“There’s probably a bear within a quarter of a mile of us. In fact he can probably hear us and he can definitely smell you.” Fear rather than offence was the over-riding reaction to the comment by the enormous bearded photographer called John, who had just startled out of sleep on North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Parkway.

Having just read Bill Bryson’s hiking book, A Walk in the Woods, in which the author attempted to walk the 3200km along Carolina’s Appalachian Trail, avoiding peckish creatures, starvation and death. The adventurous side of me was soon in New York’s bus station where for a few dollars I too could take myself South to the lure of the mountains. After several hours in Richmond station surrounded by possible killers, I decided it was probably a good idea to join forces with a travel companion and do it by car.

I started out alone though, in the South Carolina heart of Charleston — a city embedded in the books of the country’s history. Although the American Civil War was responsible for the deaths of more American soldiers than any war since then, South Carolinians remain firmly proud of that cherished 1860 moment when they attempted to break free from the Union as the Rebel Confederacy. Even today, the faintly intimidating red and blue rebel flag still flutters its way throughout the State. South Carolina was soon joined by 12 more States which wanted to keep their cotton and rice plantations worked by slaves.

The firing of muskets at Charleston’s Fort Sumter in 1861, signalled the start of four years of North versus South. While a quarter of all Southern white males ended up with a bullet lodged somewhere fatally painful, the Northerners got their victory.

Politics remain mighty conservative and the occasional appearance of large men in pointed pillow cases and burning wood is not unheard of. Despite this, Charleston has made a positive name for itself in recent years. Not only is it one of America’s prettiest cities, it’s also one of the most unusual with its European, almost French appearance. Away from the run-down clapboard suburbs, the city centre relishes in its elegant charm. Colourful ante-bellum houses with names like “The Joseph Manigualt House,” are adorned with wooden shutters and iron balconies. These line the streets and along with shade-giving palm trees add a hint of the Caribbean.

Beyond Charleston are the sub-tropical sea islands of St. Helena and Hilton Head. These are full of Spanish moss swathing the trees, houses and anything else that stands upright. It’s on these road connected islands that the gullah culture of Carolina is found. When Lincoln’s good work was put into action and the slaves could finally stick their fingers up at their masters, these island’s were designated as black only areas. They managed to preserve many of their original West African traditions, keeping alive the accent known as gullah. Part of this tradition can still be seen in the “basked ladies” who weave gullah designs at the roadside and in the markets.

Elsewhere, money is made in the shrimp and oyster fishing communities. Nets and boats inhabit the bright green marshes and swamps, hopefully avoiding the occasional alligator and rural cockroach (a more becoming insect than its urban cousin, as I was reassured by a thoughtful hotelier).

Further north up the coast is the famed resort of Myrtle Beach and its crowds of muscle-flexing college kids with their loud shirts and tans. It’s a far more relaxing treat to head inland toward the Appalachian mountains. That’s where I met John, who spent much of the year sleeping in a camper van in the Blue Ridge Mountains, chasing the weather and looking for that elusive sunrise shot.

The overwhelmingly scenic Parkway was built in the 1930s largely by a voluntary body. It winds a couple of hundred kilometres along the crest of the Appalachians from near the Georgian border to Virginia. The area is full of chances to pull over and ponder over the many view points.

Up there, the biggest surprise is the weather, which can change in seconds from summer heat, to fog and chilly gusts. Much of the time was spent avoiding the rain clouds and the jungle-like clouds of mist, a fortunate pastime that didn’t allow much room for thinking about the gangs of bears, wolves and check-shirted poachers.

Once off the Parkway there are villages with thriving hillbilly cultures, featuring bearded men in dungarees and hick, old country restaurants. Motels in the area provide their own back-garden streams. Restaurants are stocked with fried catfish, boiled peanuts and smoke-smelling BBQ pork. If that’s not enough to wet your appetite, there’s always the temptation of country dancing and hoedowns in the local bars.

John and I survived — no alligator bites or bear scratches to speak of. I had even begun to forgive the naughty past of Carolina and realised if I had been a 19th Century Carolinian, I might have been a confederate as well. I think we should keep that to ourselves though.