Guns and other loud noises.

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American Road trip, Brian Moore, Cabela's, Civil War, fishing, General Reynolds Re-enactors, Guns, Hunting, JG Farrell Award, Lancaster PA, N-SSA, Novel, Pennsylvania, Rifles, road trip, USA, Writing

Guns.

As part of my research, I wanted to experience what the weapons of the Civil War looked like, how they felt when you carried them, how they worked and, most importantly, how they sounded.

I knew that back in Ireland there would be no way to do any of this but here in America … well, not only was it possible to see these weapons, I could also get a chance to fire them.

Thanks to the very helpful members of the North-South Skirmishing Association (N-SSA), I found that no weapon from the Civil War was off-limits and this included cannon.

I joined the ‘Lancaster Fencibles’ at an N-SSA skirmish, which was held just outside Lancaster in a little place called Drumore.

The firing line at Drumore.

Here, on a lovely farm complete with corn and tobacco fields, N-SSA teams from across the region, both north and south, gathered with their Springfield and Enfield rifled muskets, Spencer and Henry repeating rifles, cavalry carbines and an assortment of revolvers and even old flintlock musket pistols.

At first, I worried that the members of the N-SSA would perhaps not appreciate a spectator at their event, but I could not have been welcomed with more friendly and enthusiastic greetings if I had been attending a family gathering back home.

I was introduced to the most knowledgeable Civil War experts I have encountered on this trip. And these experts had guns!

100 guns.

I was shown how each weapon was loaded, carried, cared for and fired. I got to feel the weight of the guns, of the ammunition and, most importantly, I heard and felt the sound that echoed across the fields as over 100 rifles fired at once.

I stood at the end of the firing line and saw the rifles leveled at their paper targets and then the line exploding with a volley that made me stagger back.

While this was all very impressive, as one of the ‘Lancaster Fencibles’ rightly pointed out, this was just 100 rifles, one tenth the strength of a regiment. I can only imagine the sight, sound and damage that 1,000 rifles firing as one would inflict on an enemy less that 200 yards (180 metres) away.

Another interesting fact was the amount of smoke this line of rifles produced – visibility on a Civil War battlefield must have been very restricted.

But now came my chance and I didn’t have to be asked twice if I wanted to fire a rifled musket.

I stepped up to the firing line, my instructor, a Mr. Tom Wiegand, handed me his precious rifle and talked me through the loading procedure.

There are nine steps. Nine steps before you get to fire one shot and then have to repeat the procedure again. Nine steps while you wait as the opposition levels their rifles at you, while you stand there shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of your comrades.

You can’t skip a step, your gun won’t fire if you do. A well-trained infantry soldier of the Civil War could get off three shots in a minute.

So, here are the nine steps and, remember, you can’t lie down on the ground and do this; because of the length of the rifle and the fact that you are loading through the barrel of the gun, you have to stand upright.

1. Take a cartridge from the leather pouch hanging by your side (the cartridge is a paper tube with a Minie ball (bullet) at one end and a black powder (gunpowder) charge at the other.
2. Bite the Minie ball out of the cartridge and hold the bullet in your mouth.
3. Pour the black powder down into the barrel of the rifle.
4. Take the Minie ball from your mouth and place it into the barrel of the rifle.
5. Remove the ramrod from the rifle and ram the Minie ball down into the barrel making sure it reaches the end.
6. Replace the ramrod.
7. Cock the hammer.
8. Remove a copper cap from your leather pouch and place it on the nipple beneath the cocked hammer. (This copper cap is the firing pin, it has fulminated mercury which causes a spark and ignites the powder and fires the Minie ball out of the barrel).
9. Level the rifle, aim and fire.
   Then do it all again and again and again, if, that is, you haven’t been shot before you even manage to fire one shot.

Would you stand facing between 600 and 1,000 rifles less than 200 yards from you and then, with the shots and shells landing and killing those around you, go through the nine step so that you could fire one shot back?

My rifle now loaded and ready to fire, I leveled the weapon and took aim at the paper target.

The rifle felt heavy and I was having a real problem keeping the sights on the target. The barrel seemed to be swinging around the target in a figure of eight as I tried to keep the sights on the black centre of the target.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ my instructor said standing safely behind me.

By now, my left arm was getting tired and the swing of the barrel was getting worse.

I pulled the trigger, felt the rifle butt kick into my right shoulder and I found myself enveloped in smoke.

As the smoke cleared, I eagerly scanned the target. It was pristine. As I stood there blinking, my instructor said: ‘You are aiming at the target right in front of you, right?’

I confirmed that I was indeed aiming at the correct target as I handed the rifle back. ‘Oh no, you must keep going until you get a hit, try again,’ Mr. Wiegand said.

And so I did. I tried again and again … and again. Ten shots later, with a left arm that was numb from the shoulder down and a right shoulder as tender as an Irishman on his first vacation to a Mediterranean beach resort, I managed to land four shots on the target. Well, on the paper anyway.

The best I could do…

At least I can now say that I have handled and fired a Civil War weapon.

My weapon handling experience didn’t end in that lovely farm in Drumore. Here in America, as we know from our nightly news reports back home, guns are, well, part of the American culture, shall we say.

At home, we have guns: shotguns for rabbit, pheasant, duck, pigeon, etc., .22 caliber rifles for fox, rat, rabbit and so on, and .243 caliber rifles for deer.

Legally owned handguns are unheard of in Ireland, as are military-style rifles. The paperwork required to own a weapon and hold a firearms license is extensive and subject to yearly reviews and the amount of ammunitions you can hold is monitored and restricted.

With this in my mind, I was left amazed at what I saw at a visit to one of biggest ‘sporting’ and outdoor retailers – Cabela’s in Hamburg, PA.

Apart from baseball, fishing is my favourite hobby … well, fishing and eating. Anyway, the fishing department at Cabela’s is a sight to see; it’s a modern marvel. Before you get to the acres of rods, reels, line and everything else you could possibly need for a day’s fishing, you have to pass through the store’s aquarium.

Now, this aquarium is not stocked with colourful, exotic fish that you might encounter on a diving vacation to the Great Barrier Reef or some other tropical paradise. In Cabela’s aquarium, you will find all the fish you can catch in the area: pike, trout, bass, catfish and the like. So, when you emerge from the aquarium directly into the vast tackle display, you are in the right frame of mind to do some serious shopping.

Next, stocked up and ready for a fishing adventure, you need to pass the mountain (yes, mountain) to get to the cashiers.

The mountain.

In the middle of the store is a mountain. On this mountain is a collection of every animal you can hunt on the North American continent: moose, deer, elk, bison, mountain goat and bighorn sheep, bear, mountain lion, polar bears, wolf and even the deadly squirrel.

All these animals are not displayed for you to stand in awe at their majestic bearings. No, each animal is either presented as you would like them to be just before you pulled the trigger or they are busy advancing on each other, all teeth and claws. This is not a cuddly display of the wonders of nature; indeed, you leave the mountain convinced, given half the chance, that ‘pesky squirrel’ would eat you and your entire family.

If only I had a gun…

I need a bigger gun…

This moose is just asking for it…

Endangered? They will be when I get my gun…

This is what happens when you let Mother Nature to her own devices…

With this in mind, you enter the gun department.

Again, I have to return to my experience of a ‘Gun Store’ back in Ireland. Our outdoor/fishing tackle/hunting stores are always small and packed with stock. It’s normally maybe two aisles of fishing rods with all the other tackle, hooks, lures and so on encased behind the counter in glass displays.

The firearms are always at the back of the store and always locked away. If you want to see a certain firearm, you have to ask the store assistant, prove that you are 18 or older and wait while he or she unlocks the cabinet. Even then, the store assistant will not allow you to cock the weapon or even dry fire it.

Here in Cabela’s it was like a shopping trip to the local grocery store: racks and racks of shotguns, rifles, both single shot and semi-automatic, and then the military style assault rifles. All out in the open, all within reach, I picked up weapons that I had only dreamed about, AR15s, semi-auto shotguns, Remington scoped rifles and a Russian vintage military high-powered rifle for less than $200.

They all had trigger locks attached, but still I could pick them up and examine them to my heart’s content.

It was amazing.

I have to admit that it is probably a good thing that I live in Ireland because I found myself slipping into these surroundings way too easily.

I was fascinated by the idea of being able to take one of these weapons from the rack, put it into my shopping cart, pick up some ammo on the way out and head home for some shooting fun.

A handy mug for your morning cuppa Joe…

A lovely chair to help you relax after a long day of huntin’ and fishin’…

Of course, you have to have a firearms licence and Cabela’s can arrange this for you as well, all in store and all computerized.

As I stood watching the queue of people waiting to run their background checks on the computers, I realized just how much of a big business guns are in America.

I will admit that I really enjoyed my visit to Cabela’s, much to the surprise of my companion who suggested that we should call it a day before I lost the run of myself.

Only in America…

 

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A touch of home across the Atlantic

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American Road trip, Annie Bailey's Irish Pub, beer, Brian Moore, Food, Irish pub, JG Farrell Award, Lancaster PA, Pennsylvania, road trip, USA, Writing

Homesick.

I swore that I would never go to an Irish or Irish-themed pub when I was in America.

But this morning, for some reason, I as I walked up King Street in Lancaster, PA, I saw the national flag waving in the warm breeze outside Annie Bailey’s Pub. And, you know what? I suddenly felt homesick and found myself drawn towards the door of the pub.

An Irish pub in Lancaster – I found I had to go in.

And before you think all I wanted was a drink, then think again. Well, yes, I did feel like having a ‘sharpener’, but that wasn’t the main reason I stepped into the somewhat familiar surroundings of Annie Bailey’s.

What I expected was a faux Irish-themed pub complete with leprechauns, shamrocks and Aran sweaters.

The first thing I noticed was that there was a complete lack of any traditional Irish music and no mention of ‘shillelaghs’ (an Irish club or walking stick). In fact, there wasn’t a shamrock to be seen.

Even the ‘Big Fella’ is here.

It’s amazing but it felt just like a pub back home: dark wood, vintage Guinness signs, copper jugs, earthenware jugs and the proud display of the Irish football and rugby jerseys. All that was missing was the comforting smell of a peat fire. That, and the aroma that only a real Irish pub has … damp clothes and stale Guinness.

Feels like home … sort of!

They even had real pints!

Yet as I sat there, at the bar, with a REAL pint of beer, it could have been a Sunday afternoon at home.

I don’t know how the people of Clonmel feel about this one…

 

However, I will soon be home and reports from the peninsula suggest that I had better prepare for temperatures in the mid to high 50s F and plenty of ‘soft’ weather. In other words, it’s going to be cold and wet.

Perfect writing weather.

Husk.

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American Road trip, bourbon, Brian Moore, Charleston, Charleston Light Dragoon's Punch, Charleston Preservation Society, cocktails, Food, Husk, JG Farrell Award, Novel, restaurant, road trip, South Carolina, The Elliott House Inn, Writing

I arrived at the appointed time.

There was an aroma of freshly baked bread as I stood at the reception desk. I stood there like a man waiting for news of a momentous event in his life. Right now, the world outside didn’t exist; I was focused on getting a table, I just needed to get past the gatekeeper.

Husk and the balcony where I hoped to enjoy good southern cuisine.

‘Ok Sir, you’re on the wait list for our balcony. If you would like to take a seat at the bar, we will let you know when or ‘IF’ we can seat you,’ the lady with the big book said.

Sitting at the bar, I began to think I was in danger of making this experience a bit too much to live up to. I had built this meal up in my head based on what other people had told me. There was a big chance that I was about to fall flat on my face or perhaps stomach.

Anyway, I thought, I could be here at the bar for a while, or forever according to the receptionist, so I’d better hunker down and have a drink.

I perused the cocktail menu.

There was a CBWS’s Punch, which is a blend of bourbon, Barbados rum, citrus juices, honey and raw sugar simple syrup. Or perhaps I’d go for something called a ‘Yard too Far’, which is a mix of vanilla and ginger macerated bourbon, pecan orgeat and pecan bitters.

Bourbon seems to be a staple ingredient for most of the cocktails at Husk so I thought ‘when in Charleston…’ and ordered a Charleston Light Dragoon’s Punch, which has no bourbon in it, is a recipe from the Charleston Preservation Society, and is a bit of a signature drink around here.

The Charleston Light Dragoon’s Punch is a blend of California brandy, Jamaican rum, peach brandy, black tea, lemon juice and raw sugar.

As I waited for my cocktail, I noticed there was a bar menu that included chicken wings and burgers so if I couldn’t get a table at least I wouldn’t starve.

I settled in.

I took a sip of my Charleston Light Dragoon’s Punch. It was good, very good. Then the barman said, ‘Mr. Moore? Your table is ready now’.

I had been at the bar for exactly ten minutes. As I turned in my chair, my Charleston Light Dragoon’s Punch still in my hand, there was the gatekeeper carrying a menu and ushering me towards the stairs leading to the balcony on the second floor.

On the balcony, my table was indeed ready for me, as were the other seven empty tables – all ready, all empty. ‘I thought they were fully booked,’ I said to myself as I took my seat.

All on my own.

Was this all hype? Had I made a mistake choosing Husk?
I was about to find out.

I studied the menu.

Heirloom Tomatoes with Texas Olive Oil, Fishing Creek Goat’s Milk Feta and Herbed Bread Crumbs.

Or

Wood Fired Clams with Roasted Fennel and Sweet Corn, Virginia Sausage, Tomato Braised Peppers and Onions, Garlic Toast

I looked up from the menu to see that two couples and a group of four had joined me on the balcony.

Manchester Farm’s Quail, Roasted Peach ‘Farrotto’, Charred Eggplant and Chanterelles, Peach Relish, Honey Thyme Jus.

Or

American Red Snapper, Summer Squash and Zucchini with Fire-roasted Fennel, ‘Confit’ Cherry Tomatoes, Shrimp Bisque.

I looked up from the menu again and the balcony was full of hungry people all reading their menus as if they were studying for some final exam. Perhaps I hadn’t made a mistake after all.

After much deliberation and a cross-examination of the very helpful waiter (I think it could have skirted the line between a couple of friendly questions and an interrogation actually), I decided on:

Local Oysters with a Raspberry and Mint Vinaigrette followed by Atlantic Grouper, Fire-roasted Mepkin Abbey Mushrooms and Shishito Peppers with English Peas, Mushroom-Soy Broth.

Raspberry Oysters.

As I finished my Charleston Light Dragoon’s Punch, I got myself ready for what I hoped would be THE meal of the American Adventure.

The oysters arrived.

In a large wooden bowl filled with ice, half a dozen oysters in the half-shell were swimming in a raspberry and mint vinaigrette.

It all looked very pretty but I like my oyster au naturel, tasting of the sea not raspberries.

I tried a raspberry oyster.

Salty, sweet, savoury…delicious!

It was a revelation. I have never tasted anything so strange and so good all at once. The beautiful oyster wasn’t overwhelmed by the raspberry and the mint, in fact, each element worked perfectly together.

This was a very good start, a very good start indeed.

Next came the grouper.

The Atlantic Grouper.

White meaty fish, perfectly cooked with flavours of the east and west fused together to produce a meal that will be remembered with relish on those cold, wet winter evenings back on the Sheep’s Head peninsula.

It was perfect. Well, almost perfect … there was a very important element missing. Oh, this ‘something missing’ had nothing to do with the food or the room. It’s all a bit more personal.

Anyway, the experience at Husk was indeed spectacular: delicious food, cool drinks and a very attentive and efficient staff.

However, I have a very simple code when it comes to pronouncing my views on what divides a good restaurant from a great restaurant.

Forget about Michelin Stars, there is only one way to decide and it’s rather basic.

There are very few restaurants where I have eaten that I would call ‘great’. I’m lucky, I live within walking distance of my favourite ‘great’ restaurant – The Good Things Café, on the Sheep’s Head peninsula. And, in my humble view, what makes The Good Things great is the fact that I have never had a bad meal there. That’s what it takes to make a great restaurant, consistency.

Is Husk a great restaurant? I decided to put my code to the test, I would go back again before I left Charleston.

And that’s exactly what i did. Forty-eight hours later to be precise. Again, I put my name on the wait-list for the balcony and again I didn’t have long to wait.

This time, I started with Slow-cooked Marinated Pork Belly, with Pickled Greens and Asian Spices wrapped in Lettuce Leaves. Then it was time to sample the Cornmeal-dusted North Carolina Catfish, Pepper Mash Glazed Fried Cabbage with Sweet Corn, Charred Okra, Green Tomato Chow Chow.

Slow-cooked Marinated Pork Belly.

All delicious, all expertly cooked and served, and each one adding to the overall eating experience at Husk.

Charlestonians are indeed very lucky to have such a restaurant to enjoy and savour. Serving the finest southern ingredients, Sean Brock and his team at Husk have created a foodie oasis for this weary traveller. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that Husk and Charleston have restarted my somewhat stalled American road trip.

North Carolina Catfish

All that’s left is the question: ‘Is Husk a great restaurant?’.

Well, in my humble opinion, for what it’s worth, I would have to say that Husk IS a great restaurant, and WHEN I get back to Charleston again, I will head first for the Elliott House Inn, drop off the luggage and then make my way to Husk for a Charleston Light Dragoon’s Punch and an evening of great southern food.

 

 

The good life in the Lowcountry (or how Charleston saved my American adventure).

Tags

American Road trip, Arthur Ravenel Jr, Ashley River, Brian Moore, Bridge, cannon, Civil War, Confederate, Cooper River, Food, JG Farrell Award, Myrtle Beach, Novel, Poogan's Porch, road trip, Slavery, Slaves, South Carolina, the Battery, The Elliott House Inn, Writing, Yankee

Life in the Lowcountry.

I had just about resigned my taste buds to overly sweet or very salty food and my American journey to rainy weather, the sound of motorbikes screaming to be put out of their misery and the vision of a never-ending highway when I loaded up the car and programmed the GPS for ‘get me the hell out of here’.

Now, I know I didn’t see Myrtle Beach at its best, well, weather-wise anyway, but in a journey that had, up to that point, been full of wonder and awe, Myrtle Beach sucked all the joy out of my American road trip.

Goodbye to a very grey Myrtle Beach.

With the rain still falling, I left the motel at 7am. An hour later, the clouds began to clear and I could just make out the blue South Carolinian sky that I had been promised. The landscape changed from grey seashore to green pines and live oaks lining the roadside and when I stopped to get breakfast there was an aroma of sea salt mixed with pine and sage.

The clouds disappeared as I continued my journey south and, with all the highway signs and the GPS pointing the way to Charleston, suddenly life wasn’t so bad after all.

Charleston was to be the highlight of my trip – promises of southern charm, a rich historical legacy, great food and really nice accommodation fueled my journey at this point and, boy, I wasn’t disappointed.

All I can say is thank goodness for Charleston.

From the moment I arrived, taking the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge across the Cooper River on to the peninsula and arriving at The Elliot House Inn, I could tell that this is a very special city.

Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge, gateway to Charleston.

Tucked away, within walking distance of the ‘Battery’ which is at the tip of the peninsula, Elliott House is perfectly positioned for those who like to explore the city on foot. At the Battery, I paused looking out on Charleston Bay where the Ashley and Cooper rivers meet before they join and head off out into the Atlantic. And there, still standing like a sentry in the bay, I got my first sight of just one of the main reasons that my journey to Charleston was so important.

The Elliott House Inn.

On the horizon, about three miles from where I stood, was Fort Sumter.

This is where the first shots were fired and the Civil War began. This fort in the middle of the bay saw the first acts that tore a country apart. Some 600,000 deaths later and the Union flag was raised once more in Charleston Bay.

Approaching Fort Sumter.

Fort Sumter would have to wait until the morning. Right now, as the warm breeze made me feel alive again, I needed to sample some of that southern cuisine I’d heard so much about.

The city is packed with restaurants but the good people at Elliott House had recommended a very special eatery just a couple of doors down the road from the inn.

Husk was voted one of the best new restaurants in the USA when it first opened a few years ago and it was there that I hoped to redeem my faith in American cuisine.

Husk – where dreams of good food come true.

At Husk they have a simple policy: ‘If it doesn’t come from the South, it’s not coming through the door’. James Beard Award-Winning Chef Sean Brock’s menu changes almost everyday and that was just what I was looking for.

I naively ambled up the steps, through the doors and asked to make a reservation for one for dinner later that evening.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the receptionist in a lovely southern drawl, ‘reservations are closed for the rest of the week.’

Time for the Irish brogue and a bit of charm, I thought.

‘Oh, that is disappointing,’ I said. ‘I’ve come all this way and had heard such good things about Husk. Is there any way I could eat here before I leave?’ I asked.

‘Well, let me see,’ the southern belle said, looking through her reservations book.

‘You could put your name on the waiting list for our balcony, but you would need to be here at 5.30pm tomorrow evening. After that it is first come, first served and I can’t confirm at what time, if at all, we could seat you.’

‘Perfect,’ I said, ‘that’s what I’ll do then.’

As I headed off out into the Charleston evening, I knew that at least I could sit at the very impressive bar in Husk tomorrow evening, soak up the atmosphere and enjoy one or two Mint Juleps, perhaps.

Then, I just went next door to another restaurant, Poogan’s Porch, where I got my first taste of good southern cuisine: a fried oyster salad and some southern fried chicken with all the fixins. And it proved to be an excellent introduction to fine food in the Holy City.

Oh, in case you think I’ve gone mad – to a lot of people back home the Holy City is somewhere else entirely – Charleston is known (locally anyway) as the Holy City because of its many churches; there seems to be one conveniently located on almost every street.

One of the beautiful cobblestone streets in Charleston.

The next morning, my mission was to see Fort Sumter. I made my way to the quayside where I would take the boat out to the little rocky island in the bay.

On the trip out to the fort, I got my first view of the city from the water. Back on the peninsula, the narrow tree-lined streets have survived wars, floods and earthquakes. Charleston was once the richest city in the US and it retains that antebellum charm that I imagined made it a real southern city.

From the water, looking back towards the city, you see the beautiful houses that line the quayside along the Battery and the docks that once exported the bountiful produce from the great plantations of South Carolina: cotton, indigo and rice or ‘Carolina Gold’ as it was called. The plantations along the Ashley and Cooper rivers, with their thousands of slaves, fed the merchants of Charleston who in turn sent these goods to Northern factories and mills or across the Atlantic to the textile mills of England and France.

The Battery.

This is another legacy of the city, a city that grew rich on the labour of thousands of enslaved people. This history is still evident today with echoes of the past everywhere to be seen: the big houses, the ornate gardens and parks, and the slave market, all standing as a reminder of a Charleston from a different time and a different world.

The houses of Charleston have a very distinctive style and the gardens are just beautiful.

As I made my way out to Fort Sumter, I began to imagine the scene when the first shot was fired on that April morning back in 1861. That morning, over 150 years ago, on the Battery where I stood yesterday, there would have been hundreds of people cheering as the shot and shell smashed into the walls of the fort three miles away.

The silent guns at Fort Sumter.

The ladies of Charleston arrived in their carriages, parasols waving as they encouraged the men to stand and fight for southern rights and freedom.

‘Hurrah! Hurrah!
For Southern rights, hurrah!
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.’

With this, South Carolina proclaimed that it was willing to fight and to die to preserve its way of life and the southern cause.

Palm tree-lined streets.

At the fort, which was only abandoned as a military facility after the Second World War, I saw for the first time the flags of the United States of America (USA) and the Confederate States of America (CSA) flying together. Sumter is now the responsibility of the National Parks Service and, like all the battlefields, it is maintained and preserved for future generations.

Looking back towards the city from Fort Sumter.

As I stood on the highest point at Fort Sumter and looked back towards Charleston in the hazy distance, I could just make out the Battery. While, as the name ‘the Battery’ suggests, there were guns placed along the length of the water front at this point in 1861, these guns did not take part in the bombardment. The range was too great.

Flying together over Fort Sumter.

I took my notes and listened to the rangers explain the events that took place here back in 1861 but I have to admit that my mind was on all things ‘eatable’ and my evening ahead at Husk.

As the ferry left the dock and headed back toward Charleston, I knew that my journey had formed a life of its own; from now on, my story and my Confederate would lead the way.

But first it was time to get something to eat.

A trip to the beach – Myrtle Beach.

Tags

American Road trip, Beach trip, Brian Moore, JG Farrell Award, Myrtle Beach, Novel, rain, road trip, South Carolina, stormy weather, USA, Writing

Rain, Rain and more Rain…

Who knew, it rains in America! Well, I mean I knew that the continent experiences inclement weather every now and again, but I thought that there would be blue skies and sunny days while I was here.

I expected that, as I made my way south, I would add the experience of an American beach trip to my itinerary. Looking at the map, and once again relying on my TV education, I saw that Myrtle Beach was on my route to Charleston, so I decided to spend a few days reading, writing and working on getting rid of my ‘farmer’s tan’.

The less-than-even-all-over tan.

Well, when I arrived in Myrtle Beach, I found the storm clouds had beaten me to the shoreline. Indeed, not only was there stormy weather on the horizon but Hurricane Bertha was brewing off shore and making its way towards the Carolinas.

A very grey Myrtle Beach between rain showers.

Now, I’m used to wet weather. I’m Irish, and a couple of summers ago at home on the peninsula, it rained for over 40 days, right through July and August, so a little rain in the summer is no big deal.

But I really, naively I suppose, thought that when I went to America, especially the southern states, my days would be filled with sunshine and warm breezes. Oh, how wrong I was.

Boy, did it rain. We’re talking about visibility reducing rain, rain that started with little or no warning. Thunder and lightning, torrential rain and Bertha heading my way – welcome to Myrtle Beach.

Myrtle Beach is noisy, tacky, expensive and, without a doubt, a great place to bring kids on holidays. It has everything from roller coasters, water parks and video amusements to tacky souvenir shops, fast food and, of course, a white sandy beach that goes on for miles.

Rain, rain and more rain.

The Atlantic Ocean provides waves to surf and wildlife such as dolphins, whales and pelicans to spot. Spot, that is, if the rain got out of the way. So, for the first day I got a quick glimpse of the beach as I dodged between showers and lightning strikes. Finally, I decided to hunker down in the motel room and get on with some reading and writing.

The farmer’s tan would have to travel home with me.

As I set up my desk in the room, overlooking the rain-soaked main strip below, I began to welcome this time where, between the traveling and the novel research, I could get some good reading and a bit of writing done as well.

Still more rain.

Then the rain stopped.

And the noise began.

While the rain had let up for now, it was never far away and the dark clouds were ever present.

Suddenly, the street outside was filled with the noise of motor bikes.

Now, at home in Ireland we have motor bikes, I know what they sound like, I know that there are many different types and makes.

The noise begins.

But I have never heard the like of the sounds these bikes in America make (nor do I have any idea how they are allowed on the roads).

If I heard this noise coming from any form of machinery back home, I would presume that the owner was on his or her way to the mechanic to have the car or bike or tractor fixed or, failing that, put out of its misery!

The noise continued until it started to rain again or until 3am, if it stayed dry.

Let me describe the sound if I can. First, you hear the motor bike approaching with what sounds like a tractor engine or some other piece of heavy machinery at full throttle with either a cat caught in the pistons or, as I thought when I first heard it, an engine shaking every nut, bolt and valve loose as it makes its way down the road, leaving a trail of broken oily parts in its wake.

Now, these bikes never travel alone. Oh no, there is alway a minimum of four of these noise hounds ‘cruisin’, I think the word is, up and down the road at any given time.

The purpose of this ‘cruise’ is not to get from point A to point B. Oh no, this is apparently all about being seen and heard.

It was then that I realised my motel was positioned right at the end of the main mile-long beach strip. So, these noise merchants would travel from one end of the street to the other, over and over again. All night long.

I began to pray for rain.

It got worse.

There seemed to be a pattern to the peaks and troughs of these tortured engines. The bikes would come rumbling along and then, suddenly, explode in a scream of revving engines and even some back-firing.

Next, they would rumble on down the road again. This explosion of noise seemed to be only happening outside my window and I began to feel the bikers were out to torture me.

However, when explaining my need for sleep and some quiet to a barman (yes, I was driven to drink), he enlightened me to the reasons behind the all the noise on the street below my window.

The Myrtle Beach boardwalk.

It appears that the bikers were not trying to drive me insane after all. This is how it works…apparently. As you cruise along on your ‘hog’, rumbling along if you will, you’re not just out for a pleasant drive. Indeed, you are on a mission; for every good lookin’ lady you see, you drop the bike into neutral, rev the hell out of the engine until she looks at you, and then you go on your way, the ultra cool real man that you are.

Bertha is out there at the end of the pier.

Big and loud equals good looking and ultra masculine.

The next night I sat on a bench and watched this bizarre mating ritual like an anthropologist from a distant country studying a newly discovered tribe.

And there it was, just as the barman had said, only it wasn’t confined to the bikers, cars filled with young men, rap music blaring as loudly as possible, were engaged in the same behaviour, revving their engines and sounding their horns as they also cruised down the strip.

While Myrtle Beach may be a very popular location for American holiday makers, it’s not for me. But I am glad I got to see this part of American culture, in all its noisy, trashy, deep-fried, sugar candy, brash glory. However, I will not be heading back to Myrtle Beach anytime soon.

Now it’s on to Charleston and hopefully some peace and quiet.

The adventure begins.

Tags

Brian Moore, Civil War, JG Farrell Award, Lancaster PA, Novel, Pennsylvania, road trip, USA, Writing

Well, the journey begins.

I’m off to America for the summer and it’s a trip that has been in the planning stages for so long that I almost thought it would never happen.

But here I am.

This journey began back in those glorious summer days in West Cork exactly one year ago. The West Cork Literary Festival was about to get underway and that year, 2013, I was really looking forward to the week-long event, which would be filled with writers, poets and celebrities from all walks of life.

This week was, it turned out, going to be a bit different to all the other festival weeks. Little did I know that this week was about to change my writing life forever.

I’m new to all this writing lark. At 40, I was the oldest ‘cub reporter’ at the Evening Echo and the Carlow Nationalist. All the others were bright young things in their 20s and 30s but I decided not to let the fact that I was old enough to have fathered one or two of them to put me off and I loved every minute of it.

Graduating, I moved to the voice of North Cork, The Avondhu, where I continued my career as the very vision of a ‘jaded ole’ hack’ until my wife came up with a brilliant idea.

‘Let’s move to West Cork,’ she said. ‘It’ll be grand,’ she said.

She was right. So we packed in our good jobs and decided to make it in West Cork. We’re lucky we can both work wherever we find a desk and passable internet access, so off we went.

Now, three years later, we are well dug in. Me, freelancing for the local newspaper and several other publications and my wife using her PhD researching rural development issues as well as starting her own food business and looking after me, Leo (psychotic cat) and Fred (chilled-out lab).

But back to the events that overtook everything else in 2013.

I had tried writing a few short stories and really enjoyed the process when one day, while flicking through the brochure for the West Cork Literary Festival (WCLF), I came across the JG Farrell Award for a novel-in-progress.

‘Why don’t you enter something,’ my wife said.

I had considered sending something into the competition but at that point I didn’t have a story, a plot, a character, nothing. What I had was, literally, a blank page.

For some reason, which to this day I can’t explain, an idea came to me. It started, like all these story ideas, when I was reading about a subject that suddenly became very, for some reason, real to me. I could see my story unfold, my main character was born in front of my eyes and after some more reading, a plot developed out of the foggy, but clearing-all-the-time, story line.

So, I quickly wrote my opening chapter, scrapped it, wrote it again, scrapped it again and finally submitted 3,000 words to my live-in-editor.

After one more re-write, I finally felt ready to submit and so off went my attempt at a novel, the beginning of a novel anyway, to the judges at the WCLF.

With the entry off my desk, I quickly forgot about the whole competition and went back to writing about rural council meetings, community events and anything else my editors sent my way.

The weeks went by and with the WCLF nearly underway, I went about planning events for the summer … when that email arrived.

At first, I didn’t believe it; the email that is.

‘I appear to have won the JG Farrell award,’ I said to my wife as calmly as possible.

Following this ‘calm’ delivery, I quickly became what was described later on as ‘an hysterical 16-year-old girl’. Not very flattering, but I will admit I did get a little excited.

Next, everything went by in a blur. I met the brilliant Richard Skinner, director of fiction at Faber & Faber who was the judge for the JG Farrell award. Richard encouraged me to continue writing the novel and after a week of being treated like a celebrity, I got down to researching and developing my characters, storyline, and plot.

Today, as I type this, I am sitting in a café in Lancaster, PA, about to undertake two months of research, traveling from Pennsylvania, to New York, then on down to Maryland and Virginia and on through North Carolina to Charleston, South Carolina where my story begins.

Home (thanks to Gina and John)

Along the way, I will see battlefields, hear the sound of 150-year-old cannons firing again on the same ground where they once inflicted so much death and suffering. I know I will see beautiful places, peaceful places. I will meet interesting people and start to feel something of the life my characters lived. I want to get the ‘feel’ of the ground they traveled over, the heat (it was 32^o C / 90^o F yesterday and the humidity was at almost 60%), even the food they ate. All these things are possible thanks to the many living history events and museums that I have appointments to visit.

I will visit the US Military Academy at West Point, walk the ground at Gettysburg and Antietam, visit a working plantation in South Carolina and hear, feel and see the effects of some of the epic and bloodiest battles of the Civil War.

All that is about to get underway at the end of the month; but for now, I have a date with three ladies who are whisking me off to the shores of Chesapeake Bay where I will relax and get ready for the journey ahead. Well, that’s what I’m telling myself.

Oh, and it’s Lan-kiss-ter, not Lancaster, and for some reason most people here think I’m from Scotland. Indeed, one lady asked if I knew anybody in “Downton Abbey”.

It’s going to be a hell of a journey.

Baseball mad in Lancaster, PA