You and Florence start out at high noon, and ride in silence until you reach the river. The sun shines through the old oak trees and illuminates the leaves and Spanish moss in mid-afternoon orange. A cool breeze wafts delicious scents of pastries, breads, cakes, and pies, to your nose, telling you that you’re close. “Ah I always love the smells when coming here.” Florence says wistfully. “It is qu...