If you haven’t read any of the ‘Adventures in the South’ series
before, it’s a travelogue from a trip me and my better half took down the
Mississippi Delta back in 2013. So if
you want to go back to the beginning, here’s the Prologue.
Or if you want to remind yourself where we’d got to, here’s
where we left off, with Clarksdale Part 2.
![]() |
Sculpture, hoodoo style |
The inn had been our original choice of accommodation for
Clarksdale, but we’d given up on the idea when their website indicated that it
wasn’t possible to make one night bookings at the weekends. Too late, we were informed by local guru
Roger Stolle that this was a measure designed to dissuade locals from renting
shacks for parties, and that international visitors are generally welcome for
one night.
But despite missing out, we decided to give it a look
anyway. On one level, it’s a bit of a
dubious proposition, selling the experience of plantation life as a tourist
attraction. But it still offers some
insights.
There’s a spookiness about the disused railway running past
the place, once upon a time presumably a vital link for shipping supplies in
and cotton out. The shacks themselves
underline the spartan nature of plantation experience for African American
slaves. And then there’s the bottle tree – an interesting piece of hoodoo,
voodoo, or what you will, in which coloured bottles are hung on the branches of
a bush or tree in order to attract and catch evil spirits.
As we’re wandering around, a couple emerge from one of the
shacks, and right away we recognise each other as fellow customers from Red’s
Blues Club the night before. It turns
out they’re an Anglo-American couple on honeymoon, making their way down to New
Orleans like ourselves. But whereas we’d
headed off from Red’s around midnight, they’d stuck around for Anthony “Big A”
Sherrod’s next set. According to the
groom, Big A’s brother - a guy rather bigger than Big A himself - had turned up
to sit in on guitar. “And then it turned
into a crunking party”, he said. They
were sitting by the door, and when Red decided to nick out and take the air for
a minute he actually turned to the English lad and asked him to pick up the
admission from any new arrivals.
![]() |
Your modern day, all mod cons shotgun shack |
And so off we go, down Highway 61. Our next stop is a little place called Rolling Fork. This is actually the birthplace of Muddy
Waters, but to be honest I’m not one for going and looking at birthplace
markers. We do pop in to the little town
museum though, a one room affair overseen by two little old lady volunteers so
delighted to have visitors that we’re scared they might lock us in.
The museum celebrates Muddy, of course, but also recounts
the story about President Teddy Roosevelt that gave rise to the ‘Teddy Bear’. Back in the early years of the 20th century Roosevelt, who had cultivated a reputation for being an outdoorsman,
went on a hunting trip in the vicinity of Rolling Fork. Apparently he had a notion to shoot a bear,
so his guide obliged by catching one – and how you do that is an interesting question
– and tying it to a tree for Roosevelt to shoot. Roosevelt, to his credit, found the idea of
shooting a trapped bear appalling, and ordered its release. A political cartoon drawing on the incident
attracted the attention of an enterprising manufacturer of toy bears, who asked
Roosevelt if he could name his bears “Teddy Bears” in recognition of the
incident – thereby launching one of the most successful marketing wheezes of
all time.
Tipped off by the museum biddies, we drive a few miles down
the road and stop for lunch on a porch by the bayou at the Onward Store, where we get catfish and
fries washed down with real lemonade.
Then it really is off down the road to Vicksburg, where our plan is to stop
off at the National Military Park on the way into town, a significant memorial
to the Civil War, with cemeteries for the dead of both the Union and the
Confederacy. Situated at the foot of the
Mississippi Delta, with high bluffs overlooking the river, Vicksburg was a
crucial area during the Civil War. As
Lincoln himself put it, “Vicksburg is the key.
The war can never be brought to a close until the key is in our pocket.” But as we drive in on Highway 61, it appears
we’re on the wrong side of the very large park to gain access. The afternoon is wearing on, so we cruise
around the pretty-looking town centre, and then head to our accommodation.
We’re staying at a B&B called Anchuca, just up the hill
from the town centre. For the benefit of
British readers, for whom a Bed & Breakfast is at the lower end of the
accommodation spectrum, I should explain that in the States B&B’s are more
upmarket, boutique propositions. So
boutique that in this case we have a suite of rooms, the Jackson Suite, that is
named after Andrew Jackson, the Confederate President who stayed in it
following his release from prison after the end of the war, and gave a speech
to friends from the balcony.
Heading out again on foot in the late afternoon heat, we go
for a wander round town. This must be a
thoroughly alien notion to locals, as a fella walking along the other side of
the street looks over at us, smiles, and calls out, “Hi folks. Enjoying your vacation?” Mad dogs and Scots people, it seems, go out
in the midsummer sunshine.
And it has to be said they’ve got a point. It’s not just the heat, it’s the humidity,
which seems to have been ratcheted up a notch or few since we left
Clarksdale. So we potter around town
picking up bits and pieces of history, and abandon plans to head back to
Anchuca and freshen up before coming out again for the evening. What would be the point when we’d be melting
again within ten minutes?
![]() |
Monsour's - Southern hospitality comes with the drinks |
So we don’t encounter any live music in Vicksburg. But since then it’s become apparent to me
that the centre of town isn’t where you’ll find that action in a lot of towns
like Vicksburg. Instead the key venue
for musicians like the local hero and internationally successful Mr Sipp is the
Ameristar Casino a little way south of town.
That’s where the money is, but unfortunately it doesn’t really fit the
romantic preconceptions of blues pilgrims from afar, does it?
No comments:
Post a Comment