After our peaceful stay at Bass Haven, it was time for another Harvest Host adventure. This time, I picked the Tallahassee Automobile and Collectibles Museum for two excellent reasons: 1) it’s in Tallahassee, and 2) Batmobiles. Yes, plural. Several.

Compared to our near-death experience with carbon monoxide at Bill-E’s, this stop was much less dramatic… for a while.

Parking was a dream. The museum had a giant open field just for Harvest Host guests, complete with signage that screamed, “We’ve done this before.” There was even another RV parked ahead of us, so we knew exactly where to go. No guesswork, no stress, no weird fumes—just perfection.

After settling in, we took the dogs for a glorious walk across the museum’s sprawling grounds. Then it was time for the main event: the museum itself.

Now, I’ll be honest—cars don’t typically rev my engine. But this place? It had everything. Sure, I oohed and ahhed over the early 1900s vehicles and the sleek 1950s-60s classics, but the real surprises were the other collections. Pianos? Check. Pocket knives? Why not. A random assortment of things you never knew you needed to see? Absolutely. It was like wandering through your most eccentric relative’s attic—if that attic also happened to house multiple Batmobiles.

With the museum closed and the driveway gates locked at night, it seemed like we were in for a blissfully uneventful evening. The dogs were happy, we got some work done, and we even checked in with friends back home. All signs pointed to a peaceful night’s rest.

And then it was 5 a.m.

Out of nowhere, the furnace decided it was auditioning for a death metal band. The dogs went nuts, barking to wake me up (because my earplugs let me sleep through everything except banshee-level screeching). I leapt out of bed, alarmed, while John the Rockstar Husband Laverty barely opened an eye. His calm advice? “Turn it off. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

Deal with it in the morning?! The thing sounded like it was trying to summon the underworld! But alas, I lack the mechanical prowess to argue with the man, so I begrudgingly turned it off, spent the next hour wide awake envisioning furnace-related disasters, and eventually drifted back to sleep.

The next morning, John diagnosed the problem: a low house battery had caused the fan to drag and screech. He started the generator, and voila—problem solved. I was grateful but also mildly annoyed that he was so calm about it. Seriously, the man’s unshakable demeanour is both admirable and infuriating.

With that mini-drama behind us, we took the dogs for a final romp in the sunshine, loaded up the Raven, and hit the road. Next stop: the spot, featuring pickleball, a hot tub, and (hopefully) no more banshee impersonations from our furnace.