Raleigh is a strange place for a capital city. The train station is small, even by Irish country standards, but it is a short walk to the city centre. Whist waiting for my bag a lady looks over my shoulder and stares into the distance, "so that's where it is!" she exclaims. I look at her, puzzled. "The Pit, you know that restaurant thats always on the food channel. I knew it was around here". I see a non de-script single story, glass fronted building on the other side of the tracks. It does not bode well and I begin to sense a low, unpleasant vibration. It is the 05th July around 1730 and the town is deserted. There are numerous high rise office blocks and hotels but there is no-one about It begins to feel like one of those disaster movies, like "the omega man", or the vastly inferior remake,' I am legend".

To the hotel, a soulless block. I ask about somewhere to eat, as I have had eaten nothing since breakfast, and the receptionist recommends "The Pit". Once is coincidence, twice is happenstance, so I decide to walk the three block distance.

It is now 1830 and as I pass out of the lobby the heat hits me like a hammer blow. I meet no-one on the walk there, two cars pass. I open the door to a welcome coolness and the buzz of a good atmosphere. The place is alive. I get a seat, order one of the many speciality beers and soon after, begin to eat. I notice a blind man who is eating alone. He appears momentarily agitated. One of the waiters, a boy, goes to him immediately and they talk briefly. He leads him to the toilet and as they pass me I hear them talk in easy, unembarrassed terms. After he returns, he pays his bill and another man appears to lead him out. I wonder for a while what it is that strikes me about his manner. I think now that it was that he appeared content and happy, comfortable in his place in this town. Not special nor in need. He just belonged and no-one needed to be reminded of that.

This is not meant to be a food column but, Southern food is just so different from the northern varieties I have to describe it. First, I have been labouring under an illusion for many years. Barbecue, I am informed, was invented in North Carolina. It is, it appears a noun, not a verb. You eat barbecue, you do not "do" it. A hog (not a pig), is put into a pit whole with hickory and oak embers and turned every few minutes all night. The meat is then chopped finely and shredded. It is the product of this that is barbecue. Mine came with creamed corn, fried okra and collared greens. It was beyond delicious and as it melted into my mouth I think I finally glimpsed the meaning of soul food. There was a free starter of pickled vegetables, including watermelon rind, okra, beet, greens and a whole large white onion. I also got hush puppies (excellent!) and home made biscuits. I could barely move, let alone walk back to my hotel, but the city seemed much nicer on the return journey.

Tomorrow, the holiday is over and I hope to see this southern town come to life.