The Camp Hound, The Savannah City Market

If you're walking in the dead of night in this camp in the idyllic forest in Richmond Hill, GA, there is a lesson to remember. Make some noise, carry a flashlight, and be hopeful the neighbors dog is friendly, no matter how big the bark.

During tonight's walk in the forest blackness on the lanes along the campsites, I surmised the neighboring campers are the Baskervilles. I know not where they live, but maybe, just maybe, they're related to the Baskervilles from Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes tale “The Hound of the Baskervilles.” I wasn't making a sound on the narrow paved lane. At least not a sound a person could hear. The Baskervilles hound, though, announced himself with a deep roaring bark.

I shouted a quick “Howdy.” The Hound was tugging at the leash, but he quieted with a mfff under his breath. The owner appeared and I shouted another “Howdy” and lighted the flashlight I was carrying. I returned to my own campsite and sat at the picnic table. I would like to have introduced myself, but I wasn't sure Hound would tolerate that. It's best to meet fellow campers first in daylight.

You've no doubt heard stories about not being able to “see your hand in front of your face.” That probably originated here in Fort McAllister Historic State Park. I tried it. I couldn't see my hand even though my dead-of-night walk took place about 8:30. The thick vegetation hid what was left of the clouded sky. I won't repeat a walk at midnight. It tends to alarm people, including the walker.

Our walking earlier today, in full sun, was around City Market in Savannah.

There we met noted composer Johnny Mercer, or at least we met Johnny's memorial statue. Johnny's statue welcomed us to Ellis Park. He was short and brown. And he had a space between his front teeth. Johnny was born in Savannah in 1909 and died in Los Angeles in 1976. Doesn't it seem that all these people die in Los Angeles? For safety I'm staying out of L.A.

Johnny wrote “Moon River,” “Days of Wine and Roses,” “Something's Gotta Give” and an armload of others. I couldn't remember all the songs he had written and looked him up

We left Johnny with me humming “Moon River” in my head. That will take days to get out of head. Bernie and I danced to that as kids. Memories flooded back as I hummed. I thought we should dance again, but I didn't ask.

Savannah's 21 squares are welcoming. Kids play in an unusual fountain where jets of water squirt maybe 20 feet into the air. Young mother's try to gather up the kids, but to no avail. They want to run in the geysers that burst from concrete. They try to keep from getting wet, but not very hard. They laugh and giggle. It's a symphony of kids' music. You have to laugh out loud at them.

The 20-something guys impress their girlfriends, running though those jets and not getting wet. Ultimately they don't succeed. Their faces are animated. Broad smiles, laughing eyes. The girlfriends laugh and cheer in the background. The music of youthful love. If Johnny could see this, he could write beautify music to it. Is this a Savannah mating ritual?

Horses are here. Big, powerful horses pulling wagon-loads of tourists. The young handler shakes a whip at them, making no noise, hitting no horse. The team responds to gentle orders. “Move on.” These huge animals are responding to the young women guide.

In the open-air restaurant where we ate, “Tapas,” you knew when the horses were passing, even without seeing them. The gentle orders of the young woman, the momentary, wafting odor of horse.

Just down the street was the Mecca of southern cooking. Paula Deen's restaurant and store. We didn't think of it, but we should have eaten there. I could use a little of her wholesome, Southern down-home concoctions.

I looked in vain for Paula herself. She was not to be found. I would love to have been in a picture with her to send to a friend. He is a big fan, and I would want him to eat his heart out. Maybe a postcard will do.

Bernie was attracted to another of the multitude of boutiques and galleries, a cooking utensil store. She never misses one. She has to touch every tool, sniff or otherwise check every spice, herb and condiment. I encourage this because her visits result in good  eating.

I don't know the stage of the Savannah “season” at this time of year, but the City Market area showed a little of the big city grime. Not enough to keep us away, but just enough that you occasionally notice it.

Workers bustled. Shining, painting, restoring building facades. Every one of them greeted us. “Hello.” “How you doing?” “Hey.” The acknowledgements welcomed all tourists. Joe Cook looked up with a smile, interrupting his painting of a wagon wheel. You don't feel like a tourist. It's like we all live here. There really is Southern hospitality here.

We did run across an odd phenomenon, though. The restaurant rest rooms. In a building next door. Down a hallway. Up a flight of stairs. Down another hallway. In a dark recess. Tiny and a touch grimy.
I don't want to sound too harsh, though. Savannah's City Market is a joy.

Parking here was a pleasant surprise. A buck an hour at a metered spot. I marked that spot in the GPS to find our way back after our walking tour. I'm no dummy. After hours of wandering, I was going to impress Bernie. I had no idea where we were. Technology to the rescue. The GPS would take us back. I pulled it from my pocket ready to impress. The battery was dead. Bernie shook her head in dismay.

Bernie enjoyed yet another fountain. She has a thing for them. I coaxed her from the coolness of the water and into heading back to the truck. I'm convinced she has a piece of soft iron in her nose. She pointed me one way, then another, and another, and there was the truck. The useless silicon in my pocket. She didn't need no stinking GPS.
Humiliating.

The GPS shined, however, after I plugged it into the truck. Take us back to camp, I ordered. Twenty minutes later or so we were pulling into the camp, through yet another cloud of flies. In time for another of her great dinners. I'm thinking she has somebody sneak in to cook while we're gone because a meal appears minutes after we unlock the door.

After being sated and treated to a glass of wine, it was time for my walk in the blackness. And my meeting with the Hound.