The other side of his character recalls him sharpening his spikes before games, so that fielders might think twice before getting in his way when he slid into base. He is alleged to have once leapt into the stands to beat up a handicapped fan who was heckling him. But in this part of Georgia, "the Peach", as he was known, is revered, and the museum, although small, is a heartfelt tribute to a great player.

Before joining the interstate to head south to Atlanta, I stop for breakfast at the Carnesville Country Market. It is remarkably similar to yesterday's breakfast venue, and I realise that the dreaded franchise is at work again. It is part of the Flying J, a series of truck stops throughout the country – freshly cooked food, very inexpensive, good service and clean facilities (rest rooms?).

Joining the interstate, I become aware of one of the vaguaries of American numbering. Junctions on the interstate are numbered according to their distance, in miles, from who knows where. Thus junction 118 can be followed by junction 125, without any in between.

Junction 111 promises me fine shopping, so I find a Walmart to check out satellite navigation systems. The cheapest is $300 dollars, twice as much as I expected, so I invest $7.50 in a Janis Joplin CD, which will make being lost much more tolerable.

I pop for a quick "rest", which I assume is the American term for what one does in a rest room, and discover the highlight of the tour so far – a toilet which flushes when you rise from the seat. What an excellent invention, unless, of course, you leave your newspaper on the floor and have to lean forward to reach it!

On to Atlanta, and my first experience of a crowded six-lane highway. The ballpark is visible from the highway, and the hotel is practically next door, so who needs SatNav. This is a real hotel, not one where you park your car outside your room, and I'm here for two nights, which is a little bit of luxury. I spend the first couple of hours sorting out laundry, something I'm not usually so happy to do. Vaguaries of American numbering, part 2 – hotels do not have ground floors, they have first floors. So if you're on the third floor, you're only two flights up. Not that it matters, unless you stand in the lift for ages, looking for a button with G on it.

I spend the early evening walking around Turner Field, which is the home of the Atlanta Braves, who I will be watching tomorrow. It is named after Ted Turner, media magnate and husband of Jane Fonda. I'm not sure if they're still together or divorced, and briefly consider looking it up so that my report is accurate but, quite frankly ………. bovvered???

I dine at the Bullpen BBQ and Grill, opposite the stadium. On a point of vocabulary, the bullpen is the part of a ballpark where the pitchers warm up. The place is basic, and covered with excellent memorabilia, but fails to come good on the microbrews which its menu, thoughtfully placed in my hotel room, promises. But at least it's no longer Sunday, so a couple of carefully selected bottles and a barbecue platter, and I'm good for the night.