Before we were allowed to escape wild Florida for civilised Texas, Christine and Vince insisted on a final jaunt out, this time to the iconic restaurant/music venue that is Skipper's Smokehouse.
If you can imagine a wooden music shack, miles from anywhere in the middle of the Florida swamps, with lichen hanging from the trees and a clientele still coming down from the 60s, you have a good idea of what this place is (even though it's in the middle of a wealthy Tampa suburb). Throw in a Grateful Dead tribute band and a LOT of tie-die, and you have our Skipper's experience. I enjoyed the strange situation of not being the worst dancer there, thanks to being in control of my limbs, and some judicious use of the free hula-hoops offered at the side of the stage.
The next morning we said our farewells and got back on the road for the small matter of a 14-hour drive home. We stopped overnight in Mississippi because...well, why not? It all went very smoothly, and I remain relieved that the one-hour-screen-time-a-day rule is invalid in cars, which means Pete enjoys time driving more than being at home, forced to play with Mummy and Daddy. Kids these days, eh?
Many many thanks again to C,V,C,JJ and Jim and Jean for another fantastic celebration of that happy time when America was still owned by Britain. See you next year!
I'm telling you man, Jerry was there!
Some of these folks had genuinely seen the 60s.
They played both kinds of music: prog and rock.
On the way home.
Not the Mississippi, but a tributary. So small!
Shrimp.
Don't feed the alligators...any of your limbs.
A final one for the road.
