Crossing the Mason Dixon Line

Wednesday, September 8

We're now officially in the South.  Really?  Isn't Virginia one of those swing states that can go either way?  It doesn't feel like we're in the south although the accents sure are different.  Still, you know you're not in Brooklyn anymore, Toto, when you see signs like this in stores:

This day's journey to Charlottesburg was supposed to take three and a half hours, maybe a bit more as we had to stop halfway at the RV supply store for that replacement tire.  Still, it's just buying a tire, right?  It's not like they have to fit it or anything.  Another half hour, tops.  A civilized, non marriage-threatening day.

But first there was the all important black water dumping and if you RV virgins out there haven't figured out what that is yet, just make note of the yellow gloves Dan is wearing (and the distance the dogs are maintaining.)

Okay, one unpleasant task accomplished.  The next one I'll let you figure out:

Yes, petrol's relatively cheap right now, but with a 70 gallon tank.........

We pulled in to the RV place around 11.30 and a team of burly Virginians with extravagant facial hair descended on the  RV to first fix the satellite TV.  Turns out the antenna was attached to the roof with duct tape.  The only station they could pick up was cartoons, but they swore we'd get more depending on our location.  Then Dan went off to see about the tire.

Three hours later we finally pulled out of there.  Turns out that the spare tire John the Fireman had installed was very low on air (oh, John!), had a faulty valve and had to be taken off and repaired.

Still, we had the famous Skyline Drive to look forward to now and we could always do Monticello tomorrow.    After a few wrong turns (Dan likes the GPS set to the Australian Karen voice so he can curse vicariously and freely at her) we found the entrance arch, only to see the height restriction was 12 feet, 10 inches.  We need 13 feet.  (that's why the antenna was held on with duct tape!)  Panic, with cars in front of us and a long line of cars behind us and no way to turn around.  I'm beginning to hate scenic routes. 

But the ranger said "Hell, darlin' they lie.  You don't need 13 feet.  They say that just to scare you.  You'll be fine.  Go on through."

We had no choice, so we inched under the arch.  And made it.    On to the scenic wonders of the Skyline Drive through the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Maybe it's more scenic in the Autumn?

After a couple of hours of hard slogging up and down steep hills and around endless hairpin bends and watching the gas gauge dip alarmingly, we'd had enough scenic wonder and headed down to an easier drive which turned out to be much more enjoyable through the lovely rolling hills of western Virginia. 

I'd stupidly set Karen to the most direct route, as opposed to the fastest, and she proceeded to take us through very tiny residential streets of Charlottesville to get to the RV park.  We saw the terrified faces of soccer moms in minivans as we lumbered towards them.  Dan, in a bit of masterful driving, managed to not hit anyone or anything, and we even went under another low overhang (12' 6") before we knew what happened.

By the time we arrived at the campground it was 7 pm, getting dark, and I was ready to gouge out my eyeballs.  Dan's final comment to me as we turned out the light: "At some point we have to start having fun."