We dispatched Alabama in a couple of days

in a cross-country dash to Tennessee. Mobile provided antiquated, grand accommodation, helping us by degrees back to earth from the rarefied heights of the Quarterhouse, while Birmingham was so deserted in the Biblical silence of a Sunday afternoon that we decided to press on to the next big city. The swampy land around Mobile gave way to more mountainous and spectacular scenery as we drove north, and I was put in mind of some the more picturesque parts of the Highlands.

We reached Chattanooga as it was getting dark and found a room for the night before heading for Nashville. The next morning we asked the hotel receptionist about any notable things to do before we left, and decided to visit the delightfully unhinged Rock City as a result. It begins with a nice (if trite) walk through some curious natural rock formations accompanied by calming music piped through hidden speakers, takes you over a springy suspension bridge to a look-out point from which seven differnt states are supposedly visible, and finally leads to a fluorescent vision of Lynchian hell. The decision to build an underground grotto filled with fairytale vignettes lit by ultraviolet lamps is not one that I can understand, but it certainly livened up the visit. Take your children only if you feel the need to punish them. We laughed all the way to the car and joined I24 to head all the way to Nashville.

Nashville follows the same the downtown-and-sprawl pattern we saw in most cities, only more so: the city centre is squeezed between the Cumberland River to the south and the railroad to the north, and outside of that it's rare to see a building of more than a few stories. We crossed the river and threaded our way through downtown Nashville, then crossed the railroad marshalling yard and found a motel just on the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak. As Ash napped I took a walk to find some guitar shops I'd looked up before we arrived.

What a farce. "Music City USA" has two worthwhile guitar shops: Gruhn Guitars and the Gibson Bluegrass Showcase (i.e. the Gibson banjo factory). Gruhn had some awesome basses. Unfortunately, being a vintage guitar specialist, they sported equally awe-inspiring prices. The Gibson shop, on the other hand, was prepared to knock the odd dollar or six hundred off the advertised prices but had a terrible selection of their own range. (This theme extended to New Orleans, aka the home of jazz, and Memphis, aka the home of rock and roll. New Orleans had a single shop within walking distance of the quarter, and again most of its stock was unattainable vintage perfection or modern basses I just plain didn't want. Memphis boasted another Gibson factory with an equally limited range, and as far as we could tell, no other guitar shops. Oh well. eBay here I come.)

We tramped along the deserted sidewalks and dashed across the busy roads to Broadway, on the fringes of downtown Nashville. Buskers playing Dobros and wearing ten-gallon hats stood between honky-tonk bars with neon signs in a country and western echo of Beale and Bourbon Streets. After eating some generically glutinous Southern food in a characterless sports bar, we went looking for something a little more authentic. We plumped for Robert's Western World, recommended by a helpful record shop clerk across the street. I didn't know what to expect: we could see a band setting up, but the place was dead as yet, so we bought a couple of drinks and sat down to wait.

After a while, a few more (mostly older) couples had drifted in and eventually the band - John England and the Western Swingers - appeared. They were excellent. John introduced the band and off they went, playing what he called "Western Swing" music. Initially I thought "wow, these guys are great musicians," and as they continued and the audience grew, I found myself completely rapt. I don't think I've ever seen such an amiable band play live: they swapped places at the mic, bantered among themselves and with the audience and generally came over as the nicest people you could ever hope to meet. The attentive waitress kept us furnished with drinks until they finished a couple of hours later, and for perhaps the first time during the holiday I didn't begrudge dropping a fat tip into the box for the band as we left the bar.