As much as the stretch of US One through Duval County defines my past, the next twenty-five miles of four-lane divided highway through Saint Johns County reflects the life I live now. I commute daily along this route from St. Augustine to south Jacksonville, driving into the city during the mid-afternoon and returning home at midnight. To most, it looks like an empty stretch of blacktop once you clear the Palm Valley Road and County Road 210 intersection, but in the last year and a half, I have come to know it intimately. After all that time, I have learned to appreciate the history and small details of things that dot the landscape.

Three hurricanes have delayed this part of the journey- Charley, Frances and Jeanne. Each one added their mark to the land, dropping trees, flooding the low places and depriving the mostly rural inhabitants of Saint Johns County of essential services like telephone communications and electricity. Without electricity, those homeowners using wells have no water. In the space of a few minutes, a hurricane can turn back the clock, returning modern-day homesteaders to the life-styles of their grandparents, when ice was a luxury, candlelight was the norm and self-reliance was expected.

At the turn of the last century, when US One was still just a sand-covered wagon road, a tiny hamlet named Durbin Station stood near the FEC railroad tracks about a mile south of Durbin Creek. One hundred and five years later, the town is an enigmatic dot on old road maps and the creek is all but invisible as it flows quietly through concrete aqueducts under the pavement. No trace of the townsite remains, but as I sit on the southbound shoulder of the highway, I can sense the history that has passed this spot. The sun has become a dark orange ball on the western horizon, nesting in the pines and cedars of Durbin Swamp. If the place has a monument, it is the Forestry Service fire tower across the road, one of the few vertical control stations left in use.

A hundred yards or so to the south stands an empty diner that once challenged an American icon. Stuckey's Pecan Shoppes have been a roadside draw since 1937, but in the 1940's, a candy salesman named Horne decided to open his own chain of restaurants with a unique peaked-roof design to beat Stuckey's at their own game. It might have worked, had the expanding interstate system not siphoned off the majority of travelers to other routes. The business only lasted about twenty years, but the old Horne's diners still can be seen on many US highways. The one in Durbin was eventually bought by an equally enterprising restauranteur, David Johnson, who added his name to the roof, which he painted bright orange to resemble yet another American roadside icon- Howard Johnson's. It stayed in business until 1999, when the doors closed for good.*

Another deception regarding this apparently remote section of US One is that there are no traffic problems to be concerned with. In fact, there has been more than a few fatalities and a whole car lot full of crumpled steel generated just in the time I have moved back to Florida. Before traffic lights were installed at County Road 210 and World Golf Village Parkway, I witnessed four collisions, one of which involved a young mother and her baby. After Neese High School was built in Durbin, a teenage student lost control of his vehicle trying to avoid debris falling out of a dump truck and was killed when his car left the road. I've seen a couple of cars mired in the swamp along the railroad grade, their drivers either under the influence or asleep at the wheel when they drifted off the highway. Not long ago I even spotted the headlights of a vehicle stuck across the tracks themselves. Memorials to the victims of all this mayhem spring up along the shoulders periodically, marking the spot where a loved one departed this life. Further south, the entrance to the wildlife management area is marked by a railroad crossing gate that seems out of place in the middle of nowhere. A sandy dirt road winds away into the pine forest beyond, only hinting at what may lie just out of sight. A few minutes further and you reach the gravel pits, an active mine that routinely ships fifteen or twenty gondola cars full of Florida limestone and gravel to construction companies in several states. This same area bears the scars of a fast-moving forest fire that managed to "jump" all four lanes of US One earlier this summer. Blackened tree trunks stand out in sharp contrast to the deep green of new palmetto fronds, reclaiming the forest floor. A fresh layer of pine needles will carpet the ground by spring, almost completely erasing the damage.

In the gathering twilight, I search for the familiar outline of the double-decker omnibus that announces the Kings Head British Pub. Five minutes from my house, it is an ocean away from its surroundings. Housed in a modest Tudor-style bungalow, the pub instantly transports me from the US to the UK the minute I walk through the door. Beyond the eclectic decor of antique Victorian tables, wooden pews and chairs with velvet cushions, there is a huge collection of mugs, mirrors, flags and posters for all things British covering almost every inch of the cavernous dining room. Beefeater dolls and figurines guard the back wall behind the bar and the unmistakable lilt of an English accent is evident on the two young women who are waiting tables this evening. No detail seems to have been overlooked, from the couple throwing darts to the traditional British menu, which features plain, but hearty "pub grub"- steak and kidney pie, Cornish pastie, fish and chips all washed down with your choice of lagers, ales, hard cider or bitters. I opt for the bangers and mash, accompanied by a regulation English imperial pint of pale ale.

It may seem incongruent to discover a pocket of British ex-pats in the wilds of northeast Florida but in fact, the English have had a presence here since 1763. For about twenty years, Florida was the fourteenth colony on the American continent and despite a brief attempt to bring the territory into the rebellion in 1776, it was largely ignored during the American Revolution. Loyalist sentiment ran high in the colony. John Adams and John Hancock were burned in effigy after the Declaration of Independence was announced in St. Augustine. Many prisoners taken during the war were housed here, including three of those who signed the declaration. When the peace treaties were signed in 1782, Florida was excluded, having been traded back to Spain in a bit of shrewd diplomacy by the British. These days, very little of the English occupation can be seen outside of a few early Spanish period homes that were modified to British tastes. The most lasting effect was the name given to the main thoroughfare of colonial St. Augustine- Saint George Street. This narrow lane met the Kings Road at the old city gates in St. Augustine, the end of a long trek for many eighteenth century travelers. Without the British, there would be no Kings Road and the history of US One would be considerably different.

In the parking lot behind the pub, I stop for a second to stare up at the sky, watching the stars blink on as day becomes night. A freight train rumbles by on it's way south and I follow it towards St. Augustine, now a welcome glow on the horizon. Approaching from the north, I am met by the glittering lights of the St. Johns County Airport, where US One curves sharply southwest to avoid the main runway. Occasionally a small plane will float overhead at treetop level when I pass by, the pilot gliding towards a landing just a few hundred yards away. Even in the dark, I can trace the outlines of the Navy airborne surveillance planes across the field. When it's warm, the night shift at Grumman open the hanger doors while they work on fighter jets, giving the traffic on US One a glimpse into a world of exotic avionics. Just across the street from my neighborhood is an airplane graveyard, full of Grumman S2 Trackers. Ironically, they were put into service the same year I was born. It makes me feel old now, when I see the bleached-out hulks slowly being swallowed up by kudzu.

Here too, the railroad tracks bend, paralleling the highway into town. From my house two blocks away, I can feel the rumble of the engines when they pass and track their progress north or southbound by the number of times they whistle a crossing. It is from here that all journeys begin and end now. Perhaps it's not too surprising that I have landed in a spot that is within earshot of the highway and the railroad. They have both been the backdrop for half my life. The corridor between Jacksonville and St. Augustine, with the sights and sounds of life along its length, is permanently etched in memory. Over the years, I have become part of that tapestry, adding my small role to the sum of history. It is gratifying and only right that when I die, my last ride will be down US One to some green place to sleep forever.

* See the 4/27/05 update on the previous page regarding Horne's history in north Florida.