Angels and ministers of grace defend us, but we actually get away on time this morning! Downtown Bowling Green for a coffee-shop breakfast, then the road gets well and truly hit.

We trundle along the highway and our morning stupor is broken by an overjoyed Andthesea crying “Dicks!”

‘Eh?’

‘Dicks! Finally, thank Jaysus for that!’

A word of explanation. Andthesea has been most keen to do some shopping at the famous Dicks Sporting Goods ever since the beginning of the trip. Until this point his ambitions had not been realised, but with a store close by, now the time had come for Andthesea to get some Dicks.

We purchase an ol’ pigskin to toss around, and I get a pair of running shoes: a futile, piteous act of defiance against my ever-rising body-mass.

Next door is an Old Navy and the guys buy a large and floppy straw-hat, the kind which might sit atop the head of a morbidly obese Southern dame on an Arizona porch. They make me wear it as punishment for crashing the car yesterday. It is harsh justice, but justice all the same.

*

We drive to Mammoth Cave National Park and have a wee jaunt in the largest cave system on earth. Certainly not a small cave – they don’t seem to do ‘small’ around here. We also have a short hike above the caverns in some gorgeous woodland. A very large tree has fallen across a deep creek and we, the brave, tiptoe across it.

I stand with Silver at the far end of our natural bridge. I begin to pray: ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, let The Yankee fall in..’

And for once The Big Man upstairs (as opposed to The Big Man pottering on the riverbank) was listening. The Yankee stumbles on the log and falls across the tree’s wide trunk, his arms hanging on one side, his feet dangling on the other, four yards or so above the green waters below.

‘No..no..NOOOoo!’ he wails as, inevitably, he slips backwards. In he drops, going right under. When he resurfaces, cursing, the woods ring with wild laughter. Silver collapses, unable to breathe. It is one of those rare, perfect moments. Well..for five of us at least.

*

Off we drive in a torrential rainstorm, and the drumming beat of the droplets lulls me to sleep. ‘Where should we eat then?’ asks someone upfront, starting me awake. I look out of the window and see a fast-food joint I recognize. ‘White Castle?’ I suggest, slumber-addled, thinking of some movie or other which made reference to it.

TOM’S TOP TIP: Don’t, under any circumstances, go to White Castle. It is utterly vile fare. The ‘sliders’ are poison and the deep fried Wisconsin cheese curds (yes..really) are 100% cholesterol. The team are unimpressed and look daggers at me. The floppy hat stays on.

Back on the road we encounter terrible traffic on the road into Nashville, the first tailback of the trip. I fall asleep again and dream of large women in straw bonnets eating piles and piles of cheese curds.

*

We arrive in Nashville, finally, and troop into the Nashville Downtown Hostel. It’s a grand place to stay, with a great quality pool table and spacious communal areas. We intrinsically disagree with the house rule of ‘no hard liquor’, but, being compliant souls, abstain to the best of our ability.

The six of us are sharing our dorm with one other fellow. He’s an interesting looking human, sharing a countenance with that bloke from the new Star Wars film. Let us set out the (one) conversation we had with Kylo Ren:

THE YANKEE: Hello there, I’m The Yankee, what’s your name?

KYLO REN: Kylo Ren.

ME: Ah, excellent. Where are you from, Kylo?

KYLO REN: Ohio.

THE YANKEE: Nice! And what are you here in Nashville for?

KYLO REN: Something.

He said not one word more.He had hung towels and blankets from the bunk above and had made himself a little Starkiller Base, into which he burrowed. An odd chap, no doubt about it. Let us speak no more of him.

We head to Acme Feed and Seed, have some (many) drinks and a bite to eat, fall in with a few fellow revelers, and have the curious ‘pleasure’ of listening to a live set by Johnny Carter-Cash, scion of the great Johnny Cash.

Johnny Jnr. proceeds to butcher his great father’s back catalogue while high as a kite on MDMA. Chewing his own face off he dines out on daddy’s legacy for a while, before passing duties over to his much younger and much more talented fiancee. She seems a little less partial to the various naughty salts so loved by her betrothed. She also seems (to my untrained eye) to be a couple of months pregnant, so perchance in forty-five years’ time Johnny Cash’s grandchild will be on stage, murdering Ring of Fire with pupils like saucers, just like his da’.

We have never, ever seen so many lasses in one place. They outnumber the fellas three to one at least, and one cannot move for bachelorette parties.The fearsome combination of Irish brogues and English lilts proves somewhat popular. The lights are bright and the liquor flows. It is a famous night.