Southern comfort

When I was at school, country music was Donnell McCarthy singing Daddy's Hands in school assembly: "Daddy's hands were soft and warm when I'd been crying. Daddy's hands were hard as steel when I'd done wrong. Daddy's hands weren't always gentle but I've come to understand: there was always love in Daddy's hands."

Donnell had a beautiful voice but oh how we snickered at that song. It was the kind of Country that confirmed that there aren't too many branches on a hillbilly's family tree.

Years have passed and I'm now a toe-tapping, knee-slapping Country-loving girl, admittedly more Johnny Cash and Lucinda Williams than Garth Brooks and Faith Hill, but a Country-loving girl nonetheless.

I had high expectations from the penultimate leg of our travels, a road trip through USA's southern states taking in Nashville, Memphis, the Smoky Mountains, Charleston and Savannah. It was everything I hoped it would be.

You often hear about Southern Charm. Not a truer word has been spoken. It is courtesy, generosity and gracious good manners that go beyond mere pleases and thank-yous. Everything is 'yes ma'am', 'y'all come back now' and 'you want grits with that?'

Case in point: we got lost walking to the The Grand Ole Opry. The show was due to start in 15 minutes and we were in navagationary bind. A Good Southern Samaritan not only gives us directions to the nearby theatre, she drives us to the show and hugs us as we hop out of her car.

Every weekend the shows at the Opry are recorded in front of a live audience for radio and television broadcast. The night we went featured a line-up of country and western, bluegrass and even a bit of boy-band country for the younger set. It was all a bit yee haw for my tastes but I still loved it.

Next morning we took off in our rental car and headed over the Smoky Mountains. The Smokys, in their autumn splendour, outshone the rhinestones and leather-tassled excesses of the previous night. We put the top down on our Ford Mustang, turned up the radio and enjoyed the view. Every time we pulled over to a scenic layby, guys would approach the car and after a low, appreciative whistle, congratulate Jonathan on his set of wheels.

As the cowboy sang: happy trails to you, till we meet again...