visit since we were here last year but it was closed. Above their oldest car from 1909 and their newest from 2014 to give you an idea. My buddy Gary and his wife Barbara made sure we didn’t miss it this visit because they are kind friends. 

It wasn’t his first visit so Gary showed me Jeff Lane’s first restoration when the museum owner was a teenager and the resurrected MG was the vehicle he used to qualify for his license. This place is extremely intimate and personal and thus fascinating. 

My youth was on display and I found myself sitting in a Citroen for the first time in decades. Me, my dog Sandy, my Benelli 650 and my Citroen back around 1980:

I don’t want to be a bore but the museum was a walk down memory lane for me, cars from my childhood up to my own last car that I owned before I emigrated, a Fiat X1/9 sports car convertible: 

The museum asks visitors not to touch, except that one varying car, in  my case the Citroen I was sitting in, that is on display for visitors to enjoy by actually sitting in. The other vehicles have their windows open so you can stick your noggin in for an up close look. 

The bubble car was my first car crash when my sister missed a turn and we literally rolled down an English hill, unhurt. Bobby the dog escaped and ran yelping all the way home. The museum says all the cars in the collection, more than 500 are in running order and they antique license plates to prove it. 

Weekends they open the downstairs level where the workshop operates and keeps the vehicles in order. Outside they have a giant amphibious car carrier with the remains of a car they used as a victim of the monster. 

They had a video showing the car getting crushed. Very weird. 

It’s on the outskirts of Nashville and well worth a visit. 

Below the Peel 50 from the Isle of Man so small it has no reverse gear. 

You pick it up by the handle and walk it backwards…

The cats are set far enough sleet they are easily driven onto the streets of Nashville and apparently it is not uncommon for the cats to be seen around town. My kind of museum. 

Dinner was barbecue of course. 

Including Ho Cakes, pancakes made of corn, my first. 

And there we are, away from deserts and mountains, moochdocking outside cities and there we are finding ourselves in green forests. So much variety. 

Gary has a fully equipped workshop and he leant me a hand by cutting down a piece of metal for me. I use the pole to ground faulty Mexican campground plugs and I’ve been hauling around three feet of unnecessary metal. Not anymore. 

We never did get into Nashville proper. But it was fun, all fun just hanging out and getting stuff done. Useful stuff.