The dogs of Virginia are delightfully well-behaved. I've barely heard a bark since crossing the stateline. It's possible that word of my victories in the bloody dog wars out west has preceded me, and now the curs cower silently until I pass.
Western Virginia is like a gentler, well groomed version of Kentucky. A land of genteel farmers and friendly evangelists, happy to chat about the weather, or Jesus, or their cousin's motorcycle trips.
I stayed in the master bedroom of a magnificent Victorian mansion. The sweet old lady who lived there fixed us a huge Southern breakfast in the morning. All of us guests sat around an ornate table in the parlor eating cheese grits and biscuits and fried tomatoes, among many other things.
It was so good that I stupidly rode off in a food-daze, forgetting to take a picture.