TENNESSEE: MARCH 27
Spectacles mist in a light drizzle. A narrow lane passes a clutch of small houses with sagging porches. Weeds clamber up rusting trucks and tractors, abandoned refrigerators, cookers, washing-machines. I am reminded of a road-side gypsy encampment.
Three dark curls in a field are Latinos harvesting spring greens. In Herefordshire they would be East European and legal. Here they are illegals. Get rid of them is a popular cry. Truck farms would close. Rural economies would collapse...And from where would the US import fruit and vegetables? I stop at a diner and eat fried catfish served with fat fries. Three overweight women belly-bulge from belted jeans, drink colas and eat fried food. One woman raps instructions in Spanish into a cellphone. I listen as she organizes a squad of cleaners. Cleaning is Latino work. Surely Tennessee is part of the South. I had expected Afro-Americans.
Showing posts with label Tennessee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tennessee. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
A RIDE THROUGH TENNESSEE
TENNESSEE: MARCH 27
I am due in Franklin, North Carolina, tomorrow. Franklin is the far side of the Appalachian mountains. Today I ride east from Nashville on country lanes that dip and twist through green hills topped by woodland. The countryside is similar to my native Herefordshire. Cattle are the same breed: Herefords. Locals call them White Faces. Even today's weather is a reminder of home with low cloud and spits of drizzle. Lack of hedges is the prime difference; erecting fences is quicker; as is building in timber as opposed to brick or stone.
The houses are pretty when freshly painted, yet, to European eyes, lack permanence. Agriculture has changed. As at home, dairy herds have been superseded by fruit and vegetables. Our brick barns are converted into luxury homes. Here, out of use, they rot. As do houses and trailer homes.
I am due in Franklin, North Carolina, tomorrow. Franklin is the far side of the Appalachian mountains. Today I ride east from Nashville on country lanes that dip and twist through green hills topped by woodland. The countryside is similar to my native Herefordshire. Cattle are the same breed: Herefords. Locals call them White Faces. Even today's weather is a reminder of home with low cloud and spits of drizzle. Lack of hedges is the prime difference; erecting fences is quicker; as is building in timber as opposed to brick or stone.
The houses are pretty when freshly painted, yet, to European eyes, lack permanence. Agriculture has changed. As at home, dairy herds have been superseded by fruit and vegetables. Our brick barns are converted into luxury homes. Here, out of use, they rot. As do houses and trailer homes.
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