Greenwood, Mississippi
We wake up with the train still rattling and rolling along, at 80mph the driver assures us. Judging by the state if the track, this isn’t wise. We lay in bed until at ten to six, the announcement comes that we will soon be arriving in Memphis.
Memphis was enjoying the pre-dawn coolness, we were allowed out onto the platform as we were 40 minutes ahead of schedule. I stood and talked to a guy who tried to convince me to try pot to ease my creaking joints. I wasn’t convinced.
And in the tree beside our car, some new bird sang its heart out, either at the delight of the dawn of a fine new day, or the train disturbing its sleep.
Inside, breakfast was served. Or warmed in the microwave.
As we rolled into Memphis, I could make out the reflections in the Mississippi, though too dark to see more. And by the time we pulled out at then to seven, we had already left the river. I suspect we will be seeing lots of it later.
Smokers stood around, puffing away, all red-eyed, while I went round taking shots, because, photography.
We had been hoping it would get warmer as we went south, but in the pre-dawn glow, it was still chilly.
As daylight walked the land at the sun rose, fields of cotton stretched from the tracks to the horizon, some still white and fluffy, some harvested. The harvested cotton is stored in huge bales like hay or silage, ready to be taken away to be turned into something very cheap, or very expensive to wear.
Inbetween there are woods, lakes, and sometimes combinations of the two, all filled with mangroves and other swamp-loving plants, though no sign of Burt Reynolds, squealing or not.
We stop at Greenwood, Mississippi, where we could get out for a smoke, or to stretch our legs. It looked dirt poor; all shacks and rusty cars, rusting further where abandoned. The driver sounds the horn and we get on again. We’re already in the 14th our of the journey, and six more to go.
Greenwood, Mississippi
We wake up with the train still rattling and rolling along, at 80mph the driver assures us. Judging by the state if the track, this isn’t wise. We lay in bed until at ten to six, the announcement comes that we will soon be arriving in Memphis.
Memphis was enjoying the pre-dawn coolness, we were allowed out onto the platform as we were 40 minutes ahead of schedule. I stood and talked to a guy who tried to convince me to try pot to ease my creaking joints. I wasn’t convinced.
And in the tree beside our car, some new bird sang its heart out, either at the delight of the dawn of a fine new day, or the train disturbing its sleep.
Inside, breakfast was served. Or warmed in the microwave.
As we rolled into Memphis, I could make out the reflections in the Mississippi, though too dark to see more. And by the time we pulled out at then to seven, we had already left the river. I suspect we will be seeing lots of it later.
Smokers stood around, puffing away, all red-eyed, while I went round taking shots, because, photography.
We had been hoping it would get warmer as we went south, but in the pre-dawn glow, it was still chilly.
As daylight walked the land at the sun rose, fields of cotton stretched from the tracks to the horizon, some still white and fluffy, some harvested. The harvested cotton is stored in huge bales like hay or silage, ready to be taken away to be turned into something very cheap, or very expensive to wear.
Inbetween there are woods, lakes, and sometimes combinations of the two, all filled with mangroves and other swamp-loving plants, though no sign of Burt Reynolds, squealing or not.
We stop at Greenwood, Mississippi, where we could get out for a smoke, or to stretch our legs. It looked dirt poor; all shacks and rusty cars, rusting further where abandoned. The driver sounds the horn and we get on again. We’re already in the 14th our of the journey, and six more to go.