What's in a name?

I always meant to visit Berlin before the wall came down. Somehow, I never did: circumstance, inertia, other places to go, the thought that there was always another time. A dangerous thought to harbour that, that there’s always time. For events, personal and those of nations, have a habit of turning such lazy thinking on its head. Who would have predicted that the collapse of Communism in Eastern Europe would come so soon and happen so fast? Not many, if any, as I recall, including people far more qualified than me to speculate on such weighty matters. That wall was good for another five decades in my travel plans, certainly more than enough time to see an end to my gallivanting around.

So, why Berlin? With or without the wall. It had to be its past, bound so tightly to our own for the last hundred years. The city was the capital of our greatest and most destructive enemy in the first half of the twentieth century: two world wars waged with only twenty-one years separating them. That’s just one year longer than the time since the wall was toppled. Time, like falling bricks, flies.

As a baby boomer, born two years after WW2 ended, I carried pictures of a city in flames, planted in my consciousness before I could read or write, and of Soviet troops battling their way, building by building, towards the Reichstag, the place that had come to symbolise Nazi power. A triumphant Russian soldier was filmed on the bullet-riddled parapet waving a flag baring the hammer and sickle, back and forth, high above the ruined and defeated city. It was this political symbol that would reign supreme over half the divided city and East Germany for the next forty-four years.

During the cold war Berlin became the symbol of the deadly game being played out between East and West. A game that carried with it very high stakes indeed. The press of a button or the turn of a key would signal the destruction of the planet. As much as the newsreels of the day – Kennedy’s ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’ speech, comings and goings at Checkpoint Charlie, refugees throwing themselves at barbed wire, the construction of the wall – it was literature, film and TV that turned Berlin into a darkly romantic and dangerous city. In fiction, John Le Carre and Len Deighton did as much to keep the flame of fascination alive for me than real-life events.

Then I came across Christopher Isherwood’s tales of Berlin between the wars under the short-lived Weimar Republic: corruption, decadence, sleaze, addiction and cabaret, all illustrated in the work of German artist George Grosz. It was the city in which David Bowie chose to reinvent himself. Lou Reed named an album after the place. All of these things a brick in my own Berlin wall, building up to the day when I would make a visit of my own.

Then in 1989 the wall fell. Damn. Missed it. But never mind, I could still go, although the possibility of mystery and intrigue would no longer be present around the next street corner, under the constant gaze from concrete watchtowers. But to wish the wall’s continued presence merely to satisfy my free-Western curiosity would have been selfishness in the extreme, for unlike the citizens of East Germany, I would have been free to come and go at will. Now they too could cross over and see the wall from the other side.

When, twenty years later I finally arrived in Berlin, landing at Tegel Airport through leaden skies and heavy rain, I was prepared for the city not to be as I imagined. I’d been caught out by preconceptions too many times. Being familiar with famous landmarks is one thing, seeing them in context is another. On the ground, walking the streets, smelling the smells, observing the people, hearing the language, breathing the air, is when things are liable to change. And the first sight of a city can leave a visitor with an indelible and accurate impression. Speaking of his lifetime of travel, author and playwright Michael Frayn believes that spending longer in a place doesn’t necessarily add much to change the impressions formed in the first few hours.

On the bus ride from the airport – just 5 miles from the city centre – I passed through the kind of suburbs that ring any large European city: blocks of modern flats, local shops and restaurants, a school here, a hospital there. Then, as the bus edged its way towards the centre, I began to see more. There were a lot of trees and open spaces. We crossed rivers and canals. Many businesses were Turkish. The great majority of cars on the road were German built. There were no hills.

When the bus inexplicably (explicably had I spoken German) stopped short of the expected destination I followed the crowd of hurriedly disembarking passengers and transferred to one of the S-Bahn trains which would take me to the neighbourhood of my hotel, in the east of the city. The trains were frequent and fast and although approaching the start of the rush hour, were not overcrowded. It was on this short journey that I became aware of something that was a most noticeable feature of Berlin: the majority of the population appeared to be aged under twenty-five. It could be that those people of a greater age didn’t use public transport or just didn’t get out much. Whatever the reason, this was a constant observation of my 4-day stay.

The hotel that held my reservation had opened just four months earlier in July. It was situated in a converted industrial building in former East Berlin. It had received a good review in The Independent. Clinging to that thought I exited the station and wheeling my case, joined a procession of twenty-something Berliners heading for home in the gathering gloom of dusk, heads down in the swirling wind and lashing rain. I had to retrace my steps when the street numbers were obviously heading in the wrong direction – up, not down.

I battled back against the tide, re-crossing the bridge over the railway tracks and squinted ahead for a building that looked like it might possibly be a hotel. Then, in the middle distance I saw a vertical illuminated sign that without my distance glasses, looked like it might contain enough letters to spell out the name of my destination. I didn’t dabble as a typographer all those years for nothing. Getting closer I was relieved to read Michelberger Hotel in pale green neon. Under that, in smaller type, was the legend ‘I know I’m ugly, but I glow at night’. My soggy spirits lifted. A Hyatt Tower this most definitely was not. A glance around the reception confirmed it. The current time in the world’s capital cities were ticking away on the bare concrete wall in the shape of an assortment of antique cuckoo clocks. The receptionist – under 25, or less – was welcoming, full of friendly smiles and seemed genuinely pleased to see my drenched over 25 self walk through the door.

I was soon drying out in my room, which was warm, spotless, bright and high. So high that the double bed was on an elevated platform that formed the ceiling of the toilet and shower room below. The bed was accessed by steps that alternated left and right. Not good for climbers that had trouble telling the difference. Around the platform’s perimeter there was a ‘goal’ net to prevent restless sleepers from going bump in the night. A single bed under the large window doubled as a couch. In the corner was a built-in desk with a covetous retro chair. I would have made an offer had it qualified as hand baggage on the return journey. Above that was a slim-line TV. No phone. No need. All under 25’s have mobiles welded to their ears. On the room-side wall of the WC/shower was a washbasin and mirror. To the left of the room door was a rail for hanging clothes and netting shelves for folded stuff. The only gripe: not enough hangers. But hang it all, if that’s the only complaint. And you’ve seen the hanging signs on the doors in the last post. www.michelbergerhotel.com

So the hotel was great, what about the city? Back in my room after dinner in Potsdamer Platz, my first impressions of Berlin led me to decide that I’d seen enough to conclude that I wasn’t going to dwell on the past. The wall had gone, apart from a couple of tiny sections and I found myself to be not much interested in seeking those out. Neither was I anxious to see notorious sites from the Nazi years. Not that’s there’s much left to see. Most of the buildings used by that regime, especially those in the east of the city, have been bulldozed flat and built upon. To stand and stare at these dark places would have been no more than morbid curiosity and desperately sapping for the soul.

Instead, I preferred to submit to the elevated spirit of a new age. Moving around the city, seeing the regeneration and feeling the energy of the young population, there is a real sense of moving on, putting some distance between now and then. Not that Berliners turn their backs on history. The Reichstag has been restored and is once again the seat of the German Bundestag or federal government and with its new dome, one of the Berlin's biggest crowd-draws. The Brandenburg Gate was commissioned by Friedrich Wilhelm II to represent peace. It now stands as a symbol of the reunification of the two sides of the city. The Fernsehturm (television tower) was constructed between 1965 and 1969 by the former German Democratic Republic (GDR) who intended it as a symbol of Berlin, which it remains today.

Driven inside by three days of unrelenting rain, the only break being when the rain turned to snow for two hours, I sought shelter in many of Berlin’s impressive galleries. Highlights were the Gemaldegalerie, Neue Nationalgalerie, the Bauhaus Museum and an exhibition of iconic photographs of jazz artists taken by Blue Note founder Francis Wolff for Blue Note album covers showing at the Jewish Museum.

On the last day the sun shone for three hours before the rain rolled back in. I used the dry spell to wander the streets around Hackescher Market and soak up the atmosphere amongst the old apartment blocks, hidden courtyards and took lunch in a bustling, traditional restaurant. Then it was back on the bus to Tegel. One day I shall return to Berlin. In the sunshine. When the trees are in leaf in Unter den linden.

Two hanging door signs in my hotel room in Berlin. But more of that later.

On my way up to Wickenburg from Patagonia I drove through Why and Ajo, skirting the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. At Ajo the townsfolk were preparing for a festival for World Peace in the town square, a well-kept park shaded by mature palm trees and bordered by an arcade built in the Spanish style. There was to be music from the high school band, food, dancing, and readings. The folks setting up the stalls were in party mood and cheerily invited me to stick around. I thought I might do just that and called in at a B&B where I had stayed some years previously, but there were no vacancies. A little disappointed I took this as a sign of something destined not to be and instead, pushed on to Gila Bend.

“Howdy from the middle of nowhere,” say the souvenir postcards sold in Gila Bend. The tiny town is a truckers’ and traveller’s way station along Highway 80, which ribbons through the cactus-dotted desert between Tucson and Yuma. The town gained international notoriety for a brief spell back in 1973 when a real-life melodrama, not unlike the many scripts that have been shot on location in the surrounding desert, was played out in the dusty little courtroom. An inquest was being held into the death of the young business manager of English actress, Sarah Miles. David Whiting had been found dead in Miles’ hotel room during the shooting of MGM’s western, “The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing’.

Whiting had rowed violently with Miles the previous evening, following her return from dinner in Ajo with members of the cast and crew. A fight had ensued in Miles’ room with both parties sustaining cuts and bruises. Miles had sought shelter in another room and returning the following day, found Whiting dead on her bathroom floor. The county medical examiner testified that Whiting had died of an overdose of drugs, including methaqualone, Benadryl and a Librium-type drug. The verdict of suicide left Whiting’s mother unsatisfied with the testimony, especially the infliction of certain wounds on his body that were left unaccounted for.

It was a hotel that first made me aware of Gila Bend, with a series of photographs by German film director Wim Wenders that featured in his book ‘Written In The West’. The book records places throughout the southwest that Wenders had visited while seeking locations for his movies. Stout’s Hotel was closed down and locked up when Wenders discovered it, but he set about tracking down the keyholder and persuaded him to open up. Once inside, Wenders took several shots of the shadowy, unlit lobby, untouched since the hotel had closed its doors for the last time. Stout’s still stands to this day, but remains firmly shut and padlocked.

A few blocks away, very much open and seemingly thriving, is the splendidly titled ‘Space Age Lodge’. Run as a Best Western, it has a mural in the lobby depicting space travel and features various decorous space-age touches throughout, most notably in the adjoining restaurant. I considered staying the night, but the sun was still high in the sky and so I decided to press on northwards.

And so it was that my last overnight stop of the trip was in Wickenburg, Arizona. The town was founded in 1863 and named after Henry Wickenburg, a miner of German descent who had been drawn to the area in search of gold. His quest was rewarded by the discovery of the Vulture Mine, where over $30 million in gold has been dug from the ground. According to 2006 Census Bureau estimates, the population of the town is 6,423.

After a night in a motel I awoke to my last day. I was booked on an evening flight out of Skyharbor International Airport in Phoenix non-stop to London Heathrow, so had a day to fill. After a wander around mainstreet under a hot early autumn sun, I found myself in the cool, temperature controlled shade of the Desert Caballeros Western Museum. Again, this is an example of an excellent museum of a kind found in many small towns throughout the United States. The museum contains fine examples of Western Art, Cowboy Art, Native American Art and Western History. The volunteer staff appeared to comprise exclusively of silver haired senior ladies, who could easily have been the inspiration for ‘The Golden Girls’ TV sitcom.

I was warmly welcomed at the desk with a synopsis of what delights were to be found throughout the museum. I set about my tour with the printed guide in hand. I encountered several ‘Golden Girls’ as I moved from room to room, each one keen to know what brought this Englishman to their town. One lady told me how much she and her husband enjoyed ‘your TV shows’, shown on the BBC America channel. Favourites were ‘Keeping Up Appearances’, ‘Hetty Wainthropp Investigates and ‘As Time Goes By’. She had tried, so far unsuccessfully, to acquire a US copy of a ‘Mrs Brown’ DVD, as they were big fans of Dame Judy. And Patricia Routledge, of course.

After an hour or two in the company of these genteel, well-informed townswomen, I took a short stroll to the museum shop. This too, was staffed by one of their number, who greeted me brightly from behind the cash desk. Pleasantries exchanged, she launched immediately into an enquiry as to whether I had driven into town via their new ‘roundabout’. Her terminology took me somewhat by surprise, as in the US the rare occurrences of such traffic controlling installations are usually known as ‘traffic circles’ or ‘rotaries’. I thought for a moment and said, ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I had’.

‘What did you think of it?’ she said, barely unable to control her excitement at this alien phenomenon built in the,midst of her town.

‘It was fine’, I said. ‘Back home in the UK we have them everywhere’.

‘Really?’ she said, as if I had informed her that we all flew around in jet cars. ‘We’ve never had one before. I don’t know how folks are going to get on with it. They say you give way to traffic already on the roundabout. And what about the trucks? How are they going to manage?’

I said ‘Back home the trucks manage just fine and it was just a question of people getting used to it’.

‘I guess so’, she said, giving me a look that displayed her scepticism towards my foreigner’s assurances to the contrary. I left her wondering, with some concern, if the roundabout would discourage visitors from braving its unknown procedures and by-pass Wickenburg altogether. I felt that further propaganda as to the merits of roundabouts would be fruitless and that, in time, her fears would melt away and be proved groundless.

With that, I took my leave of this charming town and its society of gentlewomen and aimed my faithful Nissan towards the sprawling metropolis of Phoenix, some 60 miles to the east. On route, I diverted to spend a couple of hours of quiet reflection in a state park overlooking the tranquillity of a large lake, deep blue under an azure sky: my last chance to gaze on the big country that has lured me away from my own crowded little island again and again. I knew that once I entered the suspended time zone of the airport terminal, the spell would be broken and my return to a lifetime spent in another place would begin. The only outward sign of my adventure would be the red dust in the creases of my shoes. As on many occasions such as this, the lyrics of a song came to mind.

Say you were split, you were split in fragments
And none of the pieces would talk to you
Wouldn't you want to be who you had been
Well maybe I want that too
So better take the keys and drive forever
Staying won't put the future back together

I was up first thing and out with my camera to catch the early light. It was Saturday morning and the town was quiet. Around the back of the fire station was a collection of obsolete emergency vehicles, abandoned to their fate to slowly rust away among the tall weeds. I managed a few shots through the chain-link fence, focussing on the details. A
large pick-up pulled up at the kerb behind me and a man - silver hair, moustache - climbed out jangling a bunch of keys.

‘You like our old engines?’ he said, walking towards a side door. ‘Come on in, we’ve got more inside’.

I followed him into the shadows and he flicked a switch, the neon lights spluttering into life.

‘We’ve got engines here dating back to the 1920’s’, he said. ‘Of course, some of ‘em are retired from service, but we get ‘em out for a run now and then. The oldest leads our Thanksgiving parade every year’. He led me to an ancient, clean machine, still draped with garlands of red, white and blue.

‘Here, let’s get some more light on the subject’, he said, unlocking the main folding doors and pushing them open. ‘We’re all volunteers here. Forest and brush fires mainly. Any questions, just ask’.

With that he wandered off to answer a call on his cell phone and left me among the collection of assorted vehicles, each proudly bearing the town’s name. When I’d done, I found him outside in conversation with one of the townsfolk, pulled up in the centre of the road. She made a crack about some stranger who’d just walked out of his station with a camera. We all smiled and I thanked him for his kindness and hospitality, leaving them to their neighbourly conversation.

Later that day, I drove the route that Ted and Bob had worked out for me the night before. It took me on a 30 mile loop through wooded farmland and out onto a plateau of open grassland. It was here, on the gently undulating slopes, where a burgeoning Arizona wine industry has put down its roots. There were half a dozen wineries to be found along the way and I called in at one to taste their wares. There was both red and white on offer and a sparkling variety. I’m no expert, but they all seemed very acceptable to my untutored palate. I left it at one tasting as the measures were generous and in common with other visitors, I didn’t spit. No sense in putting myself and other drivers at risk by going over the limit. Besides, I’d heard gruesome tales of time spent locked up in communal cells in town jails.

That evening, carrying a bottle of the local wine, I took a short stroll to Ted and Rosie’s. The red brick, two-story house, was on the brow of a hill on the edge of town. Having met in San Francisco - Ted coming from Patagonia, Rosie from New York - they had moved back to Arizona to raise their family: two daughters, now grown up and gone. Bob and Paula were not far behind me, arriving, rather surprisingly for these parts, in a new Mini and we took our seats around a table in the garden with our aperitifs in hand.

Ted was a builder and Rosie worked in admin. Bob was an electrical engineer and Paula was a painter. In conversation, Ted had a taciturn, yet easy-going style with a gift for strategically placed one-liners. In contrast, Bob spoke in bursts, delivering words like machine gun fire, his bright eyes darting between us. Rosie, relaxed and gregarious, laughed a lot as she kept the conversation on the move, while Paula sat back and observed, chipping in now and again with a wry comment delivered in a deadpan monotone, but always with a twinkle in her eye.

The talk ranged from weather, water supply, family, London, The Who, the economy and the critters that were to be found in Ted and Rosie’s back yard: the yard in which we were then sitting. Everything from marauding Javelina’s – medium-sized animals, with a strong superficial resemblance to pigs – tarantulas, coyote, rats, bats, buzzards, cicadas and rattle snakes. Quite enough for one evening, although the only ones to show on this occasion were giant cicadas, which unnervingly, would land with a plop just about anywhere about one’s person and a rat that sat, without fear, staring us out a few feet away. Ted had to be restrained from fetching his BB gun and sending the cheeky varmint to rat heaven there and then. Pity. I fancy he was something of a sharpshooter.

The remark of the evening came from Paula. The sound of frantic drumming – as articulated on a selection of ethnic tom-toms - drifted up from the town below. Ignored at first, eventually speculation arose as to where in the neighbourhood the source of the performance was to be located. Paula thought for a moment and concluded - ‘Probably in our yard’ - the line delivered with the timing, nuance and aplomb of a seasoned stand-up at the top of their game.

A thoroughly enjoyable evening drew to a close with Bob and Paula insisting that I accept a lift down the unlit hill to my bed. With email addresses exchanged, we swapped farewells with a promise to stay in touch and a promise to meet up the next time either of the couples was in London, giving me the chance to return their generous hospitality. That may, or may not happen. But it would be good if it did. Although I couldn’t guarantee the tom-toms.

A few miles from the Mexican border, in the Coronado National Forest, lies the small town of Patagonia. I arrived there in late afternoon after a drive from Bisbee, where I had spent an hour or so trawling thrift stores on the lookout for a few off-the-wall gifts to take home. My mission was accomplished with a plate from the 60’s, resplendent with an illustration of a camper van in a lakeside setting baring the inscription, ’God Bless Our Camper’ and a tray illustrated with garishly coloured scenes of the Hawaiian Islands. With both items scoring high on the kitchometer, I felt confident that they would be well received on my return.

The centre of Patagonia is built around a large green, once a railroad yard, now the town park and more reminiscent of those found at the centre of villages in Kent and Sussex than southern Arizona. Facing this surprisingly verdant recreational area, fringed with mature trees, is a general store, several restaurants, a hotel, a bar, a gas station, a post office, a gallery or two and in between, several privately owned houses. At eastern end of the green is what once had been the town railroad station, the tracks removed in 1962, but the building preserved.

Two slow circuits of the park’s perimeter failed to reveal the whereabouts of my night’s lodgings, a B&B, which I had expected to find there. Passing the post office, where several cars were coming and going, I parked and approached a customer who was about to drive away with the package she had just collected. I handed her a printout of the B&B’s details through the car window and she said, yes, she knew it and if I followed her, she’d wave when I needed to turn right. It was just down the street, on the left, it was painted blue and pink and I couldn’t miss it. I followed, she waved, I turned right, I looked to the left and I missed it. I went around the block, asked someone new for fresh directions and tried again. This time, with success.

The two-story adobe building had once been a hotel for miners. The Patagonia Mountains were filled with rich ore deposits, and by the 1860s, the mining industry procured vast amounts of silver and lead each year. The last ore was shipped to the smelter in 1960. Nancy, the current owner, had purchased the property from an artist who had spent years and a lot of money in loving and skillful restoration. Deciding to run the former lodging house as a B&B, Nancy has continued to lavish much care and attention on the place, particularly the large, secluded yard, where she’s created a desert garden bursting with cacti, succulents and flowering plants. By day, humming birds whirred and twittered around my ears, while at night, bats the size of Starlings hunted giant moths around the streetlamp in the alley outside the back gate.

That evening, once comfortably installed in my spacious and magnificently decorated three-roomed miner’s apartment – lounge, bedroom and bathroom – I decided to follow Nancy’s recommendation and try a pizza at the irresistibly named ‘Velvet Elvis’. The night was warm and still, so I took a table in the courtyard under a tree twinkling with a trail of fairy lights. Sipping a cold beer I sat back and waited for my pizza to arrive, the buzz of conversation around me a reassuring blanket of comfort so far from home. A group of four newcomers came through the front gate, two men, two women. They had the chatter and easy familiarity of good friends.

‘Oh Hi’. I looked up. The younger woman had stopped and was smiling down at me. It was my post office guide from earlier that afternoon.

‘Hello’, I said, not expecting a second meeting. She turned towards her companions.

‘I was able to help out with directions this afternoon’, she explained. I nodded in acknowledgement. They smiled back.

‘Okay’, she said, ‘This is Ted, my husband’. A tall man, well built, with an outdoor look, held out his hand. Standing, I took it and gave him my name in return.

‘Bob’. An older man, smaller, could have passed for Martin Scorsese’s brother, extended his hand.

‘Paula’. I shook hands with Bob’s partner. A small woman with long greying hair, twinkling eyes and something of the 60’s folk singer about her.

‘And I’m Rosie. Did you find the place alright?’

I said that I had, thank you, not mentioning missing it on the first pass and having to ask again. Too embarrassing, but I put it down to fatigue after a long day in the car.

‘How long are you in town?’

I told Rosie two nights.

‘Well look, we’d love to have you come to dinner tomorrow night’, she said, turning to Bob, half in conformation, the other half for information of a decision already made.

‘We don’t get the chance to meet with many people that aren’t from around here, so that would be great if you can make it’.

She turned to Bob and Paula.

‘You must come too’.

They nodded their acceptance and I voiced mine.

‘So, that’s settled then’, said Rosie, smiling. ‘See you at 7 tomorrow evening’.

We all agreed, and once Ted had given directions on how to get to the house and together with Bob, suggested a route for a round-trip during the following daytime, they withdrew to settle at a table in the corner. My ‘Velvet’ pizza arrived, without Elvis, and I ordered a fresh beer to wash it down.

Back on the terrace in Nancy’s garden an hour later, I sat in a rocking chair watching the swooping bats under a starry, starry sky, the local yard dogs plotting the progress of a late-night walker making for home.

Following a mid-morning breakfast at The Gadsden Hotel, I had the remainder of the day to spare before I needed to check-in at a pre-booked B&B in Patagonia that evening. After a stroll around Douglas I drove out towards Bisbee on State Route 80, turning off at The Central Highway. The name is grander than the reality, it being a country road that services a scattering of farming communities along its route. I passed through the hamlets of Double Adobe, McNeal and Elfrida, not quite making it to the gloriously named, Sunizona.

Once again, a familiar trail of ‘Closed’ and ‘For Lease’ signs, warped and faded by the sun, was all there was to see through the dusty, fly-blown glass of many, once thriving, commercial enterprises. Maybe their day has passed forever, these locally run businesses, unable to compete with price slashing multinationals in out of town retail parks and malls. All that remains to be done by those with a mind to, is to record their passing.

I woke up and it was a clear motel morning. The turbulent skies of yesterday evening had cleared, leaving a whisper of cloud over the distant mountains, their undersides catching the early light. Wilcox was already coming to life. Trucks and cars were on the move, the gas station across the street receiving the first customers of the new day.

The Harley rider of the previous evening was out, making adjustments to his bike. We exchanged compliments of the day and he told me that the small group with whom he was riding were from New York City. Sparing their precious Harleys, and themselves, the two-and-a-half-thousand miles it takes to get down here, they’d hauled their bikes on trailers. On arrival, they’d unloaded and set out on a motorcycling round trip. Today’s spin out to the Four Corners would see them done, after which they’d rendezvous with their transport, load up and motor back to the east coast: they, like me, briefly living the illusion of freedom found between the lines on the road before surrendering to the maxim that – sooner or later - all roads lead to home. I wished him well and prepared to leave.

My plan today was to breakfast at the Gadsden Hotel in the border town of Douglas. The hotel was built in 1907, when Arizona was a Territory rather than a State and became home-away-from-home for cattlemen, ranchers, miners, and businessmen. Nearly every Arizona Governor has stayed in the Governor's Suite, as did Eleanor Roosevelt. Levelled by fire, The Gadsden was rebuilt and opened once more in 1929. It’s glory days long gone and on the brink of closure, in 1988 the hotel was rescued by North Dakota wheat farmers Doris & Hartman Brekhus.

Today, the hotel hangs on in a town that is struggling to adapt in a world that has passed it by. The main street has been all but stripped of the small-town, family businesses on which it once thrived and those that remain struggle to make a living from the dwindling number of tourists that once used Douglas as a port of entry for shopping and leisure trips into Mexico. In recent years, vicious and bloody drugs feuds waged openly on the streets of Mexican border towns has scared many away.

The Gadsden’s lobby, with its white Italian marble staircase and four soaring marble columns, remains the jewel in a somewhat battered and tarnished crown. An authentic Tiffany stained glass mural extends forty-two feet across one wall of the massive mezzanine. An impressive oil painting by Audrey Jean Nichols is just below the window. Vaulted stained glass skylights run the full length of the lobby. The front desk is of a time that has been consigned to the skip of the unwanted past in many a refurbished hotel, along with the staff, that here, continue to practice the antiquated rituals of yesteryear. Spend an hour or so in the place in company with the faintly surreal cast of staff and guests and it’s easy to imagine that you’re an extra in a movie directed by David Lynch or Wim Wenders.

I love this creaking old Registered National Monument and dearly hope that it survives for no better reason than that they do a great breakfast in The El Conquistador Dining Room. Viva El Gadsden.

The light on the dash warned that there was a problem. It was a symbol with which I wasn’t familiar. I checked in the handbook and found it to represent low tyre pressure. The advice was to check the tyres and if required, add air at the earliest opportunity, as not doing so could prove hazardous. I was on my way back into Arizona and was set to cover some miles, so I planned to pull into the first gas station I came upon and fix the problem.

The first attempt ended in frustration and failure. The air line was working fine, but had no gauge, to A. - check the current pressure in the tyres and B. - indicate how much air was going in. The next place had an air line with a gauge, but it didn’t work. I ended up letting more air out than I managed to put in. I gave up the DIY method and decided to look out for tyre dealer. Fortunately, I was coming into the outer limits of Tularosa NM, where I soon found a tyre place. It took minutes to get the tyres checked and inflated to the correct pressure. They were ‘all kinda low’ according to the obliging fitter, who said the light may not ‘go out for a day or so, but that everything was now fine’. I trusted him and ignored the light for the next four days before it finally went out.

I got to Las Cruces around mid-day feeling hungry, as I hadn’t had breakfast that morning, wanting to get some miles on the clock early in the day. I found the old adobe historic district that Michael Hurd had talked about, but didn’t look too hard for the restaurant he had recommended. He had been a little vague on the exact location and driven by a rumbling emptiness of stomach I wasn’t minded to spend a lot of time driving around. For the same reason, I skipped a search for the rail crossing that features in my Hurd print. According to Michael’s wife Tiffany, he had left out a lot of stuff that wasn’t key to the composition, so I may have struggled to recognise the spot even if I had come across it. Instead I found a cosy little diner, full of lunching locals and overlooking the old town square, where I duly filled myself up with some good home cooking.

Heading south out of Las Cruces I was soon clear of urban sprawl and driving what became a country road through alternating maize fields and pecan orchards. ‘DO NOT PICK THE PECANS’ warned the signs along the verge. There were no signs saying ‘DO NOT CUT THE MAIZE’. Not as likely I guess. Not many people travel with a combine in tow, but a ladder and a basket can fit into the back of any pick-up. I did neither. I had other plans for the day.

I had it in mind to take Country Road A003, a route that hugs the Mexican border from just west of El Paso TX, through to Douglas AZ. I’d driven it in the opposite direction some years previously and wanted to take the same route going west. It’s one of the remotest that I’ve driven in the southwest, the rare traffic that there is comprising of farm vehicles and the 4WD’s of the US Border Patrol. Thousands of illegal immigrants choose the remote tracts of harsh terrain in this area to make their bid for the promise of a new life in the United States. If the punishing desert doesn’t get them – hundreds have perished in the attempt, mainly due to dehydration – then the brown uniformed Immigration Officers will try. Roadblocks are common, so it’s advisable to keep the passport within easy reach.

Along the opening stretch, the razor wire fence and lights are just a few hundred yards from the road. It was even more desolate than I remember with a straight, empty road stretching out before me. Occasionally a patrol vehicle with smoked glass windows would sweep past, to return a few moments later in the opposite direction, or be spotted a few miles on, partly hidden in the scrubby vegetation that lined the road on both sides. My grey Nissan hire car was of no interest to them. Unlike the group of Hispanic men, seated on the ground, hands cuffed behind their backs, their trail bikes scattered around them as a patrolman in Aviator sunglasses summoned back-up while his colleague, a Stetson shading his eyes, looked on, hand on hip, covering his holster. As well as people, drugs are also trafficked out here in these badlands.

After miles of nothing, signs of habitation began to appear and I was soon entering Columbus NM. I pulled into a parking lot at a crossroads that divided the town into quarters and picking up my camera, stepped out of the car to stretch my legs. I fired off a couple of shots of a water tower and a passing school bus, when a pick-up with official looking letters down the side pulled up behind me. Damn. I’d left the passport in the car. The truck crunched to a halt on the gravel. The driver’s window came down. A middle-aged guy in a red baseball cap, bushy moustache decorating his upper lip, nodded in my direction, eyes friendly, voice deep.

‘Hi there. No problem’, he said, sensing my slight unease. ‘Saw you carrying a camera there and wondered what you had. I’ve just ordered myself a new camera on the internet. Over $1000 worth of kit, so I’d be interested to take a look at your set-up’. He extended a hand. ‘The names Bob Wright by the way, I’m the volunteer Fire Chief around here’.

I introduced myself and showed him the camera. I hoped he wouldn’t get too technical, as that’s not my strong point when it comes to photography. For example, I can never remember the spec for the lens I use, having to read the tiny gold type printed around the perimeter and even then, I’ve little idea what it means. But I know how its technical capabilities manifest through the viewfinder and I always figure that’s the important thing. I’ve never been big on theory and if I can, will avoid any kind of operational manual except as a last resort. That said, my mate Charlie convinced me to explore the possibilities of the digital camera when I got it, which I could only really do by reading up on it. I used the empty hours of a long flight to break the habit of a lifetime and so am consequently better informed than normal with something that's new to me.

The conversation moved on from cameras to the town. It had once been home to the United States Army, garrisoned here in strength to patrol the border with Mexico. When Pancho Villa, the Mexican revolutionary led a raiding party into US territory it was troops stationed here, commanded by General John J. Pershing, that pursued him into Mexico using motor transport for the first time, rather than horses. Bob told me that all went well until the trucks ran out of petrol. They couldn’t move until a mule train with fresh supplies of fuel arrived from across the border. General George S. ‘blood ‘n’ guts’ Patton also served at the base early in his military career.

‘Be sure to send me some of your pictures when you get back home,’ said Bob , handing me a business card. I said I would, wished him luck with the new camera and bade him goodbye.

I set off with the sky threatening a storm. I was soon running the gauntlet, thunder and lightning crashing and flashing both sides of me, the road cutting straight down the middle towards the watery yellow light of a sun sliding towards the horizon. Steven Spielberg couldn’t have staged it better. With rain sweeping across in waves either side of me, only a few spots made it onto my windscreen. I felt like Moses fleeing Egypt, the waters parting before me. I pressed on, bound for the shelter and succour of a motel in Wilcox, Arizona.

On the return journey from Roswell, I saw in the far distance on a long stretch of two-way road, a cluster of orange flashing lights. Once I’d closed the gap it turned out to be, no, not a UFO, but a complete single-story home loaded onto the back of a truck. Its width took up the whole right-hand lane, a piece of nearside verge and straddled the central yellow lines by two feet or so. There was a pick-up riding point and another riding shotgun to the rear, this one hugging the centre of the road to discourage reckless overtaking. Not everyone was deterred.

I was amazed to see a couple of cars, followed by a big truck for mercy’s sake, pull out blind into the oncoming lane and overtake. I waited on baited breath for the crunch of crushing metal. By some miracle, there was none. This gamble by those in obvious possession of a death wish was enough to scare the rest of us into staying in line.

A few miles on, at the bottom of a bendy hill, the truck and its outriders pulled off the road to let us pass. In my place towards the back of the queue, there were only a couple of vehicles behind me, those in front already pulling away with their superior horsepower. Before too long my rear-view mirror was empty. I settled in to the leisurely pace to which I had become accustomed in my plodding Nissan.

The miles rolled by and still nothing appeared on the road behind. Ten miles came and went. Nothing. Another five. Still nothing. Then, just four miles from San Patricio, an ambulance, siren screaming, lights flashing, flew past in the opposite direction . Seconds later, a police car followed. With the sound of sirens fading, in came the thought that the convoy had set off once more and someone new had been tempted to risk all by playing the Ace of Spades.

I reached my turning with an empty road in the mirror. Once on the dirt track I pulled up and waited. Five minutes later nothing had passed by in a westerly direction. I started the engine and drifted down the hill to the cottage in the trees, thinking the worst.

Later, triggered by a flash of sunlight through a window, I looked outside. There, across the meadows was a rainbow, arching across a darkening sky. I picked up the camera and slammed through the screen door, knowing the moment wouldn’t last. I managed three shots and it was gone, the sky turning back to black. All around, there was silence.