Alabama: The shellfish gene

'Of course, I've had about 90 nudes since then, you know." The bar stool squeaks with a tone of whimpered and continual suffering as my dining companion leans back, pats his belly and lowers another fleshy, moist and giving "nude" into his crypt-sized mouth. "I never thought I could OD on these things. I had to take a month off before I could really do them justice again."

It's hard to get fat on oysters – and why would you want to? If an American should wish to unbuckle their belt a few notches, then the efficient way to go about it would be through a Herculean intake of corn dogs or doughnuts. However, the man sitting on the stool next to me at Wintzell's Oyster House in Mobile, Alabama, has earned his girth in one of the hardest ways possible – through an oyster habit that would put an army of starfish to shame.

We both gaze up at the "hall of fame" display above the bar from where, every 90 seconds or so, customers are being served batches of a dozen wild oysters, caught in Mobile Bay, served on a battered tin tray and costing a paltry $15 (£7.90) a time. Scrawled on the display is a roll call of past winners of the Oyster Eating Championship. Rules state that the entrants must not leave the bar during the one hour of competitive gorging. Wisely, the rules also state that "Wintzell says he will not be held responsible for any after-effect – that includes belly ache or hospital fees".

The first winner, in 1969, ate 188 in an hour. The present holder, Jimmy Langford, ate an ocean-emptying 402. My dining companion, Charlie, explains to me ruefully that he stalled on 81 in last year's contest.

For the last 69 years, Wintzell's has been serving up molluscs at prices which have not only encouraged ludicrous binge-eating contests, but have democratised what is, for many, the most decadent and indulgent of foods. Impressive in a part of the States that, when mentioned in polite circles, is still more likely to bring up remarks involving rednecks and underage marriages than anything more sophisticated.

There's some sense in the argument that smiles set places apart from each other. Are you set at your ease by the beaming smile of a Brazilian beach babe? Do you feel oppressed by genuflecting grins from a Greek-islander gift salesman? Smiles seen in public places rarely have much to do with happiness. Rather, they have everything to do with providing service for others.

The genuine smile is harder to find in the US than anywhere else on earth. On the East and West coasts, people smile because they're feeling smug. But in Alabama, people smile because they want you to be happy. It's evident in the 1920s canteen-style interior of Wintzell's, where the walls are covered with ancient, handwritten signs of folksy, homespun wisdom ("Unfortunately, there is a widespread view that the proper lubricant for a political machine is palm oil rather than elbow grease" is one example). It's evident on the sated faces of the stool-sagging customers at the bar counter, and most of all it's evident on the faces of the locals walking (a novelty in itself in this region of the States) down Dauphin Street.

Dauphin is an urban avenue in the heart of Mobile's downtown. It's so perfect that, if it didn't exist, we'd have to conclude that the paintings of Edward Hopper and the novels of Carson McCullers were simply having us all on with their depictions of the utopian small-town American dream. Here, you can see what they were getting at. And it makes tourists like me smile nearly as much as the locals seem to do.

This is a street that puts one in mind of a thousand pieces of American literature and art. The Gothic-looking clapboard houses on the southern end of the road exude that particularly Southern ambience of old secrets, slow footsteps and long shadows contained within. Is Boo Radley about to emerge when the sun sets? Has that house been photographed by William Eggleston already?

Further north, near Cathedral Square, lies a typical late-19th century neo-classical townhouse with a window display that consists of a display of mannequins in rabbit costumes. This is u o Space 301, a contemporary art gallery that made me stop and consider whether I hadn't, in fact, unwittingly walked on to the set of a David Lynch film.

The Saenger Theatre on South Joachim Street opened in 1927. The interior seems scarcely to have changed since then. It's home to the Mobile Symphony Orchestra and is resplendent with chandeliers. Outside, statues of Poseidon and Dionysus stand guard. It might put you in mind of yet another piece of American heritage clumsily rescued and packaged as "authentic" for day-trippers, but this really is the real thing.

Dauphin Street is still the hub of Mobile's commercial life and is the perfect antidote to anyone tired of weaving their way through the endless succession of low-level strip malls and retail outlets that pepper so much of the rest of the state.

To understand why the ambience of towns such as Mobile feels so different – somehow more honest and vulnerable – than elsewhere in the US, I was told by another oyster-eating veteran at Wintzell's to visit a clearing in some woods located a few miles away in Point Clear.

Here lies the Confederate Rest Cemetery, the final resting place of more than 300 Confederate soldiers who died at the hospital nearby (a sprawling hotel called the Grand now covers the site). They were victims of the Siege of Vicksburg, one of the final, most bloody chapters of the American Civil War. For almost two months in spring 1863, the Confederate army serving under John C Pemberton was subjected to a siege in the nearby town of Vicksburg, Mississippi by Union soldiers. Southern men were reduced to eating shoe leather before surrendering on 4 July.

A fire at the hotel in 1869 saw all records of the soldiers buried here destroyed. The graveyard today is free of brash bombast. Wandering amid the headstones is to get a feel for the ordinary lives of the people of Alabama today and why so much of this state has such a beguiling atmosphere of hushed stillness and respect for the past.

A small Confederate flag lies crumpled on the ground near the unmarked crosses of the unknown soldiers; simple, unadorned gravestones mark the resting places of soldiers killed in more recent wars. The only noise is the occasional thwack of a golf club from the hotel grounds nearby. Otherwise this small, almost forgotten graveyard lies mute, a testament to the many who fell in an area of the States where more blood was shed than most, before a society of theatre halls and oyster-eating contests could grow.

STATE LINES: ALABAMA

Population 4.5 million Area six times the size of Wales Capital Montgomery Date in Union 14 December 1819 Flower Camellia Motto "We dare defend our rights" Nickname Yellowhammer State

Sweet motorhome, Alabama
By Garry Hughes

Alabama certainly has a lot of trees. It also has an awful lot of national parks – and our first night in the camper-van was at Cheaha State Park in the Talladega National Forest. Once we'd hooked up (I'll explain later), we walked to a nearby restaurant in the warm blue dusk, serenaded by frogs and occasionally brushed by bats. It was intense – and so was eating our first corndogs and catfish. At last we were in the Deep South, and my wife and children were starting to like it as much as I did.

We'd flown to Atlanta to begin a three-week grand ramble around the South that would take in several states. But we were not allowed to pick up our recreational vehicle (RV) immediately; the company insisted we had a night's rest at the airport Comfort Inn after the flight. We'd already selected what looked like the most modest RV in the brochure: some are so big that they really aren't fit for cities at all.

The next day, Clarence, a burly gent from Cruise America, set us down to watch a video about our new motorhome. My wife and I were far too excited to pay attention but I dearly wish we had. After lunch, we set off in the the biggest vehicle we'd ever driven, on the wrong side of the road...

We headed west into deepest Alabama, and soon found a camp site. Time to hook up! I'm not sure whether Americans invented these things, but they've certainly honed them to perfection. If you choose a "full hook-up", water and electricity will be magically (and cheaply) supplied to your vehicle, and the "grey water" and sewage whisked away.

Next day we soon got lost, trying to find the road to Talladega. Soon we were rolling into the car park of our first Piggly Wiggly (a big supermarket chain, like Waitrose with grits) and digging the delights of blue-collar Talladega. Then we headed south.

If only I'd paid more attention to what the video had been trying to tell us. Somewhere on the road to Montgomery, Alabama's capital, we stopped for a cup of tea and I didn't park the van evenly. This would not necessarily be a problem, unless you happen to be making tea and a scalding cup of it slides off the table and on to your foot. Suddenly we were no longer carefree British tourists, but miles from nowhere, with a badly burnt foot, in the land of ruinous healthcare charges. We bought ice at the next petrol station and my wife gamely drove on while I sat in the back, uttering the occasional groan.

Montgomery is a place of pilgrimage to the memory of just one man. And after lunch at the Dairy Queen – who you callin' white trash? – we went looking for that man: Hank Williams. The Alabama-born singer and songwriter began his extraordinary career here. under the baleful eye of his all-powerful mum. Hank and his Drifting Cowboys then headed all over the South and when he'd made it and was living in Nashville, Hank still found time to nip back from their Montgomery base.

Drink and drugs eventually got him sacked from the Grand Ole Opry. When he died in 1953, he was buried back home. There's a statue of Hank opposite the City Auditorium, where they held his funeral. It was the largest event ever held for a citizen of Alabama. However, the best site for all Hank-ophiles is his grave at the Oakwood Cemetery, beneath a marble cowboy hat.

Dead singers were all very well – I think that we were listening to Howlin' Wolf at the time – but what the children really liked was the camping, and the Paul M Grist State Park was magnificent. We took a full hook-up beside the lake, lit the barbecue and gathered wood for the fire. At dawn the next day we were paddling a canoe through the mist, while deer came down to drink. You just don't forget stuff like that.

www.cruiseamerica.com; 001 480 464 7300

TRAVELLER'S GUIDE

Getting there

There are no direct flights between the UK and Alabama. The writer travelled to Mobile on American Airlines (020-7365 0777; www.americanairlines.co.uk) via Dallas. Many US airlines fly to the State including Continental (0845 607 6760; www.continental.com), United (0845 8444 777; www.unitedairlines.co.uk) and Delta (0845 600 0950; www.delta.com) via their hub cities.

Staying there

Berney/Fly Bed and Breakfast, Government St, Mobile (001 251 405 0949; www.berneyflybedandbreakfast.com). B&B from $57 (£30). Grand Hotel Marriott Resort, Point Clear (001 251 928 9201). Doubles from $204 (£107).

Eating & drinking there

Wintzell's Oyster House, 605 Dauphin St, Mobile (001 251 432 4605; www.wintzellsoysterhouse.com).

Visiting there

Space 301, Cathedral Square, Mobile (001 251 208 5671; www.space301.com). Open Wednesday-Saturday 10am-5pm, Sunday from noon; $5 (£2.60). Dauphin Street (001 251 470 7730; www.mainstreetmobile.org).

More information

Mobile Bay Visitor's Bureau: 001 251 208 2000; www.mobile.org.

Alabama Bureau of Tourism: 001 334 242 4169; www.800alabama.com.

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