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...

Sweet Home Alabama

They're a gracious lot in the South. Everything is 'Sir' and 'Ma'am'.

We were driving from Memphis, Tennessee, across the top of Mississippi (dinner at a truck diner on the strip of highway that is Corinth) to Huntsville, Alabama.

Police lights flashed, and Chief Martin from Alabama State Police pulled us over for speeding. We resisted the temptation to blame the car: Hertz had upgraded us to a 2005 Mustang convertible.

Chief Martin's initial concern was the speed - but when he checked the rental paperwork against our driver's licences, he found new concerns. The car was last rented to someone else, and should have been returned to Nashville four days earlier. It appeared to be stolen. He asked me to step out of the car, searched me for weapons, and put me in the back of his squad car.

As he checked with Hertz, he popped questions at me: 'Do you have any weapons, sir? Are you sure you don't have any weapons? Do you have any drugs? What's in the boot of the car?'

My passport caused further furrows to his brow, and he called federal reinforcements to the side of the dark highway, 30 miles west of Huntsville. He also checked with Interpol.

As the federal officer said to me: 'You can understand our concerns, sir. You've been to Fiji, and Turkey, and have just come from Cuba. They're all hotspots for bombs and terrorists. Y'know, New York got a big black eye in 01 - we've got to be careful.'

But after searching the car and our luggage, they accepted our explanations and sent us on our way 40 minutes later - without even a speeding ticket. Perhaps Georgie's charm helped.

We smoked a couple of cigarettes on the side of the road, then Chief Martin bid us farewell: 'Sir, Ma'am, y'all just make me want to pull you over again.'

I'm going to Graceland, Memphis Tennessee

It's not that either of us care much for Elvis. But when you're in Memphis, well, you have to go to Graceland. Paul Simon said so. So did Gillian Welch.

And despite all the tack that surrounds it, the mansion itself is graceful and understated on gently sloping lawns dotted with oaks and ringed with white wooden ranch fences.

The jungle room with its stuffed animals and green-carpeted ceiling (good acoustics apparently for one of his later albums); the TV room with three screens side-by-side installed after Elvis learned that Richard Nixon watched the news on three channels at once, the billiards room with the torn felt in the corner where the Colonel tried a trick shot; the piano by the indoor racketball court where he banged out a couple of tunes in the morning before being found dead.

And from a region whence came Johnny Cash, BB King, Johnny Mercer, it is still hard to avoid the conclusion that Elvis was more influential in changing music than the rest of them put together. Watching him embracing the microphone stand as he fell to his knees in that old black and white film, watching the footage of screaming teenagers, you can't but get swept away with the legend of The King.

Chowder for dinner under eye of Versace

We stayed outside in Washington DC's suburban Falls Creek, Virginia, across the state line yet still part of the metropolis. We were lucky enough to stay with Ann and Oliver Ryan (Katie Duncan's aunt and uncle) who were the most wonderful hosts imaginable.

And while I was loitering in the public gallery of the senate and wandering unsupervised around the Capitol after hours, looking for the exit, Georgie and Ann were, of course, shopping. Georgie came away with a new hat, Burberry purse, jacket, two pairs of shoes - and a look of satisfaction and contentment that I find, myself, is more often generated by a good meal.

Suffice to say, we had a few of those as well. Ann introduced us to a wharf fish market whose produce was probably on a par with much we buy in New Zealand, allowing us to concoct a good Kiwi seafood chowder for dinner that night. Accompanied, of course, by Allan Scott and Kim Crawford wines. The fluffy furball called Versace looked on.