It’s pretty much a straight three-and-a-half-hour drive due west to Memphis but we’ve got a whole day ahead of us and driving down an Interstate with just drive-by’s and megatrucks to entertain us doesn’t have a huge amount of appeal. Instead a little bit of research throws up a far more interesting suggestion, and one that makes a lot more sense for what’s to come.

If we head south we’ll be able to pick up a scenic country road called the Natchez Trace Parkway which will lead us down to Tupelo, and the birthplace of Elvis Presley. With trips to both Graceland and Sun Studios planned while we’re in Memphis, it seems fitting to check out where the King of Rock’n’Roll was born before we see where he made history, lived and was laid to rest. It’s going to double the length of our drive but means we’re not on a multi-lane freeway the whole way and get to see more of the Tennessee countryside.

The Avis office, just a short walk from the hotel, is remarkably laissez-faire. They don’t check any of our documents but just hand us the keys to a Cherokee jeep and point out the huge slip road opposite which we need to take to head out of Nashville and connect with our route south. First signs aren’t hugely promising as we spend the first 40 minutes on a busy Interstate driving through industrial areas and suburban sprawl in the company of lots of traffic, but once we’re off the main roads we start to see more of the countryside.

By midday we’re on the much quieter Highway 43, the Purple Heart Highway, where none of the huge trucks come and eagles fly overhead. It also boasts curious sights like the Sonic Drive By, where we pull in for a bathroom break. Vehicles pull up at a vacant lot, punch in their order on the menu machines (enormous milkshakes, chilli cheese fries and burgers the size of Donald Trump’s hairdo seem to be the order of the day) and out through a swinging door appears a waitress on rollerskates who speeds over to the waiting car to thrust a tray of coronary disease through the passenger window. We leave empty-handed.

A little further on we drive through a hamlet called Summertown and take the turning for Highway 20 and we’re suddenly in the real rural Tennessee. This is what we expected to see; there are forests and fields, beautiful houses and run-down shacks, little towns and overgrown creeks, wooden white churches with pointed spires and little homes with rocking chairs on porches. This feels like the American South.

Finally, further south than we expected we turn on to the Natchez Trace Parkway just above the charmingly named Dogwood Mudhole. This road, stretching 444 miles from Natchez on the lower Mississippi River to the southern Appalachian foothills outside Nashville, is the most significant highway of the Old Southwest. It was a traditional Native American trail bisecting the homelands of the Natchez, Chickasaw and Choctaw nations and in 1801 President Thomas Jefferson designated it a national post road for mail delivery, making it a vital artery for the flow of information, food and people.

We’re only driving a quarter of it, taking us across the Tennessee stateline and through the western reaches of Alabama before we drive over the huge span of the John Coffee Memorial Bridge, which traverses the Tennessee River and takes us into the state of Mississippi, and our destination of Tupelo. As we go we crank up the latest album from Brent Cobb and sing along to his single ‘King of Alabama’, stopping off for a basic lunch of pretzels and muffins at a little gas station en-route.

The Parkway is lovely and peaceful, taking us through an untouched landscape of verdant forests and rivers, but the winding roads and speed limit of just 40 mph means it’s almost 4pm by the time we get to the outskirts of Tupelo and turn into Elvis Presley Drive, pulling up outside the two room house where Elvis Presley was born to Gladys and Vernon Presley on Jan 8th 1935.

There’s not many people visiting as it’s pretty out of the way, and we’re arriving at the end of the day, but there’s a big visitor centre and gift shop selling all sorts of Elvis tat. We wander around the little site, having a swing on the hanging chair on the porch, reading the memorial signs and looking at the church where Elvis worshipped – which has been helpfully moved closer to the house for tourism purposes – and even take a peek at Elvis’ outside loo… but it’s getting late, so pictures duly snapped, we head on our way.

The two hour drive north west to Memphis is far less scenic, stuck mostly on a big Interstate and it’s gone 6.30pm by the time we arrive at the Peabody Hotel in the centre of Memphis. It’s a grand dame affair, the place to be seen in the city, with a huge lobby of dark woods and chandeliers boasting an elegant bar overlooked by imposing balconies, and at the centre of which sits a fountain, which hosts the famous Peabody ducks.

Having spent most of the day sat in a car, we dump our bags and head straight for a dip in the Romanesque pool in the hotel basement, lounging in the soothing waters. We’re pretty starving by this point, dining options not being particularly forthcoming along our route. So after we’ve unpacked we walk up Union Avenue to Main Street, down which trams trundle, and find a restaurant called the Majestic Grille, which seems to be the classiest place in town.

A stylish old cinema built in 1913 which has been converted into a huge dining room with palm trees and ceiling fans, it screens silent movies over the heads of diners. The concierge at the Peabody had suggested the Majestic as being suitable for vegetarians and sure enough the mushroom tortellini and veggie platter are both delicious, made even more so by the chilled glass of a white wine we treat ourselves to.

Post-dinner it’s time for a stroll down nearby Beale Street, where William C Handy essentially invented the Blues. The humid night air, and somewhat sketchy vibes of Main Street, are both heightened on Beale. Full of clubs and bars, like the BB King Blues Club, Coyote Ugly, The Absinthe Room and Jerry Lee Lewis Cafe & Honky Tonk, it’s absolutely rammed full of tourists and locals, with definitely more of an edge than its downtown counterpart in Nashville. It’s also awash with neon signs and record shops, souvenir stores and historic facades, and in the middle of it all, are hundreds of bikers with pimped-up motorbikes revving and blaring out music, giving the whole street a lively air of potential fun… and danger.

It transpires that Wednesday night is Biker Night in downtown Memphis and all the local chapters parade their wheels and hang out in gangs, eyeing each other up under a sizeable police presence. Some of the bikes boast huge sound systems, or stacks of flashing lights, with lots of guys wearing leather jackets with their Chapters’ insignia patched on the back, while women dressed in clothes that leave very little to the imagination, twerk on the curb and strut up and down in front of the men. It’s quite an amazing sight and we walk through it all, deafened by the noise and staggered by the views.

We decide to round off the night at Alfreds, a rooftop bar on the corner of BB King Blvd and Beale Street, where we order a Pink Flamingo cocktail (which does actually come with an inflatable flamingo) and a rum-based Bicentennial. The non-drinking is going well… 

Our waiter recommends the latter cocktail, telling us that today is the actual 200th Anniversary of the city. We take the claim with a pinch of salt, thinking he’s doing a good job of up-selling… but then find out on the news, back in our hotel room, that he’s telling the truth and we have indeed arrived into Memphis exactly two hundred years to the day since it was founded. It’s a sign - we must celebrate!!