It was a stormy morning in Arkansas Yesterday, but Hot Springs missed the worst of it. We watched local TV news before breakfast. Reporters warned people living just north of Little Rock to move to safe areas of their houses, or if in a car to leave the vehicle and lie flat in a ditch. Several tornadoes were hitting the ground. These reports convinced us not to venture north of where we were, but to travel a southern route towards Oklahoma. Later in the day we heard that 7 people had died in tornadoes. Many more would have been in grave danger had it not been for he excellent job radio and TV weather staions did issuing precise information. Tornado and storm trackers in this part of the USA are amazingly accurate. They know exactly when and where a tornado will hit, and warn listeners to take precautions.
After meeting a heavy band of rain a short distance outside of town, when we had to pull off the road, things improved. A couple of hours driving brought totally clear skies, warm sunshine and a noticeable rise in temperature. We reached the Oklahoma border, then decided to cross the Red River into Texas.
A brief stop in Clarksville, Texas, allowed for stretching of legs around the very pretty and well preserved town square. Whether this is the Clarksville which inspired that old song, "Last Train to Clarksville", isn't clear - there are several other cities with the same name in the USA. We spied a man in a side street repairing a piano, wandered down to investigate. He was working outside his secondhand musical instrument and book shop. We spent a happy interlude in there, chatted to the owners, bought a book and a trumpet mouthpiece which my husband needed for a trumpet he has at home for decorative purposes only (thank goodness!)
Next, on to Paris, Texas (see bove pic).
We booked in to the Victorian Inn Motel for our last night away, then went off to find the "Eiffel Tower", Texas style.
After a meal at Denny's, nextdoor to the motel, we noticed an adjacent bar and decided to look in, hoping for a little local colour. They had an open mic, Friday night. Two different duos entertained us for a couple of hours. This was the first real Texas bar I've visited, and although I've sworn off country music, did enjoy what was on offer - genuine, home-grown, unplugged talent. Strange thing was (to me) to be told at the door that we were in a "dry" county. We had to fill in forms, completing personal details before we were allowed in. It seemed incongruous for a town called Paris to be so tight-assed!
We should be home by this evening.
After meeting a heavy band of rain a short distance outside of town, when we had to pull off the road, things improved. A couple of hours driving brought totally clear skies, warm sunshine and a noticeable rise in temperature. We reached the Oklahoma border, then decided to cross the Red River into Texas.
A brief stop in Clarksville, Texas, allowed for stretching of legs around the very pretty and well preserved town square. Whether this is the Clarksville which inspired that old song, "Last Train to Clarksville", isn't clear - there are several other cities with the same name in the USA. We spied a man in a side street repairing a piano, wandered down to investigate. He was working outside his secondhand musical instrument and book shop. We spent a happy interlude in there, chatted to the owners, bought a book and a trumpet mouthpiece which my husband needed for a trumpet he has at home for decorative purposes only (thank goodness!)
Next, on to Paris, Texas (see bove pic).
We booked in to the Victorian Inn Motel for our last night away, then went off to find the "Eiffel Tower", Texas style.
After a meal at Denny's, nextdoor to the motel, we noticed an adjacent bar and decided to look in, hoping for a little local colour. They had an open mic, Friday night. Two different duos entertained us for a couple of hours. This was the first real Texas bar I've visited, and although I've sworn off country music, did enjoy what was on offer - genuine, home-grown, unplugged talent. Strange thing was (to me) to be told at the door that we were in a "dry" county. We had to fill in forms, completing personal details before we were allowed in. It seemed incongruous for a town called Paris to be so tight-assed!
We should be home by this evening.
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