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I was driving into a hurricane. His name was Georges, according to CNN, and he was spinning north from the French Caribbean towards Panama City Beach, Florida. At present estimations I would get there two days before he did.

I was going to PCB (as it’s known locally) for two important reasons. First, because it’s the site of ‘the Best Beach in America’, as voted by Conde Nast Traveller Magazine; and second, because it’s known as ‘The Redneck Riviera’ - the favourite beach resort for numerous large people from the southern USA with a traditional love of country music and a dislike of racial minorities.

I had visions of pot-bellied women called Tammy paddling in America’s finest waters. And no windy storm was going to stop me seeing that.

PCB is tucked into the north-west armpit of Florida, a place of swampy forests and bizarre roadkill - dead armadillos, snakes and turtles. The Panhandle, as the region is known, is as far from the package crowds of Orlando and Miami as it gets. Every radio station plays country music. The country, one song informed me, is where girls ‘look like Sunday and treat you like Saturday night.’

As I headed past the state capital of Tallahassee, country music gave way to Christian radio, interspersed with announcers warning that Georges had been upgraded to a category 3 (violent) hurricane.

‘Do you need a friend to be with you to the end? May I recommend our Lord.’

‘105 mile an hour winds …’

‘Stand up if you’re a child of God’

‘… approaching north-west at eight miles an hour …’

Arriving in PCB brought relief from readings of Revelations, and the beginning of fresh fears. The city straddles a sandy spit bordering the Gulf of Mexico, it’s numerous 10-storey concrete hotels built on low-lying sand-dunes. Which is not where you want to be when a Hurricane strikes.

‘We’ve no plans to evacuate’ said Neil at the Howard Johnson Inn. ‘Have a great day.’

Outside, I could see Neil’s point. What was there to worry about? The sun was pouring down, with hardly a breath of wind.

First signs were encouraging. In the parking lot, the car number plates were all southern - from Georgia to Louisiana. On the beach, which stretches for 27 miles along the shore, large people waddled about in the waves, calling to each other in strident, singing accents. Their necks, whilst large, were as white as a bishop’s cassock.

At the tourist office, Visitor Manager Jayna Leach described PCB’s clientele.

‘We have different seasons. Families in summer, couples in fall, older folks in winter and at spring-break time, college students.’

Ah yes. The college students. Over the years PCB has taken over from Fort Lauderdale and Daytona as the focus for US collegiate March break revelry, aided in part by municipal publicity promoting police benevolence regarding drunken behaviour. Jayna seemed bashful;

‘There’s a lot of renovation, landscaping going on. We’re trying to change our image.’

This new image concentrates heavily on St.Andrew’s State Park, containing the stretch of beach that won the coveted Conde Nast award.

Driving through the park to the sea I almost ran over a ferocious black snake. Signs along the roadside mangrove swamps read ‘do not feed the alligators.’ It was no wonder the beach was so secluded: all previous visitors had evidently been eaten. But the sand itself was wonderfully white. So white in fact it looked like snow - the result of quartz crystals washing down from the Appalachian Mountains. And it crunched when I walked on it. The water was a blue usually reserved for toothpaste.

My only disappointment was the lack of rednecks. A young couple canoodled in the surf, but they were thin and German. After paddling in the warm clear water I spied some fatter people on the neighbouring pier, including a woman wearing a T-shirt that read ‘Jesus@pray.God.’ Her man was drinking beer and his name was Clint.

‘We come down from Montgomery for the weekend pretty often. It’s a fun place. Nice and quiet.’

Marilyn was just as content. Her hair was as big as a corgi and she loved PCB.

‘Everyone’s real warm, real friendly. The seafood’s awesome. Have you tried Captain Anderson’s?’

I hadn’t so I did. Captain Anderson’s serves ‘the best seafood in the south’, at least according to Southern Living Magazine. The restaurant was packed with large white families, in number and size. The accents were lilting, a singing twang. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and not give two figs a hurricane was coming. Over tuna steak, I chatted with owner Jimmy Patronis Jnr. He cheerfully admitted his customers are mainly from the southern states;

“Call them Redneck if you want, I don’t think it’s a negative thing. These people are hard-working, they save up all year for a summer vacation, eat at our restaurant six days in a row, generation after generation. People here are ritualized.’

Over coffee I began to realise my visions of southerners had been wholly prejudiced by Hollywood. These people were friendly, courteous to excess, and full of fun. Whilst few had much concept of what lay beyond their region - one man asked me if Europe was in England - they all seemed to embrace simple yet scarce values.

‘Good food, good friends, good living,’ was Tammy’s summary of the southern experience.

Or as Tom Valentine, a retired chef and local bon-viveur put it;

‘We’re 10 years behind the rest of the state. But I think that’s in our favour. This is a great place to live, it’s real safe. We’re stubborn at times, but good people.’

The next morning dawned still and sunny. I ran on the beach, as pelicans soared above me. Nobody seemed concerned. Fat men sunbathed, large women knitted, which seemed odd since it was almost 80 degrees, whilst big children pounded the waves. PCB is primarily a family destination, as witnessed by the myriad small amusement parks and large shopping emporia selling beanie babies along the main strip. I shunned Shipwreck Island and Hidden Lagoon Super-Racetrack in favour of the Gulf World animal park.

The signs in Gulf World were alarming.

‘Caution, all animals may bite! Please keep hands away! Thanks!’

There were sharks, sea-lions, loggerhead turtles and a huge alligator who stared at me as if selecting a pizza. The dolphins were having most fun, dancing along to songs by the Monkees, thereby proving conclusively to my mind that they’re not an intelligent species. By mid-afternoon the wind had increased, causing numerous surfers to appear from nowhere and hit the waves. Fishermen also emerged. Apparently hurricanes bring excellent fishing, as larger ocean-going fish are driven towards land.

To confirm this a wizened man called Hal showed me a fibre-glass replica of a 1062 pound tuna caught off the town pier during Hurricane Opal in 1995 ‘using nothing but a cane pole with a cricket.’ I expressed requisite incredulity and he hurried off with his rods, into the teeth of the gale. By now the winds were gusting, the sky darkening. I ate some eggs and grits at the ‘All American Diner’ where two cops were discussing hurricane evacuation plans. I asked if I should be worried. They gave me a pitying look Americans reserve for those from countries without 75 TV channels.

‘You’ll be fine sir.’

Since no one but me seemed the slightest bit worried by Georges, I decided to be brave and hit La Vela, America’s biggest nightclub. From this 7,000 capacity venue, MTV broadcasts drunken, naked student debauchery each March Spring Break, or as Tom Valentine had put it, ‘The world’s largest gathering of village idiots.’

The club is big enough to have its own cashpoint machines, but divided into numerous different rooms and dance floors, it seems almost intimate. On this Saturday night most of these were closed - there were maybe 200 hurricane-groovers, dancing their white socks off with cheery abandon. Bouncer Ken Faretra, formerly of New York’s Limelight club, was effusive about PCB’s relaxed atmosphere.

‘We’ve got 1% of the problems we had in NYC. People come here for a good time, not to fight.’

I left the hurricane-hipsters and headed next-door to Spinnakers, a smaller club that holds a mere 5,500. Manager Geoff Sheehan described his clientele as ‘a laid-back local crowd.’

‘These people like to hear what they like to hear,’ he stated, informatively.

On this night they liked rhythm n’blues. On the dance-floor large women and larger men waddled around to the music. I sat on the outside deck as huge waves pounded the shore in time to ‘Johnny Be Good’. On the TVs above the bar CNN informed us the hurricane was imminent. But the band played on. I had a sudden impression of what it must have been like on the Titanic. There was no way out. I headed onto the dance-floor to jive with the large women. After several beers I caught myself singing ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ with the best of them.

I woke the next morning to driving rain and howling winds. But the eye of Georges had headed westwards towards New Orleans. The most beautiful beach in America was safe, at least till next hurricane season. The cars from Alabama and Georgia were heading home through the deluge. I set off back to Jacksonville, my only injuries a sore head and a slightly red neck.

Read more travel writing by Jim Keeble