“It’s either 425 steps down or 1100 steps up,” my husband informed me. “Which one?” We were stood at the top of Amicalola Falls, the air blowing up like an air-conditioner on full blast, a welcome respite from the unnaturally blistering Georgia summer heat.
“We could drive to that car park by the falls and walk with no steps.” I suggested this no-brainer, thinking of the heat and the kids and my knees, but my husband seemed not to hear that helpful hint, and we began our descent down the wooden steps to the falls. I blame it on Bill Bryson.
