Veni Viðey Vici.

Posting from Viðey Island.

Reykjavik, Iceland – The rolling green hills of Viðey Island are scarred by jagged stone foundations: the broken bones of a village that died in 1943.

It's as though tic-tac-toe boards have been set into the undergrowth, which sways in the cooling breeze exhaled by the ocean. I've found an oasis just off the shore of Reykjavik.

Evidence of human life here dates back to the tenth century, but the island has been abandoned since a fishing company on the eastern coast closed in the 1940s. The long history speaks through a few rehabilitated buildings and mounds that only whisper the stories held beneath.

Now, birds do most of the talking.

Foundational.

Their squawks break the silence as I step too closely to a nest, leading to a barrage of arrows shot into the sky. It's a scene repeated with each step.

Plovers and gulls chide me for interrupting their time on the beach, blackened by lava. Eider ducks splash past with indifference.

A more modern history is told through contemporary art pieces placed around the island, including Yoko Ono's Imagine Peace Tower and Milestones, by American sculptor, Richard Serra.

After a long travel day, there's nothing like a hike through nature to clear the head.

Especially when it looks like this.

Ice Landing.

Un-wolf-like lupines.

Reykjavik, Iceland – The North Atlantic recedes into moonscape as we descend with a bump into Keflavik.

A church, nestled neatly into the shore, blends into an outcropping of rocks, its steeple the only pin in an apparent plan for stealth. Old tombstones are scattered around like pebbles.

The ground nearby is a wrinkled camouflage shirt of muted greens and browns spattered by purple tufts of lupines.

Riding the Flybus Airport Transfer into Reykjavik, which is 45 minutes away, appears to be the most cost-effective option, unless you’re already renting a car.

It’s a smooth ride past a tight green thread tucked into black, where golfers swing through a few holes. The volcanic rock no doubt offers many more.

Winding through a town, we pass brightly painted homes clad in steel, before tracing the olive green ribs of mountains illuminated by a sun that only sets for three hours these days.

It’s hazy, not unlike me this morning.

And I’ve had even less rest.

Bourbon and ON.

Reserved.

London, ON – The rolling green hills around Versailles, Kentucky are stitched together by raw boards: braces holding prized racehorses in place.

Appropriately, the endless pastures are the colour of money.

For miles, the grass is stained white by fresh paint. One farm, in all black, stands in contrast, like Johnny Cash.

We cling to tight corners on country roads before pulling through the stone and iron gate at Woodford Reserve. The name is relatively new, but a distillery was first built here in 1812 and the location is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

We’re immediately drowned by fresh cut grass and sweet sour mash.

Oak barrels teeter down tracks between long, thin stone buildings, headed for a rest.

We left booking a tour too late, so the rest of our day looks similar.

Homeward. 

Vitals:

• Time: 9 hours, 20 minutes
• Distance: 779.9 kms
• States/Province: Kentucky, Ohio, Michigan, Ontario
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• Wildlife: None

Off the Wall.

Monopolizing Big Apple references

Asheville, NC – The entrance to Asheville’s Wall Street is wedged open by a flatiron building built in the Beaux Arts style in 1927.

A large, black statue of an iron stands firmly on the sidewalk like an oversized Monopoly piece.
 
It’s obvious the city doesn’t take itself too seriously.

The street itself is named less for the American financial mecca than for the – you guessed it – wall that lines it, keeping the infill in place. The former back alley is now home to several quirky shops – including one devoted to vintage belt buckles – and trendy restaurants.

It seems to be indicative of the city's South Slope District, which, like many gentrifying areas, clings to the past and brings with it the arts, culinary experimentation, modern culture and a more progressive attitude. 

Not to mention rising prices.

They called him Wilt.

Ghost signs trace brick buildings like faded Yellow Pages, harkening back to a time where this was the city's automotive centre. Now, strings of Edison bulbs and clay-potted plants sway over cozy patios ringed by original iron fences.

Large graffiti murals stand in bright contrast to old buildings of an eclectic mix of architectural styles.

Former garages host artisan treats like Vortex Donuts, art galleries and a glassblowing studio I lose myself to for an hour. The city is also home to the most craft breweries per capita in America, including top-rated Burial Beer Co., where we happily shiver under the patio's space heaters for big IPAs and even-bigger stouts containing adventurously unique ingredients.  

Every restaurant seems to feature a James Beard-nominated chef. 

Asheville reminds me of bit of Austin or of Deep Ellum in Dallas: progressive enclaves in states known to be stuck very much in the past –  ghost signs in and of themselves.

We hadn't planned to say, but are glad we did.

Going Whole Hog.

Dressed how you like it.

Asheville, NC – A cartoonist has drawn a bubble in our minds that Charleston may not in fact happen this time.

We’re wet and we’re cold. Moreso, we’re tired and comfortable in this surprisingly progressive enclave in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

For a moment, I exhale.

The hearty smoke of barbeque breathes stories into our noses, and we’re drawn, again, into Buxton Hall Barbeque. James Beard nominations fall from the ceiling, and onto our bills.

Here, we learn the bourbon-infused Cheerwine slushie does not actually contain wine.

The buzzing historic building in the South Slope was a roller rink in the 1930s and has seen various lives as an auto shop, a boat showroom and a paper company. Skaters chase galloping horses along the walls in a race that hasn’t ended in more than 80 years.

I chase pulled pork and brisket.

That race lasts far less time.

Good Fry Day.

Where they started lickin' fingers.

Corbin, KY – Hugging the slopes of the Appalachian Mountains, we pull up to a vintage gas station that welcomes us with a white-sided café. The neon outside is quiet this misty morning.

It’s Good Friday, and only a slight detour.

The pumps haven’t worked in years and the café is, of course, not just another forgotten roadside restaurant now. It’s ground zero of a restaurant chain that has grown to offer more than 55,000 locations in 55 countries and territories around the world.

Now, it slings the origin story of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

The once-noble building’s windows are etched with the name “Harland Sanders.” Ever the marketer, Sanders ensured the etchings faced inward, so you’d learn his name as you ate.

The attraction is now predominantly a museum focused on myth-making and brand-building, and it provides models of the Colonel’s hotel rooms, his customary white suit and other memorabilia, including a Harlequin novel where he rescues a damsel in distress, and Crocs pinned with fried drumsticks.

Even the stick figure for the bathroom wears his customary string tie.

But it still sells chicken.

And fries.

Vitals:

• Time: 7.5 hours
• Distance: 470 kms
• States: Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina
• Weather: Rain, cold
• Wildlife: None

De La Soul.

C'est (bour)bon.

Lexington, KY – As the bottom of the rust belt falls out, spring greens pitch tentatively skyward.

Eastern redbuds are sprinkled like confetti in the fog, welcoming the new season and accompanying freedom that floats on the breeze. Between winter and a global pandemic now in its third year, the rebirth hits close to home.

Moving south, Ohio’s skyline becomes an abstract of greys crisscrossed by beams painted ochre and soft blues. Many of the art deco bridges are topped by ornate iron work, whispering to a bygone era.

We hadn’t planned to drive, but studies and life got in the way of fleeting plans and here we are, suddenly on a tour of the bourbon trail and pointed toward Charleston, South Carolina.

A tasting at the modern New Riff Distilling, just over the bridge from Cincinnati, is followed by a stop at Boone County Distilling. I’m driving, so just a sniff and a shot of history.

Boone County, founded in 2015, boasts walls dressed in charred barrel staves, blackened but smooth to the touch. It claims inspiration from a distillery opened in the area in 1833 and uses the tagline “Made by Ghosts.”

“Spirits, Distilled by Spirits” was right there.

C'est (aussi) bon.

The best part of the day, though, has been pulling up to a strip mall in Lexington, looking for dinner. Mimi’s Southern Style Cooking is lined up out the door even though the dining room – which seems to double as a dance hall – sits empty.

There’s no obvious menu, but aluminum catering trays shimmer with fried chicken, mac and cheese, collard greens, green beans, corn bread and various other items. We can immediately tell it’s a road trip gem.

Conspicuous, we’re invited to the front of the line and handed a cafeteria tray.

Everyone else is waiting for the pork chops.

Vitals:

• Time: 11 hours
• Distance: 762 kms
• Province/States: Ontario, Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky
• Weather: Persistent rain, fog and cold
• Wildlife: None