Chickaloon. Another small roadhouse. Open expanse of windswept gravel outside. Inside a bar to the left. A sign said "If assholes could fly this place would be an airport". One customer. A rotund man, white beard, Stetson and braces. I went to the right. Small cafe.
I grabbed a self-service coffee. Couple of dollars. The cinnamon rolls looked tempting, as did the Pie A la Mode, but pricey. A middle-aged couple, early fifties, were sat by the window. Italian perhaps. Tourists definitely.
A lady appeared from out the back. She’d passed me earlier she said. Had I waved, I asked hopefully? Yes. Could she see my posterior? Slightly taken aback, I agreed. Some padding, I admitted with a smile.
Grateful of a rest from the saddle, I was intrigued by the eclectic nature of the cafe. Welsh dresser in the corner, strip of replica posters, National Parks mostly, pasted around the walls where a picture rail might have been. Stainless steel bar stools in on corner. Comfy padded benches.
