After our delightful hangover-fueled chat with Lafayette locals, we took their advice and aimed our RV north toward St. Francisville. Our next stop? The infamous Myrtles Plantation, touted as the most haunted plantation in Louisiana. Because nothing says “let’s recover from rum tasting” quite like ghosts.

But first, a pit stop in Morganza—a town so quiet you could hear the rain judging us for daring to exist there. The RV spot was a steal at $20, which we lovingly stuffed into an envelope and slid into a box. Apparently, that box system was a bit too high-tech for the host, who banged on our door at 7 p.m., demanding the payment we’d already made. Nothing says “welcome” like an awkward interrogation about an envelope. We didn’t even bother setting up chairs or dropping the car—we were just passing through, rain-soaked and ready for ghosts.

Myrtles Plantation in St. Francisville was a whole different vibe. The property was drop-dead gorgeous (pun intended). After navigating some hair-raising roads, John the Rockstar Husband Laverty expertly parked us in a back lot, away from everyone else. Smart move—this gave us a little buffer from both haunted happenings and curious onlookers.

The plantation’s grounds were like a scene from a southern gothic novel. We took the Chihuahuas for a stroll around the pathways, past charming cottages, a hotel, a lounge, and the main (allegedly haunted) manor house. And the pond? It was so blue—like unnaturally blue. We debated if it was dyed or if some supernatural pond cleaner had a hand in it.

Sadly, the on-site restaurant was only open for brunch, and the lounge closed right after we arrived. But no worries—we grabbed coffees and snacks at the cafe/gift shop before heading back to the Raven for a quick dog pit stop.

St. Francisville itself was as charming as the plantation. We wandered the main drag with the Chis, who apparently thought they were the grand marshals of the Santa Claus parade being set up. People stopped to ooh and ahh over them like they were canine Kardashians. The stroll was lovely until the Chis got tired—specifically Casey, who let us know exactly how he felt about being over it.

With the dogs safely stowed in the car, we explored the area by vehicle, taking in another plantation property before calling it a day.

We thought we might brave the haunted tour that evening, but Louisiana had other plans. The skies opened up, and it poured like the ghosts were having a dramatic crying session. Not even the promise of ghost stories could get us to leave the comfort of the Raven.

The next morning, eager for some sustenance before hitting the road, we decided to grab breakfast at the little cafe. Let’s just say, expectations were high, but the food… well, let’s generously describe it as “forgettable.” So forgettable, in fact, that we left it off the Harvest Host review entirely. Sometimes silence is the kindest feedback.

To top it off, the Louisiana mud tried its best to keep us from loading the car back onto the dolly, but John (aka Rockstar Husband Extraordinaire) wrestled it into submission. Muddy but victorious, we hit the road, leaving behind the haunted charm of Myrtles Plantation for whatever adventure awaited us next.