Day 14, Bardstown to Rough River, 84 miles

We had a slow start to the day, scarfing watermelon and chatting with Kim, who we accompanied to the outskirts of town on our bikes. At the next town, New Haven, we stopped for some bagels and met a kind-eyed old man. He told us with pride that just last evening, Bardstown had been voted 'Most Beautiful Small Town in America' (see below link.) Sadly, we'd peddled through it without the respect it deserved (although we did pause to sniff at the bourbon distillery we passed on its' outskirts.)


http://travel.usatoday.com/destinations/bestoftheroad/story/2012-07-17/The-five-best-small-towns-in-America-2012/56276500/1

The onward cycle from New Haven was all rolling hills, historic farm houses, big red barns and fields of corn, tabbacco and soy. Also lots of livestock - which made me chuckle at the thought of the cow from the Simpsons' 'Tomacooooooo'! (Dave, you know the one!) It was hot and some of the uphills were gruelling, but the country-scape was enjoyable. Another quaint sight was the two Amish horse-drawn carts we passed; one carried a bearded old man and shoeless boy (with ye olde esky/cool box on the cart)-while the other groaned beneath the weight of a family of seven! All were in traditional dress, and eyed us on our bikes with the same interest as we for them.

We made it to our intended campsite after around 60 miles. This was an out of the way gas/everything store amongst dusty corn fields, complete with rocking chairs on the porch. Inside (as you'd expect, the door creaked)- we found an old shop keeper and a plump lady eating a sandwich. The shopkeeper nodded, recognised us as bikers and pointed us towards his guest book. Disconcertingly, what sounded like a parrot continued to break the slightly awkward silence. The sqwarking prove to be a little boy, and the old man muttered some affectionate sounding concessions (there was some guesswork, given his drawl.) The kid finally revealed himself and was clearly just bored and having a joke at our foreign expense. Pops was a character, squinting at us and offering some dry local advise (when I asked for his weather forecast, given the cloud cover, he replied 'well if you feel water on yer then I predict some rain... Not sure about tommorrow but I can predict yesterdays with 100% accuracy.' The sandwich-lady chatted with us about local little league, but we found ourselves glancing at the clock. We knew the river was within 20 miles on our route, and the onward cycle seemed a preferable option to shooting the breeze for the rest of the afternoon. So we downed another coke and hit the road.

The road was closed. They were resurfacing it that afternoon, but we charmed them into letting us pass after a bit of a wait. Beyond, lay a silky smooth, virginal black top, which we enjoyed breaking in! Our tyre-tracks are now immortilised there. The rolling rural hillside made it impossible to cycle without belting out a bit of 'Old man take a look at my life I'm alot like you...' (or indeed anything from Neil Youngs' Harvest album.) There was lightning on the horizon, as we ambled towards a refreshing storm shower. 


By the time we made it to the secluded campground at Rough River, we were refreshed by rain and white with rehydrated sunscreen. We hit the river for a swim before setting up camp. After a soak in the bath-warm waters (8ft below usual level due to the draught)-we dried off and met two local fishermen . After a bit of banter about how the fish are too hot to bite, we asked the hard-hitting question 'Where can we buy beer around here?'. The guys ruefully told us that, this being a dry county, you'd have to drive over an hour for beer. Conveniently, their boss subsidises their wages with a case of beer every 3 days.  (Based on an Australian case, thats' pretty good innings...and I assume an American case is bigger anyway!) So I can see how this prohibition could make sense from an Employers' point of view (pay minimum wage + beer bonus). Still, the whole concept of a dry county bewilders us - and the locals we chat to. One guy told us he has his beer delivered, while another said they just stock up in neighbouring 'Wet Counties'. Surely there are modern day Al Capones' we're not told about. Go figure.


We managed to get the tent up and chow down on more tinned burritos before the next storm descended upon us. The rumble of thunder was almost continuous, and Matt lay awake to the strobe-light spectacular of lightening. Thankfully our little tent survived, and we live to cycle another day.