Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
not achievement enough, he finished his career as a soul musician, churning out a series
of hits in the 1960s on the Stax record label with the backup group the MGs. As I say, a
remarkable man. My plan was to visit his monument and then zip over to Monticello for
a leisurely look around Thomas Jefferson's home. But it was not to be. Just beyond Pat-
rick Springs, I spied a side road leading to a place called Critz, which I calculated with a
glance at the map could cut thirty miles off my driving distance. Impulsively I hauled the
cararoundthecorner,makingthenoiseofsquealingtiresasIwent.Ihadtomakethenoise
myself because the Chevette couldn't manage it, though it did shoot out some blue smoke.
I should have known better. My first rule of travel is never go to a place that sounds like
a medical condition and Critz clearly was an incurable disease involving flaking skin. The
upshot is that I got hopelessly lost. The road, once I lost sight of the high—way, broke up
into a network of unsignposted lanes hemmed in by tall grass. I drove for ages, with that
kind of glowering, insane resolve that you get when you are lost and become convinced
that if you just keep moving you will eventually end up where you want to be. I kept com-
ing to towns that weren't on my mapSanville, Pleasantville, Preston. These weren't two-
shack places. They were proper towns, with schools, gas stations, lots of houses. I felt as if
IshouldcallthenewspaperinRoanokeandinformtheeditorthatIhadfoundalostcounty.
Eventually, as I passed through Sanville for the third time, I decided I would have to ask
directions. Istoppedanoldguytakinghisdogouttosplashurinearoundtheneighborhood
and asked him the way to Critz. Without batting an eyelid he launched into a set of instruc-
tionsofthemostbreathtakingcomplexity.Hemusthavetalkedforfiveminutes.Itsounded
like a description of Lewis and Clark's journey through the wilderness. I couldn't follow it
at all, but when he paused and said “You with me so far?” I lied and said I was.
“Okay, well that takes you to Preston,” he went on. “From there you follow the old drovers
road due east out of town till you come to the McGregor place. You can tell it's the
McGregor place because there'sasignoutfrontsaying: the McGregor Place. Aboutahun-
dred yards further on there's a road going off to the left with a sign for Critz. But whatever
you do don't go down there because the bridge is out and you'll plunge straight into Dead
Man's Creek.” And on he went like that for many minutes. When at last he finished I
thanked him and drove off without conviction in the general direction of his last gesture.
Within two hundred yards I had come to a T-junction and didn't have a clue which way to
go. I went right. Ten minutes later, to the surprise of both of us, I was driving past the old
guy and his everurinating dog again. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him gesturing
excitedly,shoutingatmethatIhadgonethewrongway,butasthiswasalreadyabundantly
evidenttome,Iignoredhishoppingaroundandwentleftatthejunction.Thisdidn'tgetme
anynearerCritz,butitdidprovidemewithanewsetofdeadendsandroadstonowhere.At
