The countryside is looking awfully familiar. New smooth pavement, minimal traffic and the gentlest rolling hills when not completely flat made for a very pleasant cycling day. On the road today I learned to identify the song of the tufted titmouse: Peter, peter, peter, peter. Riding sweep I’ve gotten to know the only true tourer-mode cyclist on the trip, Fuat. (Most others have a strong dose of road cyclist in them.) The bird songs all mean something to him, thus the lesson on the tufted titmouse.
The campsite once again was rougher than most wanted but sort of what I’d expect in areas not catering to educated and/or moneyed visitors. Poor southern states have poor private-run southern RV camping sites. I too would like the place to be a notch or two higher but am not surprised it wasn’t.