THE PASTORAL BRUSH COUNTRY: Our trip just south of San Antonio took
us to northern most section of "The Brush Country". Much of the bush has
long since been replaced by rolling pastures and cultivated fields.
THE NORTHERN BRUSH COUNTRY, Prickly Pear,
Picadillo, Peanuts, Poteet, & Promised Land
Story & Photos by IRA KENNEDY
Thanks to Ms. Intrepid's impressive imagination the
alliterated itinerary includes major moments in this months missive. (Ok, I promise
not to do that any more.) This issue takes in a fair sized piece of the Texas Brush
Country. Don't let the designation fool you, this is some of the most beautiful landscape
in the state..
ittin on the couch like potatoes we pondered
the maps of several counties before agreeing on a general destination. I'll spare
you the details but basically we considered all the cardinal directions before deciding on
the Northern Brush Country just south of San Antonio (See Map).
Taking in a mere 281 miles Nigel the Land Rover could get a good work out, I could soak up
the past at the Bigfoot museum (which has nothing to do with the critter) and Ms. Intrepid
could bask in the present at the Promised Land (Dairy) with it's guided tours right here
That was the plan and naturally it didn't pan out.
You see, we don't really "plan" a trip. We play hunches, place our
bets and then go for broke. Which is why we get lost more than most folk and stumble onto
really interesting stuff you won't find in your guide books.
Why go somewhere if you already know what you're
going to see, where you're going to eat and when you'll return? That's like hearing
every detail of a movie beforehand. Where's the surprise? Where's the
adventure? Where's the off-ramp?
Traveling south of San Antonio on Interstate 35 we
came across the most fantastic congregation of junked car businesses imaginable.
Just in case Southern Bexar County doesn't have a slogan I recommend "The Junked Car
Capital of Texas -- If Not the World." Now don't get me wrong, I have a
powerful sympathy for old wore-out, broke-down, nearly useless things. Kinda reminds me of
that feller what's stuck in the bathroom mirror. But seeing them all bunched up like
that is kinda morbid, like abandoned graveyards.
I didn't get depressed or upset like that sounds.
Fact is I was still working on the waking up part of my day. Actually, I was supposed
to be navigating but I left my reading glasses back on the coffee table and the type on
the map is smaller than a seed tick. The big difference being you can locate a tick
in the dark once it gets your attention. Maps aren't nearly as accommodating.
So Ms. Intrepid
was driving and reading the map. I was riding shotgun and maybe doing a
little praying on the side every so often. Naturally we left the Interstate behind
at the earliest possible moment and found, to our delight, the fencelines along the road
were resplendent with prickly pear. If I had been allowed to vote on the state
flower this would be my choice hands down -- it's found throughout the state, brilliant as
sunshine and it comes in more than one color.
We had just passed brunch and fast approaching lunch
when we entered the outskirts of Devine. Then it happened. Ms. Intrepid saw a
"Homemade Tortillas" sign,
grabbed the whoa-reins on Nigel and did a U-turn into a caliche driveway.
1: HEADIN' OUT / PAGE 2: DEVINE
PAGE 3: BIGFOOT & PEARSALL / PAGE
4: POTEET AND FLORESVILLE
POSTSCRIPT: FAIRVIEW / THE MAP
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