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.

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

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Think of Roswell and the first thing to come to mind is…? You got it. UFO’s. The Roswell UFO Incident was the alleged recovery of extra-terrestrial debris, including corpses, from an object that crashed near Roswell on or about July 8, 1947. Since the late 1970s the incident has been the subject of intense controversy and the subject of conspiracy theories as to the true nature of the object that crashed. The United States military maintains that what was actually recovered was debris from an experimental high-altitude surveillance balloon belonging to a classified program named ‘Mogul’. However, many UFO proponents maintain that, in fact, a crashed alien craft and bodies were recovered, and that the military then engaged in a cover-up.

Well, believe that, or not, there’s no denying that Roswell has been known for little else ever since. This is a pity, as besides the souvenir stores crammed with UFO tat, and the ‘unofficial’ Roswell UFO Museum, the town is also home to the accredited Roswell Museum and Art Centre. This excellent museum, founded in 1935, has grown into a 50,000 square foot facility that includes twelve galleries dedicated to the exhibition of the art and history of the Southwest and beyond. As well as a fascinating permanent display, crammed with Native American artefacts and those of the incoming settlers, the museum has an ongoing calendar of temporary exhibitions, making it one of the best I’ve visited in the US.

So, if you’re ever in Roswell, sure, weigh up the evidence as presented in the UFO Museum, but don’t leave town without visiting the other place, where the truth isn’t ‘out there’, but ‘in there’. Not that I’m biased. I still left town with my UFO fridge magnet.

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Whenever I visit New Mexico, it seems that it rains. This time was to be no different. When I opened the blinds on a new day, grey cloud clung like a shroud to the hills across the valley and a fine mist was falling. Some years ago on a previous trip, the rain began as I crossed the state line and kept on falling until I left, two days later. And not merely as a polite drizzle, but as snarling dogs and hissing cats. Then there were the Biblical storms at Taos and Carlsbad the time before that. So today, I was getting off lightly.

I stepped outside and took in my surroundings. The cottage was surrounded by lush meadows, the wildflowers blooming their last hurrah before winter set it. The apple tree in the garden was heavy with dark red fruit. Unfamiliar birdcalls echoed from the hills. A horse stood motionless, in perfect profile, in the adjacent field. It was a picture of rural tranquillity.

I drove into Ruidoso for breakfast. The Denny’s restaurant had been made up to look like a 50’s diner, all neon and shiny chrome. There was a biker’s rally taking place in town over the coming weekend and many of the surrounding tables were taken by early arrivals: large, leather clad, grizzled men with double bass voices, white whiskers and matching ponytails and their smaller, less hirsute female companions, squeezed, thigh-to-thigh into red vinyl booths, ordering enough food to keep a platoon of marines going for a week.

I did my best to compete in my own modest way, but the two buttermilk pancakes that came with my Lumberjack Slam had me beat. I smiled the wan smile of a loser as the waitress cleared the unclear plates, leaving the check in their place. Through the window, the clouds were beginning to lift, so I paid up and thought about the rest of the day. I decided to return to San Patricio and drop in on the Hurd, La Riconada Gallery, the one owned and run by my host at the guest cottage on Sentinel Ranch.

Michael Hurd is the youngest son of Peter Hurd and Henriette Wyeth. Michael has followed in a long line of Wyeth artists: great uncle NC Wyeth, uncle Andrew Wyeth, mother Henrietta Wyeth and father Peter Hurd. Just as his parents did throughout their lives, Michael paints and lives on Sentinel Ranch. He works from reality, as have all the Wyeth and Hurd painters, and believes the actual subject must be experienced if it is to be accurately conveyed in a painting. The still life compositions of his mother and landscape scenes of his father combine in Michael's work.

‘Crossing’ copyright Michael Hurd

Some years ago when visiting the gallery, I bought one of Michael’s prints, titled ‘Crossing’. It shows a small church alongside a railway crossing at Las Cruces, less than an hour’s drive to the south of San Patricio and has remained one of my favourites ever since in its regular spot at home. The original painting from which the print was made was still for sale and hanging in the gallery. Alas, it remained out of my price range. Though this time, I did get to meet Michael.

I’d always imagined a quiet, reflective man, wrapped up in his work in uninterrupted solitude. I wasn’t expecting the ebullient, gregarious character that shook me firmly by the hand after the introduction by his wife, Tiffany, who had already confided that she had great difficulty in getting and keeping him in the studio. Michael, it seems, likes nothing better than to potter around the ranch in his pick-up. ‘He’s doesn’t have his father’s work ethic’, she added, smiling somewhat wistfully.

Michael and I talked about the location pictured in ‘Crossing’ and I said I would like to find the spot, as I was passing that way the following day. He happily gave me directions and also the name of his favourite Mexican restaurant in the area, which he jotted down on the back of a business card. He also added a note for the owner that read, ‘This entitles the bearer to one free meal’, signed, ‘Michael’. ‘He’ll love that’, he said. ‘I wonder?’ I thought, knowing what they say about a free lunch.

I was still smiling as I walked to the car past Michael’s large white truck, his laughter still ringing in my ears and the impression of his handshake slowly fading from my right hand.

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Today I was on the move, heading east into New Mexico. My final destination was San Patricio, between Ruidoso and Roswell on Federal Highway 70. A rough calculation showed it to be around 300 miles. I’d decided not use Interstates, preferring State and Federal roads. It would take longer, but I had all day and was in no hurry. By 10am I’d had breakfast, checked out and was on the road driving towards Holbrook. Once there, I’d leave the I-40 and take the 180, passing south of the Petrified Forest in a south-easterly direction.

The Wigwam Motel

Holbrook, around 30 miles from Winslow, had also been a Route 66 town. There remains a relic from those days that’s worth pulling off the Interstate to see: the Wigwam Motel. Happily the business is still a going concern and it remains possible to spend the night cosily tucked up in a wigwam. These are not made from buffalo hide, but concrete. Each wigwam comes with its own historic automobile from the 66 years parked out front. Alas, these are strictly for show, not driving, but add to the charm of the place nonetheless.

A few photographs later, I was back en route. I bypassed the Petrified Forest, having done it when I came through some years ago. The trees are fossilised stumps and fallen trunks from a time when the surrounding desert was a forest. Difficult to imagine now, but with global warming, something that any surviving generations could be saying about our current woodlands and forests, when all that remains are turned-to-stone relics scattered on the ground. That’s if they’re not under the sea. From this site, it’s now possible to see the peaks of the San Francisco Mountains, 80 miles distant at Flagstaff, when once, the view would have been obscured by trees.

Highway 180 was, as I’d hoped, virtually deserted. I drove for mile upon mile with no vehicle in vision, front or rear. Something, that even on our remotest roads back home, is now unachievable for an equivalent length of time. This didn’t change when I switched to Highway 60. It was quieter.

Two-way

Arriving at Springerville, close to the Arizona, New Mexico border, I stopped for lunch at a family restaurant, an obvious favourite with the locals. Like myself, the clientele were mostly seniors, taking advantage of generous portions at reasonable prices. I’d have qualified for being called junior in their company. Or stranger. Or the English guy. As it turned out, no-one had call to call me anything. Everyone was too busy eating.

Later that afternoon I passed through Pie Town NM. It was closed. That is, the restaurant from which the town drew its name was closed. The speciality? Why pies of course. According to the hand-written note on the door, the owners had gone for what was probably a well-earned vacation. Everyone needs a rest from pies now and again. The word had got around, as I was the only living thing in sight: human, animal or reptile. Although, taking advice from those that know, I didn’t walk through the long grass to put the presence of the final category to the test. Rattlers! There may have been birds in the air, but I didn’t look up. Too busy avoiding the long grass.

Pie Town

From Pie Town I struck out for my destination, as fast as the law and my matronly Nissan would allow me. The day was slipping away and I wanted to reach my destination before nightfall, as I had a hunch that my accommodation could be tricky to find in the dark. By the time I drove through Lincoln, the daylight was hanging on by its fingernails.

It’s hard to believe that Lincoln, now resembling a sleepy village in deepest rural Sussex, was once the scene of bloody murder and revenge. For it was here, on these now deserted streets, that a bitter war was waged between two local cattle barons. What became known as The Lincoln County War raged from 1878 to 1881. A notable combatant on the side of Englishman John Tunstall - who was murdered by members of the rival faction - was William Henry McCarty, more commonly known as Billy The Kid. It was not until his death in 1881, killed by a posse led by Pat Garrett, that the events of previous four years were finally laid to rest. McCarty is buried in Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

My misgivings about locating the cottage in which I would spend the next two nights were justified. I was to pick up the keys at a gallery, owned by my host. I hadn’t realised that New Mexico time was an hour ahead of Arizona time. The gallery had closed for the day. I spent the following half hour trying to find the place with only the vaguest of written directions. I alarmed several households by pulling up, headlights blazing, into their front yards. Before they had time to return to the porch with a shotgun I had shot off, tyres spinning, faster than Billy The Kid with the a posse of deputies on his trail. Luckily the host had guessed I could be lost and come out to look for me. Found and following a meal at a local restaurant, I was soon safely tucked up for the night, dreaming of empty pies, flaming roads, concrete gangs and outlaw wigwams.

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What started out as a bit of spin, turned into a two hundred mile round trip. I set off from Winslow, heading north onto the Hopi reservation. Originally planning to go as far as some buttes (conspicuous and isolated hill, cliff-sided, often flat topped), previously seen from a distance, once I got there, I just kind of… kept right on going.

A glance at the fuel gauge before I left showed a tank one-third full. Plenty for what I originally had in mind, but after an hour of unplanned driving, passing nothing more than scattered, isolated settlements, the likelihood of running out of fuel grew with every passing mile. I pulled over and checked the map. Another ten miles would get me to Second Mesa. That was another ten reservation miles. Think country miles, then think again. To turn back would be more, so I pressed on. Besides, I was enjoying the view.

Second Mesa came into sight; a ragged ribbon of buildings at the foot of a range of steep-sided hills. It didn’t look altogether promising. The closer I got, the less likely finding a gas station seemed. I came to a T-junction. I chose left, towards Tuba City. Then, just as the buildings were petering out, I saw the Texaco sign. I pulled onto a crowded lot through parked cars in various states of disassemblage. They had the Texaco sign alright, but with no sign of a pump. All right. I had no alternative other than to press on to Tuba City. Come on. It was a city. Bound to be a gas station there. But then I’ve driven through places with a population of fifty-four that attached city to their name. Dates back to the western migration when any newly founded settlement, however small, had big ideas about growing. Some did. Most did not. I hoped that Tuba City was the former.

It was. Well, I guess it was because I never actually crossed the city limits. At the junction of State Highway 264 and US Federal Highway 160, there were four gas stations, one on each corner. I picked one and filled up. Now I could relax. I headed south, making my way to the Cameron Trading Post. All the driving had given me an appetite and I was ready for a late lunch.

Sitting in the restaurant, under the magnificently decorated ceiling, I watched the Navajo servers carrying plates piled with mountains of food to the tables around me. As hungry as I was, I don’t think I could have done justice to one of these epically proportioned portions. A failing shared, it seemed, by the majority of defeated diners surrounding me. Most were leaving with the uneaten remains of their meal in a ‘styrene box: a peculiarly American practice that I’ve never come across in the UK or Europe, but commonplace in these here parts. I guess the thinking being, ‘I’ve paid for it, so I’m gonna finish it. Maybe not now, but later’. I can’t help wondering if that’s what people really do. Finish it later. With pizza maybe, but how appetizing is congealed steak, mash, greens and gravy a day later? Or two?

I ordered a sandwich: Swiss cheese and pickles. It was still huge. Coming with fries, salad and chips (crisps). So high on the plate it needed a couple of wooden stakes to keep it up there. I finished it though. And the salad. And half the chips. I saved the crisps as a car snack. Disappointingly, this meant I didn’t need a box.

From Cameron I turned for home, back to Winslow on the I-40. On route I made a short detour to a canyon overlook in order to take a look at the Little Colorado River, no more than a trickle after a rainy season that had failed to deliver this year. I had it in mind to reach Winslow before the sun went down. There were some interesting sites on the edge of town that I wanted to catch in the golden evening light. I missed it by minutes, but took some pictures anyway. There’s always next time. Sometime.

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I woke early. The sun was barely up, but I grabbed the camera and went down to the lobby. I helped myself to a freshly brewed coffee and stepped out into the chill air, taking sips from the ‘styrene cup as I went.

The tracks of the Santa Fe run right on by the foot of La Posada’s back garden, or the front, depending on how you arrive: by train or by road. The railway is mainly used for freight these days; train after train hauling containers, from the names on the side, most of them from China. They roll all day and all night at around fifteen minute intervals, east and west. You hardly hear them in the hotel, lest you listen out for them. Then it’s more a vibration than a sound as they rumble on through, sometimes stopping for a signal. Three diesel units pull near on a mile of train. I know this as I clocked one once, running parallel with the tracks as I drove an open stretch of road.

There are just two Amtrak passenger trains still running on this line. One at 7am going east, the other at 7.45pm going west. Both make a stop at Winslow, the station right next to the hotel as it always was. I walked to a gate that leads to the platform from the hotel grounds. There’s a sign warning those not travelling not to trespass. Although there are no station staff around to enforce the rules, I complied, sitting on the low wall to wait for the train.

Further down the platform, silhouetted against the lightening sky, was a huddled group of travellers, coffee cups in hand, shifting from foot to foot to keep warm. The bass notes of conversation drifted along on the still air. Across the tracks, the yard dogs greeted the sun. The waiting passengers appeared to be men only, each with a bag or case, going who know where to do who knows what? They had the demeanour of travelling for business rather than pleasure. Thirty years of commuting has given me an insight into these things. The scene reminded me of the one in ‘Once Upon a Time In The West’: desperados waiting for a train. Also a song by Guy Clark, recorded by the Highwaymen: Messer’s Cash, Nelson, Jennings and Kristofferson.

Then I heard it. A long way off, but a sound like no other. As Dylan once wrote ‘It takes a lot to laugh, it takes a train to cry’. If I had to pick a sound that would draw me back to the USA after a long absence, something that would make the call of the wild open spaces irresistible, a train whistle would be it. The mournful note cuts right to the soul, stirring a restlessness that most of us suppress, held back by life’s commitments and responsibilities. Hear that siren call and those things may have to wait in a siding for a while. Again, a song lyric says it all. Written by Stan Lebowsky and Herb Newman.

In a lonely shack by a railroad track
He spent his younger days
And I guess the sound of the outward-bound
Made him a slave to his wand'rin’ ways

I was that masked man.

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The instruments mastered by this… err, master, include acoustic and electric guitar, upright and electric bass guitar, banjo, lap steel guitar, oud, mandolin, hardingfele, bouzouki, cittern, bag-lama, gumbus, charango, cumbus, ud, weissenborn and zither. How can one man play so many instruments that I’ve never even heard of?

An ud, apparently, is a musical instrument common to all Arab cultures, also known as the oud. So that cuts Mr Lindley’s achievements down by one, as the oud is already listed. Huh! Not quite as talented as we thought then. The ud, or oud, is also an important part of the Turkish musical tradition and may have originated in Persia, where it is known as the ‘barbat’. It is a stringed instrument slightly smaller than a guitar, with eleven strings in six courses.

As for the rest, including the ‘hardingfele’ and ‘weissenborn’, you can Google those yourself. I’m off to practice the ukulele. Not listed as one of slow-hand Lindley’s achievements I notice. Hah!

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I stopped at the road that ran along the front of the hotel: old Route 66. I imagined what it once had been, the mother of all roads, winding from Chicago to LA, part myth, part legend. Fifty years ago I wouldn’t have been able to cross to the other side, except on a red light. It would have been filled with automobiles and trucks, all going somewhere from someplace else, 24 hours a day. Now, at 6.30pm, the street was empty, just a pair of taillights disappearing to my right and headlights stopped at the signal a quarter of a mile away to my left. Jumping a large puddle left by an earlier stormy cloudburst, I crossed over, taking my time.

Opposite was an abandoned diner, a relic from the old days. The place was no more than 18 feet by 12. I peered through the window. Everything inside was still in place. The chrome rimmed counter, griddles, high stools, even down to the condiment sets and napkin holders. It’s as though the owner just slipped out back for a cigarette between orders. But he’d long gone, leaving his burger joint as an epitaph to the days before the chain restaurants took over the world. Twenty yards down the street its replacement fared little better. A lone customer sat in the window of Church’s Chicken, his pick-up parked outside under a sky that was worth delaying supper to see.

I turned back towards the hotel and my own dinner. About to cross over, I spotted an old truck backed up on a forecourt. It was a flatbed Ford, the original bed gone, replaced by a large plastic container, the kind that are usually seen with trees growing out of them. The fading light picked out what was left of the chrome, the rest being layers of rubbed down paint and rust. I took advantage of digital technology and set about trying to capture the picture as I saw it. A couple of photographs in, a woman’s voice came out of the gloaming.

‘Hi, I see you found our truck’.

I stood up from a crouching position and came face-to-face with a smiling woman in her fifties, or thereabouts. Behind her was an open door in the building I’d assumed to be a closed-up commercial premises. I caught a glimpse of easy chairs and the cozy glow of a wood-burning stove. This was obviously her home.

‘Yeah, it’s wonderful. Especially in this low light. Here.’

I held out the camera for her to see.

‘Oh yes. That looks great’.

A large bear of a man appeared in the doorway.

‘Hey, someone’s discovered our truck’, she said, half turning to meet his approach. ‘Come see’.

He towered over us both, grinning widely as he bent to see the camera’s screen, adjusting the spectacles on the end of his nose.

‘I only moved the truck up here today’, she said. ‘A day earlier and you wouldn’t have seen it. You visiting?

She’d already detected the English accent, so I quickly filled in some details. On a trip like this, you tend to get it down pat. That done, her partner picked up the conversation.

‘Yeah, the old truck’s got some history’, he beamed. ‘She’s had it off the road twice’.

She smiled in recollection, with a nod of the head to confirm the facts.

‘Rolled it right over once, in the snow. Back was filled with logs. We got it back over with some help and it started right up, first time. Yeah, it’s seen some action’. He paused at the memory.

‘When I bought it, the engine was shot, so I found a V8 re-con that had only done 40,000 miles and bolted it straight in. Been runnin’ ever since, no problem'.

He was in his stride now. I was in no hurry.

‘Sold it once. The guy was gonna fit a new flatbed and fix it up to look new. Bumped into him a year or so later and asked him how it was goin’. It was still sittin’ in his yard, untouched, so I offered to buy it back off him. Agreed a price and had it ever since’.

‘We tell folks it’s the car from the song’, she said, rejoining the conversation with the assumption that I knew what song she was talking about. I did. And if I hadn’t, I soon would have. Visitors to Winslow can’t escape the fact that Jackson Browne based the action of his song, ‘Take It Easy’ in the town. There’s a statue and plaque that would be difficult to miss on the main crossroads in town, as well as the usual t-shirts, replica statues, mugs and postcards in the gift shop opposite.

‘Of course, nobody knows where the actual corner is. That’s if it ever really existed, ‘cept in the imagination. So we tell everyone it was right here’, she said, ‘and that he was just going to get a burger in the old diner when the girl in the flatbed pulled up. And that this is the actual truck, of course’.

There, in the falling darkness, lit by the warm light from the open doorway, we joined together in laughter at the thought.

‘That’s what I’m going to tell anyone that sees the picture’, I said, taking my leave. ‘And they better believe it’.

I’d like to think that I did. Not just the truck, but all of it.

Well, I'm a standing on a corner
in Winslow, Arizona
and such a fine sight to see
It's a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford
slowin' down to take a look at me
Come on, baby, don't say maybe
I gotta know if your sweet love is
gonna save me
We may lose and we may win though
we will never be here again
so open up, I'm climbin' in,
so take it easy

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I arrived at La Posada Hotel in Winslow an hour before sunset. The city was founded in 1881, originally built as a railroad town. When the Santa Fe Railroad closed the hotel in 1957, it deeply affected Winslow, which had been buffeted by economic forces following Word War 2. Then Interstate 40 bypassed the town in 1977, rendering Route 66 - which had drawn thousands of travellers to Winslow - obsolete. The airport, once the busiest in Arizona, was now over flown by new, long-range jetliners. With Americans increasingly taking to the air and hitting the new Interstate road systems, traffic on Santa Fe’s glamorous passenger trains withered and almost died. Railway hotels - many built by the Fred Harvey Company - began closing one by one.

When La Posada shut its doors to guests, the Santa Fe saved it from destruction by moving its division headquarters into the building. The company redesigned the interior with false walls, lower acoustic ceilings, fluorescent lighting and grey tiles glued over the flagstone floors. But the railroad found the building expensive to maintain and in the late 1980’s decided to move out and put the hotel up for sale. There were no takers. Desperate, Santa Fe offered La Posada to the City of Winslow for $1, but the city passed, saying fixing it up and the on-going maintenance would cost too much.

La Posada, the grandest of the Harvey Houses, that in its hey-day had been host to Gary Cooper, Errol Flynn, John Wayne, James Stewart, Cary Grant, Howard Hughes and Charles Lindbergh amongst many others, looked doomed. But then fate took a hand. When the water line buried under the hotel’s front lawn broke for the umpteenth time, Santa Fe decided not to repair it. They shut off the water, which hitherto had kept the grass green. When the summer heat hit, the lawns turned brown and the leaves of the cottonwood trees turned yellow. The citizens of Winslow finally awoke and created uproar.

Outraged, residents met and vowed to keep the grounds green, even if they had to do the work. Calling themselves ‘The Gardening Angels’ they threatened to buy all the garden hoses in the town, attach them together and run them all the way to the hotel from their own homes. They cut the grass with their own lawnmowers, trimmed hedges and planted new flowers they bought themselves. This grassroots rebellion resulted in city workers repairing the water line, with Santa Fe agreeing to turn the water back on. But the Gardening Angels continued to tend the acres of garden.

The next step was a move to get La Posada on the National Register of Historic Places. This was followed by the award of three large historical preservation grants. It was at this stage that Allan Affeldt, of Laguna Beach, California, saw the hotel listed as a threatened landmark by the National Trust for Historic Preservation and with a group of investors, purchased the hotel in 1997. Work began on the painstaking and loving renovation work that would see the building restored to its former glory. Workers began by tearing out all the Santa Fe office cubicles and peeled back linoleum to reveal graceful arches and stone floors.

Following the style of the original architect, Mary Colter, Affeldt’s brother-in-law, Keith
Mion, re-created the hotel furniture using the Spanish Colonial style and the rough,
handmade look of Mexican workmanship. Original La Posada furnishings have resurfaced and been donated to the hotel, though some items were returned under protest, namely
six original Colter-designed waiting room benches that had found their way to the Amtrak depot in Flagstaff. Following intervention at mayoral level, the depot staff eventually
agreed to part with all six benches.

The result of all this hard work and dedication is a triumph. Saving La Posada from the wrecking ball, the fate of so many historical buildings in the United States, has deservedly put Winslow back on the destination map for visitors from around the world. Mary Colter, who, at 87, was heartbroken when the hotel closed its doors in 1957, would be thrilled to know that the building she hoped would be her monument, has become just that.

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There are over two hundred recorded versions of the song 'Route 66'. Written by songwriter Bobby Troup in 1946, it was first recorded by Nat King Cole in the same year. In Britain, many of us first heard the song when The Rolling Stones kicked off their debut album with a version in 1964. One of my favourite renditions is by the Texan 'Western Swing' outfit 'Asleep At The Wheel' on their 1976 album, 'Wheelin' And Dealin''. I've even trodden the boards with my own version. Mercifully this is NOT available on Amazon or YouTube.

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In the song ‘Route 66’ the lyrics go, ‘You'll see Amarillo and Gallup New Mexico, Flagstaff Arizona, don't forget Winona’. Well, going west, as the order of the place names imply, if you’ve motored through Amarillo, Gallup and already reached Flagstaff, then you've passed Winona by without a second thought.

Going east, as I was, I didn’t forget. I dropped in to take a look. Truth be told, there’s not a great deal to see that ensures Winona's place in the memory. Except, that is, a rather fine example of a girder bridge that nowadays, sadly goes nowhere. Despite this, I’m happy to say it’s on the National Register of Historic Structures

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The I-40 east of Flagstaff runs through gently undulating, wide-open open desert, taking the same path as the ‘mother road’: Route 66. Long abandoned as the main highway between Chicago and Los Angeles, traces of the old road can still be found here, running parallel with the Interstate that’s replaced it. It remains possible to pull off and drive short lengths along the crumbling pavement on the unbelievably narrow carriageways, still divided by a fading double-yellow line down the middle. Whereas the new road flattens any humps and dips to a gentle rise and fall, old 66 closely follows the contours of the terrain. In places, driving it is like a switchback ride. Grass grows in the cracks and all-too-soon soon the road runs out, the surface deemed too dangerous to navigate or else altogether gone from sight, reclaimed by the earth, forcing any vehicle back onto the Interstate until the next opportunity arrives.

On this day the big Western sky was filling with high banks of cloud; individual, slow-moving thunderstorms, three or four visible at a time, the falling rain seen clearly from a distance of twenty miles or more. The late afternoon sun, intermittently hidden by cloud, cast a watery, golden light across the arid land, turning it into something quite magical and beautiful. I left the Interstate to try and find a spot to take a photograph of the view that was unfolding to my left. The distant hills, showing as an illuminated white line as caught by the sun and visible from the road, promptly disappeared from view behind a high bluff once I’d found a place to park. But all was not lost. As I turned back towards the car I spotted a tanker with a red cab, parked up, taking a break from the highway. Behind, the cumulous clouds soared in the wild cathedral afternoon. I got my photograph.

A few miles further on I passed a sign for Two Guns. Unable to resist the name I took the next exit. From the slip road I caught a fleeting glimpse of a grey estate car moving in the opposite direction along the frontage road to my right. Someone else had the same idea. The frontage road turned out to be a section of Route 66 and Two Guns was a ghost town, built as a service stop in the road’s hey-day.

I parked the car and set off towards two large storage tanks, each decorated with a mural depicting a cartoon cowboy brandishing twin six-guns. The United States is littered with such sights: the remains of people’s enterprise, hopes and dreams, abandoned in the face of circumstance, changing fortunes, hard luck and fate. The reason for Two Guns’ creation was withdrawn once the old route was superseded by the I-40 and that which remains is slowly rusting away and falling to the ground from which it rose. I find myself drawn to such places; their secrets locked in mystery and melancholy, whispered in the breezes that blow through shattered windows and splintered doorframes.

I’m not alone in my fascination. As I returned to the car, the estate I had seen earlier pulled up beside me. A man, in his forties, wire thin with crazy flyaway hair and eyes bright with a convert’s zeal, stared up at me through the open side window. He saw the camera at my side.

‘D’ya like this stuff?’ he said.

I didn’t catch on. He tried again, his eyes scanning the scene around us.

‘D’ya like all this kind of stuff?’

I nodded and began an answer. He didn’t wait for it.

‘I love it. Have ya been down there?’ He jerked his head in the direction of the old road that disappeared down a hill. ‘There’s a building down there where they kept mountain lions. It’s got painted letters on the side ‘Mountain Lions’. Can you imagine that? Keepin’ mountain lions penned up out here in the heat of the desert? That’s not right'.

I mumbled a reply.

‘Of course, that was when the road was here. Route 66. Ya know about that?’

‘Yeah’, I said, ‘drove it once, all the way. Chicago to LA’.

‘Me too’, he said. ‘Did it in eight days straight back in 2002. I’ve done a book of photographs. Wanna see it?’

He twisted around and started a search of the back seat, tossing clothes, magazines and empty coffee cups around until he uncovered a cardboard box.

‘I’ve been livin’ in the car. Bit of a mess . Here, take a look’, he said, handing me a hardback book. ‘Took over a thousan’ pictures in all. Eight days. That was some going. Waddya think? Wanna buy it? Forty-five dollars. Only forty-five. Take a look, an’ if ya don’t think it’s worth it, no need to buy it.

I flicked through the pages. It was a comprehensive and fascinating personal record of his journey.

‘I’d like to buy it, but I’m short of cash right now’, I explained truthfully. ‘I need to get to a cash machine pretty soon, so…’

I moved to hand back the book.

‘If ya want it, take it’, he said. ‘Ya can send me the money when ya get back home. I trust ya to do that. Besides, don’t matter if ya don’t. I got a boy out in Baghdad’. He paused, looking away. ‘There’s more important things than money’.

I took the book with a promise to send the payment as soon as I got home to England. He smiled up at me, then turned his eyes to the landscape once more.

‘I’m goin’ over there’, he said, jutting his chin. ‘I love it around here. Out of everywhere I’ve been, I keep comin’ back to this stretch - the road between Flagstaff and Winslow. Don’t know what it is about it…’

I followed his gaze and nodded.

With that he was gone, driving towards the storage tanks I’d photographed five minutes before, this present day incarnation of Kerouac’s Dean Moriarty, driving his seventh Subaru Outback with his trusty 35mm camera resting on the seat beside him.

Two minutes later I was back on the road and heading for Winslow.

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Gene’s Shoe Hospital in Flagstaff Arizona is a store that sells cowboy work gear. That includes boots, which they also repair. Hence the name. There are quite a few stores around that feature Western Wear - ‘cowboy crap’ as Dustin Hoffman described John Voight’s clothes in ‘Midnight Cowboy – including one in Greenwich Village in New York City. But Gene’s is the genuine article. A few years back I bought a Carhartt wrangling jacket there. With regular winter garden use and many washes later it’s still going strong with years of useful life left.

On this trip I was looking for a belt to give as a gift. While browsing the rack the local Sheriff strolled in. John Wayne came to mind. A large man with the look of the outdoors about him, he struck up a conversation with the Navajo server behind the counter, hands on hips, weight on his right leg, gun in holster. The Sheriff was in the market for a new pair of boots. He sported a moustache, waxed at the ends. The picture of John Wayne moved aside to be replaced by Wyatt Earp. The Sheriff left without a new pair of boots, saying he’d return when he had more time. The Navajo and me had no reason to doubt him. He looked like a man of his word.

I’d chosen a belt and laid it on the counter, ready to pay. I also threw in a CD: Emmylou Harris singing cowboy songs. To quote from Gene’s advertising copy, ‘Folks are fascinated with the Spirit of the American Wild West all over the world. The Cowboy life symbolizes the free life, closely tied to nature; independent, honest, quiet, good-natured, mischievous, courageous and strong. Is there a little or a lot of the Cowboy spirit in you?'

Speaking strictly for myself, I’d like to think there is.

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On the drive up to Flagstaff I left the freeway in order to pass through Sedona and Oak Creek Canyon. I was shocked and saddened to see what they’d done to Sedona. I’d been to the town some years before and back then it was already a busy, long-standing, tourist destination. Its streets were lined with restaurants, gift shops, gas stations and motels. An unpaved paradise it most definitely was not. But despite that, it had a kind of hokey, dusty charm.

What I found this time around was a cleaned-up, manicured, domestication that had obliterated character in the name of progress. There were even roundabouts, still a rare sight in the USA and so a sure sign of a creeping alien suburbanisation. But out of town the reason for this town's popularity survives, thankfully intact; the natural phenomenon of the Red Rocks. Short of a nuclear blast, surely even man would be hard pressed to destroy these.

This natural wonder is best viewed in the hour before sundown. The landscape around Sedona is set on fire by the warm glow of the evening light, truly a wondrous and unforgettable sight. Being there around mid-day I had to make do with bright sunlight, but couldn’t resist a photograph or two.

North of Sedona, the winding Arizona 89A rises steeply through a corridor of tall pines as it climbs the Mogollon Rim in Oak Creek Canyon. The heat of Scottsdale had given way to a mountain climate, although at this time of year, was still comfortably warm. The Oak Creek Lodge about halfway to the summit was the location of one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had in the USA: French toast to die for. Having already taken breakfast and a little too early for lunch, this day I passed it by, thus avoiding any subsequent disappointment by keeping the cherished memory intact.

At the top of the canyon, I snatched a glance back down the length of the valley, south towards Phoenix. Driving on past the parking lot for the scenic view I pressed on towards Flagstaff. I had business to transact in the town at Gene’s Shoe Hospital before motoring on to my final destination of the day, Winslow.

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Like most cities and towns of any size in the USA, Scottsdale’s perimeter is a mixture of new housing, chain restaurants, gas stations and motels, business parks and shopping malls. To get a glimpse of how things once were, before the 1960’s, its necessary to stroll around what is lovingly titled, Old Scottsdale. Here, the streets still bear the mark of a traditional Western town: wide streets built on a grid, flanked by low level buildings constructed of brick, adobe and wood, with verandas extending over the sidewalk to provide shade from the punishing desert sun. A scene familiar to any fan of Western Movies.

The old businesses have long gone to the edge of town or simply gone. Replacing the grocery stores, drug stores, haberdashers, saddlers, beauty parlours, barber’s shops and local banks are galleries, hundreds of galleries. Or so it seems. Scottsdale has become a Mecca for those specialising in Western themed art. If you want a painting or sculpture that takes its inspiration from the dramatic landscape or people of the old West, then this is the place. If you don’t find it here, you didn’t really want it.

Maybe it’s because I was there out of season, most people preferring to visit at cooler times (the early autumn temperature was still hitting the low 100’s), but by day, the streets were near deserted. The recession has, no doubt, taken a toll. ‘For Rent’ signs could be seen propped in the windows of many empty stores. With the businesses that remained, it was necessary to check the open/closed sign on the door for signs of probable life inside, for at a glance, there was none. When I entered a gift shop, the owner’s face lit up with joy at the sight of a potential customer. Her euphoria was cut short as I handed over 75 cents for a single postcard. I left in a cloud of guilt.

In these uncertain economic times, the fate of Old Scottsdale must surely hang in the balance. With its once bustling and vibrant heart ripped out and moved to the extremities, the galleries, gift shops, bars and restaurants that moved in and brought with them new blood and hope now face an uncertain future. I hope things turn around and this historic district survives. It would be a great shame if the only place remaining in which to see what Main Street USA had once been were the reconstruction at Disney World.

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At Phoenix they decided to make some changes. Improve things. Now, it’s necessary to board a courtesy bus that transports customers some distance to a new building constructed on a remote lot beyond the airport perimeter. Shame. The good thing is, the desks of all renters are situated side-by-side in the one location on the ground floor, with the cars of all companies still only a short stroll away on the upper floors. Refreshingly sensible.

I deftly avoided the representative’s obligatory smooth-talking temptations to upgrade the vehicle I’d ordered, but capitulated to his offer of free call-out to deal with roadside breakdowns and flat tyres. The conditions on the trail can get a little rough down in the southwest and although lighter of wallet, the peace of mind was worth a few extra dollars a day. That, at least, is the consoling thought I took with me into the lift on my way to the third floor where I would claim my car.

A young lady checked my paperwork and indicated that I could choose any vehicle in row B. As it turned out, any vehicle from a choice of two. So. What was it to be? The Japanese import, or the home-built American alternative? The domestic number looked flashier, white with cosmetic cut-aways and splashes of shiny chrome. The plump, dowdy Japanese matron, grey in colour with a personality to match, looked dependable. Sorry Uncle Sam, Auntie Nippon edged it. On a desert trail a mild mare is a wiser choice than a bucking bronco. Whatever, I had made my choice and loaded the bags into the trunk.

Having familiarised myself with the location and purpose of all the knobs, levers and switches I put my foot on the break, turned on the ignition, released the handbrake and slipped the automatic transmission into drive. I was on the way to my latest great adventure.

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When I booked the flight I was only thinking about the day, Friday, the day I had decided to move on. It took others to point out the significance of the date on which I was to take to the air. By then the plans were in place. Had I realised, would I have re-scheduled? No. It’s a date on the calendar. Yes, a day to remember. A day that will live forever in infamy, nowhere more strongly than in New York. But life goes on.

I’ve heard it said that it’s a myth that lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place. It can happen. But not today. I had more to fear from the heavy rain and wind. Getting a cab in this town when it rains can be tricky. I had an early breakfast, having packed the night before. Just after 8am when I stepped outside onto Madison Avenue the rain had stopped. Somebody up there was looking out for me.

The doorman flagged down a cab with no trouble and I was on my way, swishing through the rain-washed streets of Manhattan heading for the Lincoln Tunnel and New Jersey. The traffic was light leaving the city, but the lanes heading into town were slow, tailing back on the freeway. My thoughts inevitably turned to Paul Simon’s lyrics to his song ‘America’. ‘… counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike, they’ve all gone to look for America, all gone to look for America’. Wasn’t that just what I was doing, what I always did when I came here? Setting out to look for America.

The rain began to fall once more. The cab made good time, speeding through the industrial landscape of Jersey: pylons, oil depots, container parks, warehouses, with the receding skyline of Manhattan showing ghostly through the murky gloom. I was playing a bit part in the opening credits of The Sopranos.

So often here I find myself caught up in a movie moment or living the lyrics of a song. It’s what many Americans find so surprising, the extent to which their literature, music, TV and movies have shaped the impressions, knowledge and opinions that we in the UK have of them and their country. This is particularly true of my generation, raised in the 50’s on imports of American comics, kid’s TV shows, films and popular music. When, a few years ago, I drove Route 66 from Chicago to LA, I was often in the position, as a foreign visitor, of having to explain the significance and history of ‘the mother road’ to those I met along the way.

Scanning the departure board at Newark I saw that my flight was delayed by two hours. Someone up there was now taking a break from looking out for me. There was nothing else to do but wait. I bought a large coffee, found a table near a window and watched the planes take off and land in the rain. Time passed quickly and soon I was boarding the US Airways Boeing, non-stop to Phoenix. The majority of passengers were businessmen and women returning home to Arizona for the weekend. Most travelled alone, closing their laptops after an hour or so to grab some sleep.

Some four hours later we touched down at Sky Harbor International Airport in the city that has risen, phoenix like, from the desert. The temperature on the ground was 102 degrees Fahrenheit.

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For those, like me, of a certain age, it’s not possible to walk around the streets in Greenwich Village and not hear an echo from the boot heels of Bob Dylan. It’s where he burst upon the scene, seemingly from nowhere, back in the early sixties. MacDougal Street, Washington Square, 4th Street, Café Wha?: all places that hold traces of the past within the deep substance of their being, which, with a little imagination, can transcend times passing and sweep up a dreamer to carry him willingly back to those far off days.

I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way,
I promise to go under it.

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Chinese men on bicycles. That’s another thing. Oriental men of all ages, riding around, all over the city. With heavy chains clanking and dangling from the handlebars for locking up and plastic bags over the saddle for the rain. Where are they all going, these Chinese pedal pushers? And why? One day, will they all come together, united in one great cycling cause, first to take Manhattan, then to take Beijing. The answer, my friend, is blowing in the east wind.

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The colour of the streets in Manhattan is yellow. Yellow cabs. In their thousands. They duck, they dive, they swoop, they soar. They drive on their horns. They take hair-raising chances. But I’ve never seen a cab hit another vehicle. I know by the scrapes and gouges this sometimes happens. I guess I’ve been lucky. So far. If you don’t count the driver I had to keep awake on the drive to JFK one time. No, two times. But hey, who’s counting? Ride your luck, I say.

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In New York, people walk. Thousands every day pound the sidewalks. Before I ever visited the city, it’s something I knew from watching movies. Cary Grant joining the lunchtime masses as he left his Madison Avenue office in ‘North By Northwest’. Jack Lemmon pursuing Shirley MacLaine through the revolving doors of their workplace in ‘The Apartment’. Woody Allen strolling home from a movie with Diane Keaton in ‘Annie Hall’. Tony Curtis struggling to keep pace with Burt Lancaster in ‘The Sweet Smell of Success’. Dustin Hoffman limping across the street in ‘Midnight Cowboy’, pounding the hood of a cab and yelling, ‘I’m walkin’ here’. I now know what he meant. It’s what people do in New York City.

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