The purest form of mountain music, old time is, frankly, weird - hypnotic, cyclical, like Celtic fiddle music conducted by Philip Glass on drugs - but the lively crowd of twenty- and thirtysomethings laps it up and the evening gets wilder as the beer flows.

It’s a good introduction, but this isn’t the heart of mountain music. The drinking’s the clue. Step outside freewheeling Asheville’s city limits, up into the hills, and you’re back in the Old South. It’s largely “dry” - no bars and no booze, apart from the odd moonshine still back in the woods. Around every corner there’s a Baptist church, complete with Bible-thumping preacher. People consume huge amounts of Southern food, the unhealthiest in the world. If it moves, they’ll slather it in lard and fry it. A popular dish is hush puppies - dollops of bread dough, coated in batter, deep-fried and served with creamery butter. No wonder they’re so keen on church. If you eat like this, the afterlife’s imminent.

Some of the attitudes are pretty alien, too. At one gathering I went to, there was a raffle stall, staffed by kindly old ladies who could have been straight out of the WI (but with louder leisure wear). First prize was a rifle. You can’t win one of those in Surrey.

“You want a ticket, honey?” said one with a smile.

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“Er... I’m a bit surprised at the prize. We’d think that was sort of odd where I come from.”

I didn’t mean to offend, but she looked taken aback. “It’s a good rifle,” she said defiantly. “Very accurate. Do you want to see?” I passed.

Despite their unnerving ways with lethal weaponry, they’re a tremendously welcoming bunch. If you need proof, go to Mrs Hyatt’s Oprahouse. Don’t be fooled by the name. It’s a shed, really, but quite a special one.

For 60 years, the Hyatt family have invited local folks here every Thursday, to make music and listen and just shoot the breeze. There’s no charge, the coffeepot’s on the table and all visitors are welcome. It’s as simple, and generous, as that.

A couple of dozen onlookers are here tonight, watching a circle of 15 or so players, aged from 22 to 80, pick tunes such as Snowflake Reel and Orange Blossom Special. They’re fast and furious, a double bass keeping time while fiddles, mandolins and harmonicas spin off to weave a labyrinth of notes over the top.

Adults and kids alike are doing the mountain dances, clogging and flatfooting, arms down and feet flying. I chat to carpenters, musos, hobos. As night draws on, the audience melts away, but the musicians, bewitched, just keep on going. There’s a gleam in their eyes and, for all their dexterity, something primal in their playing. This is how these decent, warm people let loose, and they do it in style.

There’s more, lots more - fiddle conventions and hog wallers, jamborees and dances - and, driving through the isolated towns and villes of the Blue Ridge, there’s always the chance of someone sitting on their front porch, picking a tune or two.

But maybe it’s time to head back to Drexel, where Joe Joe and Ernest have broken out into Lonesome Road Blues. Suddenly, the tune is interrupted by a blast from outside: the haunting, quintessentially American sound of the railway whistle as a freight train pulls across Main Street.

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