Sexy cats!

If those sexy cats got your attention, be patient as we'll get to them shortly.

There was once a time when I would never have dreamt of driving the 450 miles plus from Southampton to Leeds and back for the weekend. But I feel that my perspective has changed. After driving a good four hours a day when we made our way across America, I wonder what stops me from doing it around the homeland. About half way down the M1 on my return leg from Leeds, the realisation hit me. Like a thousand looming brake lights in my windscreen.

Traffic.

In the USA, travelling between towns and cities is relatively stress free. The only traffic we ever hit was the swirling, hellish vortex of the Los Angeles road network. The rest of the time we were coasting down the open road. This feat is not so easily matched in England's green and pleasant land. But to be fair, the roads were pretty kind to me. A Saturday lunchtime drive up to Leeds spared me any traffic headaches. It was only the Sunday evening return when the motorway snarled up.

The reason for my expedition was to attend Thought Bubble Comic Con as my brother's wingman. Whereas my graphic novel knowledge is limited to film adaptations, his is encyclopaedic and lovingly, artistically worshipping. I arrived Saturday afternoon to find him wide eyed with glee, arms laden with bags of purchases and freshly signed prized posessions. With a childlike joy, the words to describe his day at the convention tumbled from his mouth like pages from a sketchbook. My brother never apologises for this unbridled enthusiasm for his passions. And I love him all the more for it!

Sunday morning, before the dawn dew had lifted we were trekking towards the convention for a packed day. First on the list was getting a special edition poster from some guy called Jock. This meant queuing. Queuing in the cold. Queuing for half an hour and then another hour because the fella we were waiting for hadn't arrived yet. When he did arrive, he started the day how one presumes he ended the previous night: downing a bottle of Smirnoff Ice. Who says comic books are for nerds?!

Our time in the queue gave me an insight into the comic world. It was like Disneyland for geeks. People dressed in weird and wonderful costumes (it's not often your Sunday starts with an 8 foot metal soldier sauntering towards a tiny, toddler Hulk) and queues for everything. The people around us traded stories about signings they'd been to the previous day, compared victories they'd had in finding a long-yearned for issue and shared opinions on a whole range of topics. I was so out of the loop that I couldn't even see the loop.

So I left my wing-manly duties and went wandering. Away from the big-hitters of the comic world, I found more to explore. There were less queues for a start. I browsed meticulously drawn comics on a whole range of subjects. It was astounding to see how committed so many are to this art form despite reaching limited commercial success. Amongst my favourites were a touching poetry comic book about a bus stop and a range of posters and books exploring animal sounds in a variety of languages. I even put my hand in my pocket to buy two mini comics: a story about a car journey and a heroic platypus.

Later that afternoon we treated ourselves to a seat in a lecture theatre to watch a sketching spotlight. Four amazing artists took it in turns to put their drawing skills under the camera and talk about their experiences and opinions. It was fascinating and hilarious. Three of the four sketched incredibly skilful, detailed characters from their work. I have such respect for their vision and how they use their skills to realise that vision. One of the artists was Natasha Allegri. Being a novice, I had never heard of her, much less seen her work. She took a different tact to the others. Sheet upon sheet of paper she filled with sexy cats. Sexy cats in a variety of poses and shapes. They were cute and naughtily funny, and she was having a ball. So were we as the audience. 

At the very end of the day, as the stewards were trying to shepherd us out we found Natasha! And she was still signing. My brother asked her if she could draw a sexy cat for him. She happily obliged. Then he asked if she could draw one for me. I turned into a complete fangirl and got starstruck by this woman I'd never even heard of a few hours ago. She was so sweet and drew a whole page of sexy cats. Then, I presume it was her fiery artistic temperament, declared them to be not very good and said she could do better! I thought they were all ace, but I didn't argue and we came away with three sheets full of those fiendish felines. When I look at them now they represent such pure, random joy and remind me of an equally random weekend in Leeds. 

Every weekend should feature a sexy cat somewhere. 

Me, the giant and everyone else in the world...

So, one of the things I was most looking forward to seeing when visiting Northern Ireland was Giant's Causeway. It's so iconic and unique that I needed to experience it for real. And without sounding like too much of an oddball; I bloody love rocks! It amazes me when you get to see something that had been formed by millions of years of pressure and exposure. Basically it's just stuff that we find in the ground anywhere, and yet in some places it can be spectacularly beautiful. 

On one of the less wet days I was there (I was visiting in August; I should've known to pack storm level wet weather gear), we headed up the coast to the causeway. Vicky assured me she knew of the best spot to park. The opening of a shiny, new visitor exhibition centre has meant that you can be charged about a tenner to see this natural phenomenon. That's right, a geographically renowned World Heritage Site is charging the public to walk on rocks that they have a right to walk on. I know, I know. Anyway, we were to bypass all the tearoom / gift shop hoopla. It is possible to park nearby and walk down to the beach without passing through the interactive exhibits. The only interaction I was after was to feel the sea air on my face as I scampered over the rocks in the footsteps of giants. 

We decided not to pay for the privilege to be packed like sardines onto a bus down to the shore and instead walked the half-mile trek. As we rounded the final corner on the walk down the hill, the sight of the famous stones appeared. I say appeared, but it was difficult to see the actual stones as there were swarms of people covering almost every inch of hexagonal rock. I guess the fact that it was the summer holidays added to the popularity of the site. On one hand it was jarring to have to share my experience of this amazing natural phenomenon with so many others, but on the other, I was heartened to see so many people taking interest in the geography and history of the land. 

To be fair, it added to the fun of the experience. One of the most rewarding things to do here is to scamper across the footsized plinths. You step from one to another, dodging the puddles and the slippery seaweed to get further and further. Without realising, you gain momentum and try to go quicker. You try to hit each stone only once to pick your way across the uneven terrain. The action took me back to childhood fun scrabbling across rock pools and climbing higher on overhanging cliffs. The added challenge was in sidestepping young toddlers crying and avoiding photobombing Japanese tourists. 

The rocks that make up the causeway are undeniably unique and a sight that has to be seen, but I gained more enjoyment on my tourist trail from many of the other places. I feel a little proud of myself for being able to say that I drove the Causeway Coastal Route. This is a road that stretches from Belfast, up the East coast, along the North coast and down to Derry, nestled next to the Republic of Ireland. We broke the drive up across several days, but we did it. And man alive, what a drive. I love driving, and it's so much better when you have awe-inspiring, rugged coastlines greeting you at every turn.

My favourite stretch was up the North East coast, past the Glens. The road hugged the coastline so that you could smell the sea, and around every turn we would be presented with the archetypal vista of Ireland; rolling green hills, jagged rocks, sandy beaches, blue sea and white foam topping off the perfect view on the incoming waves. Most of the time we had the views to ourselves. Only the odd car passed us and when we stopped (which we frequently did to allow me to fully take in the magnificence of the landscape) there were very few other souls to be seen. I can recall one man walking his springer spaniel to whom we wished a good morning. I can't imagine any morning that starts with a walk along that coast could be anything but good. It was a stark contrast to the hordes of people at the Causeway, and maybe it's just my predisposition the hermitic lifestyle, but I know where I'd rather spend my time next time I visit Northern Ireland.

My long journey to Ryan Adams

It may not be a journey to a specific, physical location, yet this is probably one of the most hard-fought and significant, let alone longest, journeys I have endured.

For those of you unsure of who Mr Ryan Adams is, let me shine some light on the subject. He is an American singer, not to be confused with BRYAN Adams. Many years ago Ryan was the singer in the alt-country band Whiskeytown before making music on his own, and then more recently with his own band. I first came across him in 2001 when I heard the song 'New York, New York'. This led me to discover the album 'Gold' which was my soundtrack to walking to college. I still 'shuffle through the city...' when walking a certain route, even now.

Once I find music I like, I tend to dive into it head first, so I checked out his previous music. On listening to Ryan's 'Heartbreaker' album I knew I was in trouble. I had my new favourite music. Man, that album was, and still is, so good. It is achingly beautiful where he pours his heart and soul into harmonica-driven laments, as well as breathily growling through Southern Americana guitar rhythms. It is also the home to one of my most favourite songs ever; 'Oh my sweet Carolina'. On some days it's top, but picking one song is like picking a favourite child. Sophie's choice really. But this song is consistently up there. If you haven't heard this album it go now. Go find it. If you know me, I'll lend you my copy. You can read the rest of this later.

So, to cut a long story short, my love affair with Ryan Adams' music has grown from there. It's soundtracked my life thanks to his prolific output. But live music is where the magic happens. I adore going to watch live music. There's something about the atmosphere, the cramped space and the electricity in the air. So clearly I needed to hear Ryan's voice ringing out clear and gouging a Southern drawl through my musical heart.

It was 2004 and I had convinced my friend Vicky to come see his show with me. A point to remember is that none of my friends who usually share my musical tastes have the love for this music as I do. I sold it to her that we could have a few days exploring Birmingham as well as going to the show. I will never forget getting to the venue after a long journey, (this was before the explosion of social media to keep us up to date) only to be told the show, and indeed the whole tour, had been cancelled. Ryan had fallen off stage and broken his wrist. I felt so deflated; it was as though the plug had been pulled on my party. Never has Birmingham offered less to a visitor.

But life goes on, and a few years later I bought my second ticket to a Ryan Adams show. Alas, once again it was not to be. The show was cancelled again, this time due to ill health. At least I didn't have to travel to Birmingham to be let down, but the heavy disappointment laid in the pit of my stomach all the same.

Then, earlier this summer I heard about Ryan Adams' forthcoming album and a few accompanying live shows. Demand for tickets was high and I failed in finding one. It was starting to look as though I wasn't meant to be part of the live experience. I bought the new album and consoled myself listening to that. It seems unfair to call it a consolation because it's one of the best albums I've heard in a while. Gloriously dark, rock riffs; you know a song is great if you end up singing along to the guitar parts. It walks a fascinating line between light and dark; from heart-rending laments to an urgent cry building to a crescendo that gets the heart racing. Go get that album now. It's ok. I'll wait again.

Then I remembered a Twitter App called Twickets that allows fans to buy and sell tickets on Twitter at face value. I camped out on Twitter, waiting for that magic offer. Eventually I saw it. Someone offering a ticket for the Shepherd's Bush show. As none of my friends are that interested in him, despite my best efforts, I thought I'd go it alone. I messaged them and waited with baited breath. The ticket was mine if I wanted it. If I wanted it! Hoping that the person was real and the ticket wasn't fake, I planned my journey to London.

The day of the show I woke up early, before my alarm and in the dark just like it was Christmas. Throughout the day at work, I was struggling to hold my excitement down. It's no exaggeration to say I felt sick with nervous anticipation at several points. Eventually I got on the road up to London. My car had a few issues on the way, helped in no part by the horrendous traffic of the capital. There were times I thought I wouldn't make it. But I did. Once arrived I met my ticket sellers. My eternal thanks to Ben and Nick. Mostly for being real and not being scam artists. Ticket in hand, I headed to the venue.

This was the first show that I'd been to completely on my own. But I didn't care. Without sounding too much like a stoner, it was all about the music, man. My heart was racing so hard whilst I was waiting that I thought I might've passed out. The support acts came and went and then it was nearly time. But then worry set in. I was stood in the heaving crowd (never have I been in a crowd with so much palpable anticipation) and the time he was due on stage came and went. I started to think I had cursed him by my mere presence. But all worries faded when he led the band onto stage and launched into the new single.

Man alive what a show. The songs were every bit as beautiful as on the records. The rockier songs pulsed through me and on the quieter, heartbreaking songs, the crowd hung on his every note. I've never been to a show where a messy-haired man with a guitar can hold the whole room in such awe. For me, a person who loves to singalong, it felt sacrilegious to bellow over his measured, impassioned words.

It was definitely worth the extra long journey to be stood in front of that stage. Thirteen years isn't that long a wait is it?

The only trouble is now I think I've spoilt myself. This Friday felt like a complete anticlimax. Once you've watched Ryan Adams perform on a Friday night, nothing else matches it. Maybe every Friday should be Ryan Adams performs night. Maybe in a perfect world.

Follow the brown sign

You know the ones. The signposts found by the wayside of roads up and down Great Britain. The beautifully enticing, dingy looking signs making you aware of a jewel in the British tourist board that is lying to be discovered, somewhere in the vicinity. Sometimes they're more than adequately clear in signalling 'Dunluce Castle', and then leading you to exactly that castle. And you know what you're looking for in terms of a castle. However some of these signs are a little more cryptic and generally less helpful.

To give you some scene setting, I visited the magnificent Northern Ireland. I had eight days to explore as much as I could. My travelling companions on this leg of the journey were Vicky, a very dear friend of mine, and her almost-four-month old son, and my Godson, William. Vicky and I have had previous experience 'exploring' together; not so much exotic, more rural areas. Deepest, darkest Wiltshire where we were unable to find a 100 foot white horse and blindly drove across a live firing range looking for a mythical village.

William was the uninitiated. If he realised what he was letting himself in for, he may have opted to stay at home.

On a rainy August morning, we headed out on the open road. Our route was to take us up through the Sperrins, a mountain range in the West of the country. To give a little more background, Vicky had only moved to Northern Ireland less than a year before, and for most of her residence she had been incapacitated by pregnancy and the subsequent infant child. Fair enough I suppose. And so sightseeing had not been top of the priority list. Once I had arrived to visit, maps and leaflets in hand, the tourist in her began to stir.

Negotiating the winding, country roads, we didn't particularly know where we were headed. But that's the nature of the adventures we were used to embarking on. We would drive until we found an interesting sign to guide us. This is where the brown signs are so valuable. This is where the magic happens.

I must add another character to the tale at this point. Vicky's husband, George, had also been dragged along for the ride. But I feel this is where we lost him. He didn't seem to share our enthusiasm for entrusting our route to waiting for a brown sign to appear. I hasten to add that George is a born and bred Northern Irish gent, yet when we asked him for worthwhile tourist trails, he had few gems to offer. With no greater alternatives, he dutifully fell into line to join us to put our fate into the hands of those wonderful brown signs.

Our track record on home turf had been quite positive. We had found many interesting ruins, castles and tea rooms. But now we were in strange, foreign lands.

As we drove the 'scenic mountain route', (labelled by the very same breed of signage) we passed our first board that directed us to an undiscovered treasure. I would recount the wording on the sign now, but I can't remember it at all. To be fair, two seconds after passing the sign I couldn't remember what it said. At a push I could say there were possibly three words, with a few 'c's and 'r's in there. It was just a bit too Irish for my English brain to comprehend.

Despite not knowing exactly what we were headed towards, Vicky was insistent. We found a turning point and set off in the direction pointed to by the sign. Passing another brown sign, we were heartened to be informed that this treasure was only a mere three miles away. Admittedly, I still couldn't understand the sign, and to be honest I'm sure they changed some of the letters around from the previous sign.

We drove on. And on. Pretty soon I was getting the feeling that our trusted brown signs were leading us a merry dance. We had definitely driven for more than three miles, but we hadn't found our destination. Not that we knew what we were looking for. None of us had been able to read the sign.

In time honoured British tradition we carried on. No, we certainly weren't lost. In fact we passed a stunningly beautiful lake that we weren't expecting and then continued on to a nature / craft centre that offered us weary travellers a hot drink and some sweet treats.

It was in this coffee shop oasis in the middle of the mountains that we discovered the truth about our magical signpost. Apparently the sign we were following was for an ancient Celtic burial site. And yes, we were on the right trail. But alas, the farmer who owned the land had got increasingly exasperated by tourists stopping by (clearly this is high excitement in these parts) that he removed the final brown sign to direct travellers to the exact site!

Gah! It seems some people don't have the same respect for those hallowed, brown signs as we have. Never fear. You can never stop the signage. We will continue to follow the brown signs. You never know where they might lead.

What's the difference between a Bakewell tart and a Bakewell pudding?

No, it's not the start of a hilarious food themed joke. It's a pertinent question I was faced with on my arrival in the picture-perfect town of Bakewell in Derbyshire.

I had travelled north to spend the weekend at Y Not festival with my musical counterpart, Jen. As a way to ease us back to 'real' life on the Monday morning, we decided to take a detour en route home. A visit to the Peak District wouldn't be complete without stopping by Bakewell for a sweet treat. As you may realise, I find it nigh on impossible to pass up the promise of a product from a bakery. Factor in the local connection and the significance of a Bakewell from Bakewell, and my mission was clear.

We had driven through the extraordinarily green, rolling countryside crisscrossed with endless lines of grey stone walls that made me think I was in a painting of the countryside from the 1950s. Or that cartoon story of the sheepdog from 'Twinkle' magazine (if anyone can remember the name of that I would be very grateful as trying to recall it is driving me mad. And Google is not yet equipped for such vague descriptions). The scenery here is so quintessentially English countryside that it reminds you how stunningly beautiful our country is.

A fortuitous sat-nav detour took us through Chatsworth Estate. From afar we took in the grand sight of a very stately house set amongst some of the greenest hills in the land. My excitement was greater to see a herd of deer going about their business in a small valley, shaded by a few trees not far from the road. There had to have been at least twenty of them. A truly stately sight.

So, to the issue at hand. As we walked the streets of Bakewell, we surveyed the various bakeries offering a tantalising spread of goodies. We headed into one inviting establishment and stocked up. I opted for a Bakewell tart and a Bakewell pudding just to be on the safe side. We found a nice spot by the river to sit on the wall, sample our sweets and watch the world go by. Every other person who walked by seemed to be accompanied by a dog. All shapes and all sizes of dogs were lead by, trying to sniff out the crumbs dropped from our bakery paper bags. Good luck to them finding dropped crumbs from me. That pastry of my mini-tart was the crumbliest, butteriest that I've ever tasted. So clearly, every morsel went into my mouth. Good job Bakewell.

There was a street market in action on a cobbled area by the river. As we walked towards it, a tiny, elderly lady stopped us. She warned us to hold onto our bags carefully as we passed through the market. I thanked her for her forewarning but felt I had not much cause for concern. All that was left in my little strappy bag from the long weekend at a festival was a handful of Dolly Mixtures, hand sanitizer and a bunch of folded up loo roll 'in case of emergency'. I'm not entirely sure what sells well in the Derbyshire criminal underworld, but I was pretty sure my bag offered slim pickings.

In answer to my original question I invite you to skip forward with me a few days. The large Bakewell pudding I secured from a bakery in the famous town came home with me. This dessert of eggs, sugar and jam laid atop the case of flaky pastry served as afters for a family meal that week. Without the sponge of the tart, the pudding is most definitely a pudding, rather than the afternoon tea treat of the Bakewell tart. And boy is that pudding sweet. I like sweet, but even for me, it was verging on diabetes-inducing.

So apologies to the town of Bakewell, but I think I'll pledge my allegiance to the Bakewell tart, which apparently, the town of the same name has nothing to do with. Maybe they like things sweeter in the Peak District. But at least I know now. I know my limits. I'll stick with a cherry Bakewell. Good job Mr Kipling.

The continuing journey...

As you may have realised, either by my previous blog entry or by running into me in the local supermarket, I am no longer on the extended journey that I set out on last year. My adventure that took over my life for several months was, hands down, the best experience of my life. The cliches are all true. Travel does broaden the mind. It makes you more independent. It gives you the opportunities to speak to people you would never ordinarily meet. And clearly, by its very nature, it takes you places you've never been. These new places range from being wonderfully mundane to enticingly interesting. And then you stumble across the odd place that is so achingly beautiful that you cannot quite believe how not everyone is able to see it.

I'm happy to report that along my journey there was no epiphany moment. I did not 'find' myself. I have not returned as some new age hippy exalting the virtues of communing with nature. What I did find along my way was a clearer belief that the journey trumps the destination every time. 'Lost' should never be a dirty word. You find more captivating conversations and more unexpected stops along the way when you're not entirely sure of where you're headed. I have always felt reaching your final destination of a journey anti-climatic. When I think back to childhood holidays, (sorry Mum and Dad) some of the best times were watching the rolling countryside and odd villages pass outside the window as we headed West. Then the random stops at a newly discovered town market or a spontaneous detour based on an intriguing road sign. That is why we should travel. The exploration of the unknown. The joy of discovery. The tiny genesis of nerves in your stomach when you head off the beaten track.

And that is why I shall endeavour to travel. It's all about the journey.

Circumstances as they are, I cannot take up the path I had planned to continue in the far off places of this world. But not to worry. Life is what it is and as I have already said, sometimes the journey we take isn't the path we intended, but that doesn't make it any less interesting.

So I intend to travel as far as I can, and pass through as many new places as possible. I have always maintained that there is beauty and intrigue wherever you go; you just have to look close enough. So there is a whole world out there to explore. Why not start somewhere closer to home? And my travels so far have taught me that you can meet a whole range of people, no matter where you are in the world. I spent a wonderful Christmas with a group of people in Central America, three of whom lived less than five miles from me. So who knows who I'll end up meeting halfway up a mountain and listening to their tales next.

The journey is never finished.

This Isham gnome is not hanging up her travelling boots yet...

One day like this...

So, one day to spend in New Zealand?

I should have added that I was in Auckland and had to be at the airport at about 10pm that evening. So any far-flung adventures weren't particularly feasible. And considering my pessimism and current run of bad events, I didn't want to end up stuck somewhere that I couldn't easily get to the airport from.

After some leaflet reading I deferred to my tried and tested mantra: Life is better by the sea. Fortunately Auckland being a coastal city, I didn't have far to go to the sea. I strolled down to the ferry port and caught the next sailing to Waiheke Island.

About 11 miles out to sea from Auckland, Waiheke Island is a beautifully undulating island that has caught the eye of many holidaying visitors and natives alike. Even the voyage across the Hauraki Gulf to reach the island was a treat in itself. Mother Nature bestowed the gift of sunshine upon me for my final day in New Zealand. The sea sparkled in the sunshine. The frothy foam that churned up as we coursed across the Gulf shone like discovered gems ploughed from those azure waters.

On arrival, I watched the throngs of holidaying groups meander off in their general directions. I had no exact plans. I had a backpack with supplies on my back, a map I'd picked up at the ferry port in my hand and my walking boots on my feet. Watching the crowds, I headed off in the less-trodden direction. Turning left, I followed a narrow cliff edge path through some increasingly dense, dry grass around the headland point.

The views were incredible. And I had them all to myself. I passed one man keeping his dog happy by throwing things into the sea for him to chase, and that was all the human life I saw for a few hours.

Those next few hours passed swiftly as I followed the path that hugged the contours of the coast. Up and down hills. Through thick grass. Across uneven rocky patches. Dipping under overhanging rogue branches. All the while with one eye on the achingly serene seascape accompanying me on my tramp.

'Tramping' is what they call hiking or rambling in New Zealand. Although it normally refers to a long distance hike, usually longer than a day, I'm going to count this as my tramping experience, seeing as I was short on time. In this case I like to think it was quality over quantity. 

My time walking in such surroundings and stopping (probably every minute or so such was the picture-perfect beauty of it) to simply admire nature at its finest helped me a lot. I had time to think, and conversely, to try to clear my mind of thinking. As I reached the brow of a hill or rounded another corner I kept thinking my eyes couldn't possibly take any more beauty. But every time I was hit in the face by a deserted, silvery pebble beach being lapped at by deep, blue waters. At some turns I audibly gasped at the incredible sights, such as exotic plants in such rich greens that they must've come from a fairy tale dancing in the cooling sea breeze like mythical creatures. At some points the scenery was so beautiful that I truly struggled to accept how amazing this world is. And the fact that I could walk through it with absolutely no interruptions made me feel extremely fortunate (despite the other events going on in my life), if not a little confused as to where the rest of the world was. Had I slipped into another dimension? Had I fallen down a rabbit hole on the hillside? 

Fortunately, or not depending on my preferred outcome, I eventually stumbled across fellow humans. As I neared the next village I found a mother, son and jack russell collecting pebbles on a deserted cove beach (the dog was more of a hindrance to the collection). At this point I must remind you that I had no idea where I was, I was just walking the coast as far as my little legs would take me. Part of me was hoping that the fresh sea air and exercise would help me fight the jet lag that would descend on me in a few hours. A conversation with the pebble-collectors assured me that I was on the right path to reach a seaside resort where I could reward myself with an ice cream and find a bus back to the ferry. I left them, very jealous of the fact that this was their life. Ignoring the busyness of the world and cocooning themselves in the warmth and tranquility of this pebbled cove. 

A while later I reached the white sands of Oneroa Beach. I stumbled out of the undergrowth at the far end where there were no people. Further up the sand I could see people sunbathing, kids playing around and even a seaplane parked on the shoreline. I sat beneath the shade of a overhanging tree and watched the scene play out. I soaked up every moment of calm that I could before heading up the beach to begrudgingly join the world again.

The sun and the sea of Waiheke Island had lifted my spirits and shown me that the world is beautiful again. I just wasn't sure what the world would have in store for me next.

There and back again: An unexpected return

Those of you who know me outside of the blog world may know this story already. Some of you may know the director's cut extended version and some may only be familiar with the trailer. This is the chance where I explain how my time in New Zealand was not the enjoyable time that I had hoped it would be, and how my trip of a lifetime got curtailed.

As a disclaimer I want to add that this is no slight on New Zealand. The small part of the country that I visited was wonderful and provided a peek into what the rest of the length of the islands would offer. I just couldn't put my heart into it. My heart was occupied on the other side of the world.

As I've already described in the previous entry, my first few hours in New Zealand were magical. The next morning I woke up to rain. I booked myself on to start my Kiwi Experience tour the following day then headed out for a wet, walking tour of Auckland. As the tour finished I checked my phone. The excitement of getting a working mobile yesterday was about to morph into a critical lifeline. Alerting me on the screen was a missed call, a text and a voicemail from my brother in England. My stomach contracted with panic as I ran through the possible scenarios in my mind. Immediately I knew something was wrong. I had only bid James farewell a few days ago. Heat was rising to my head. I pressed the button to listen to the voicemail message. As I listened to the message the world blurred out around me. The words meant nothing. All sense and comprehension drained away.

My mum had had a stroke.

It was serious but no one knew what was happening. She wasn't awake but they were keeping an eye on her. No one could make any prognosis until she woke up.
It was almost as if I was receiving the news that had been looming for a long time. My mum has never led the healthiest of lifestyles, and coupled with my pessimistic mindset, in the back of my mind I had half expected this type of news for most of my life. I just never expected it to be when I was on completely the opposite side of the globe.

After talking to my brother, the initial deep dark hole that had appeared in front of me was covered over. She was in the best place she could be. There was nothing that I could do. Nobody knew how she would be when she woke up. I was told to stay where I was until someone knew something. It was painful, but it made sense. But then again, sense doesn't really come into it when your mind is racing to all sorts of worst case scenarios.

Nevertheless I attempted the impossible task of taking my mind off the goings-on at home. My family were insisting I stay, at least until there was any further news. They knew how much these travels meant to me. And they did, but it seemed ridiculous to carry on when my Mum needed me. But whilst I was in New Zealand I tried to see as much of it as I could. So I joined the Kiwi Experience bus as I'd planned to head up to Paihia in the Bay of Islands.

I must've been the most miserable Kiwi Experience traveller ever. It has a reputation for being a party bus, and although my fellow passengers weren't whooping it up immediately, they were chatting and making friends. I wasn't in the mood for any of it. Watching the picture-perfect, lush, green hills of the countryside roll by out of the window, I was in my own world. It made me incredibly sad that I couldn't enjoy my experience of this wonderful country as I should. I felt as though I was wasting the experience.

When we reached Paihia I was still preoccupied. To try to clear my mind I went for a walk along the sea shore of the quaint seaside town. The heavy, white clouds were looming on the horizon. The rays of sunshine beaming down on the sparkling sea and the cool air would have made it a perfect evening if I hadn't had the millions of thoughts weighing heavy on my mind. As the sun set, I headed to the hostel to try to see if sleep would resolve any of the issues playing in my mind.

Waking up on the creakiest top bunk in the world, I tried to reach out to my phone without waking everyone else in the dorm. Another voicemail message flashed on the screen. Panic rose in my chest again. What news did they have about Mum? But Mum hadn't changed. This was something else. The news came through that a very dear Uncle of mine had suddenly and unexpectedly suffered a heart attack and passed away. I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. Sat on the top bunk in a hostel dorm, on the other side of the world, surrounded by strangers, I was about to burst into tears. My mind mulled over how my family would be feeling and coping. My heart broke for the pain my Aunty and my cousins must be feeling. My thoughts raced down a thousand different avenues all at once. And although there was nothing I could do for my Uncle, I felt I should be there for the rest of my family. I found it impossible to think how my cousins felt losing their Dad and brand new Grandad. I had to be there for my Mum.

That day we were heading up to Cape Reinga, the most North Westerly tip of New Zealand. It is also a very spiritual place. Despite being a long way from home, I felt comforted by being here. The Maori name of the point, 'Te Rerenga Wairua' means 'the leaping-off place of spirits'. Maoris believe the spirits of the recently deceased travel here to leap off the cliff into the afterlife. Whether or not you share these beliefs, you cannot deny the beauty of the scenery and the dramatic surroundings of the meeting of the Tasman Sea and the Pacific Ocean. As last views go, it's not too bad. I said thank you and goodbye to my Uncle on that breathtaking, windy cliff top. Amongst the throngs of tourists I managed to steal a quiet moment of reflection. Life on Earth is truly beautiful but it is not infinite, and none of us know how far through our journey we are. 

I replayed the events and little snippets of news in my mind. I couldn't make sense of it all. Everything seemed like a horrible, horrible nightmare. None of it seemed real, partly because I was sat in a town that was supposedly a paradise with these painful realities happening to my loved ones thousands of miles away and nobody to talk to about it. The events at home felt so far removed from where I was that it was like recalling a long-forgotten scene from a film. In my mind I knew I had to come home.

The logistics of coming home proved a little tricky. Liaising with companies that keep opposite office hours took its toll on my emotions. But eventually I managed to sort it. I would have to wait two days until the flight, but I was set to return to the UK. Somewhat earlier than planned and bypassing my visit to Asia, the wheels were set in motion to return home. As I ended the call to finalise my flights I took stock of the events of the past few days. Sat on the floor of a hostel corridor at two in the morning, the tears came like a flood. The emotions I felt at that point were like no others I'd ever experienced. I felt grief for my Uncle; sorrow for his family; unbelievable worry and concern for my Mum; anxiety over the logistics of buying a new flight; distress over not being able to help my brother; guilt for being uselessly sat by the beach on the other side of the world; uneasiness over having to wait two days to take action; disappointment and anger over abandoning my trip, and then guilt over feeling angry. The emotions were just too confusing and I cried.

But then I went to bed and got some, albeit restless, sleep. Although my heart was right in its desire to be at home and support the people I love, this time was the clearest example in my life that life is for living. The old cliche of life's too short is painfully real. I had one more day in New Zealand before making my long, unexpected journey. Although I couldn't enjoy it as free-spiritedly as I might have a few days previously, I was going to bloody well live my life the best I could for that day.

What would you do with one day in New Zealand?

Kia Ora

Get to Auckland two days after leaving LA? This leg of the journey meant crossing the international date line. I was losing a whole Saturday. This was serious travelling now (that's without mentioning the child-like excitement I was experiencing about heading to the Southern hemisphere for the first time; obviously I experimented in the first sink I got to). Whether it was the tiredness from travelling, or maybe my brain is just not capable of processing such time-travel, but I just couldn't get my head around it. Where did the day go? What if I was going to do something important on that day and never got the chance to? All pressing questions swilling around my sleep-deprived, confused mind as I disembarked the plane in Nadi airport, Fiji.

Although it was early in the morning, you could feel the stifling, humid heat as soon as you passed through the plane door. This was the tropics. I could see lush vegetation covering the hills around the airport as we queued along the outside walkway to get through customs. I'm still not sure if I can count Fiji as a country I've visited, but I think I should be able to as I definitely got bitten by a Fijian fly as we tried to dodge the swarms loitering around the lights aiding our passage through the dim dawn light.

Soon, regrettably not as soon as I'd have liked thanks to a backlog of flight delays, I was settling onto the flight to Auckland. It's hard to fully explain to anyone how excited I was at this point. The little sleep I managed on the plane was interrupted by the nervous excitement of tummy butterflies normally reserved for childhood Christmas Eves. In seemingly no time the plane was soaring over the Maori coastline. I admit now I probably infringed the personal space of the young man sat next to me as we prepared for landing (well, they should have given me a window seat).

On landing I thought I may have thrown up. I'm an excellent flyer; it was pure adrenalin-fuelled excitement bubbling in my chest. Grabbing my carry-on bag I queued to get off the plane, onto New Zealand soil whilst smiling around at everyone I could see. At one point I had to refocus my mind onto some mundane task I had to do, because if my thought process kept going in the direction that it was I would break down into floods of happy tears right there in the aisle of that plane.

The extent of planning my time in New Zealand only stretched to booking myself onto a Kiwi Experience tour bus (which was now making me slightly hesitant as most fellow travellers referred to it as the 'party bus'- see the Las Vegas blog entry for my feelings towards "partying"), and the first night's accommodation in an Auckland hostel. But first I had to get to downtown Auckland. No worries. I was easily pointed in the direction of the bus. Another need was to switch my phone to a NZ tariff. No worries. A Vodafone (other mobile companies are available) outlet greeted me from the arrival lounge where a nice young man advised me and set up my new sim (those of you familiar with my technological skills will fully appreciate the appreciation I felt for this service). As I left the airport I was walking on air. It was all going unbelievably smoothly. My heart was so full of joy and anticipation as I rode that bus through to Auckland that even the industrial estates and suburbs we passed looked exciting. To a watching bystander I must've looked like a complete simpleton smiling to myself the whole journey.

That evening, after dumping my bag at the dorm of the hostel, I headed out to explore. Once again I was drawn to the sea. Walking through Auckland ferry port, I soon found myself continuing my journey onto a Devonport bound vessel. Devonport is a suburb on the North Shore, easily accessed by a short ferry ride. I knew nothing about the place as I bought my ticket. But this didn't hinder the enjoyment of my destination. The fresh sea air felt wonderful after almost a day of recycled aeroplane air. Sitting at the back of the ferry, I didn't mind the cool spray hitting me as I surveyed the outline of downtown Auckland on our retreat from the city.

Devonport was a magical step back in time. The range of specialist shops along the high street. The Art Deco cinema. The incredible butterfly that followed me on the trek up Mount Victoria. The kitsch toadstools 'growing' from the headland overlooking the harbour. The wonderfully designed, colourful 50s style houses, all individual, perched on the hillside. I treated myself to a taste of home as I sat eating my fish and chips from the paper, on a bench along the promenade to watch the comings and goings of the harbour as the sun was setting.

It was a very good day.

I feel maybe it was too good.

That was the hi light of my time in New Zealand. A memory I will cherish forever. Even writing about it now raises an aching feeling of bittersweet joy from my stomach to my throat. But it strengthens my resolve to return to properly release those butterflies of excited anticipation that are still bursting to escape.

Planes, bikes and automobiles

Our road trip was coming to an end. We were on the final leg of Route 66 heading to Santa Monica. But to get to that seaside resort, we had to drive through the great, sprawling city of Los Angeles. This section of road swiftly became my most hated road of all time. It is well known that residents of LA have an almost physical aversion to walking which means that the car is king. I'm not arguing about the need for a car; the sheer size of the city underlines the automobile necessity. What I am going to moan about is the traffic.

Where do all the cars come from? Where are all the people going in their cars? And my most pertinent question: how do LA locals deal with this madness on a daily basis? As we drove from our hotel towards the coast, we got engulfed in the longest, widest mass of cars I've ever seen. Six lanes wide on either side of the carriageway and both moving at a crawl. I cannot recall the name of the road due to the fact that all these arteries cutting through LA are pretty much identical to the unaccustomed eye. All huge, beige coloured ribbons of concrete with repeated signs and flooded with the same insane volume of vehicles.

It took so long to get anywhere that you had to give yourself a good few hours head start to get to where you wanted to be at a certain time. We left our hotel with the plan to get to Santa Monica and we arrived AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER. This was a 19 MILE journey. Our destination was in the SAME city. We were driving a CAR. How is this possible?

Anyway, moving on (breathe), we reached the Pacific Ocean. And it was beautiful. My mantra is always 'Life is better by the sea' and it was certainly true on that day. I watched the blue sea lap against the pale, golden sand and my traffic stresses eased. Unlike the hoards of sun seekers at a British seaside when the sun shines, the California sands stretched on for miles with only a handful of people enjoying the scene. The numbers swelled as we headed towards the more commercial areas such as the world famous Santa Monica pier.

It was on this pier that our Route 66 journey reached its end. The official end of the Mother Road is the end of the pier. As driving down the pedestrianised pier is frowned upon, we left the car in the car park (not the freeway, the real car park) and walked to our final destination. In some ways it was a bit of an anticlimax, but it definitely felt good to get closure. We might not have started the road in Chicago, but we finished it in the right way. The romance surrounding the significance of this end of the road was everywhere. Memorabilia boards, souvenir shops and signposts EVERYWHERE! But I suppose that was what we had come for. We had driven off into the sunset as far as we could get without sinking the car.

Now all we had to do was turn around and head back the way we came. From the edge of the pier we hired bicycles to help us make the most of the short time we had by the coast. We spent a few hours cycling down and up the beach cycle path, past lots of beach communities and stopping for a little while in Venice Beach. It was as colourful, relaxed and oddball as I'd imagined. Passing the range of tie-dyed artists, book sellers, tattoo studios, jugglers, dancing violinists, fast-food stands and the magnificent roller-blading, electric-guitar playing rasta-man, I wondered how anyone got anything done. But I guess it's a different way of life there. I have a feeling I may never be cool enough to pull off that lifestyle, but for a few hours, cycling along that beautifully eclectic community on the beach, with the sun shining on me, I became part of that rich tapestry of life.

Later that day, I had to make another journey. This one would be a little longer (even taking into account the traffic-extended car journey time). I was to continue my journey by plane to head across the Pacific to Fiji and then to New Zealand. Inside my head and my heart was a storm of emotions. I had been looking forward to this leg of the journey since I had the tiniest germination of an idea for these travels. I had spent my whole life anticipating my visit to New Zealand and so I was incredibly excited. But I also felt a sadness gnawing in the pit of my stomach. I had spent the past 15 days experiencing new places across America with my Dad and my brother, who I hadn't seen for the previous two months. Before I met up with them I had gotten used to travelling independently. Yet since our reunion, despite their ongoing, small irritations, I had grown used to having them around. Now I was to strike out on my own again, heading to far away, exotic lands without seeing close family for another two months. It was like the initial separation all over again.

My stomach began to do backflips as we drove to the airport (a situation that wasn't helped by the fact that despite leaving extra early, the evil LA traffic still almost hindered my check-in timing) for me to start this next part of my journey. I kept the goodbyes brief at the passenger drop off point; if the next few months were to go anywhere near as quickly as the past few, I'd be back having a cup of tea in England in the blink of an eye.

And in the meantime, there was a hell of a lot more world to see. New Zealand has a long way to go to live up to my expectations. Only one way to find out if they do. Hoist that backpack up and in the words of Whitesnake: Here I go again on my own...

Not so Sin City

After the slight detour to the Hoover Dam, which delayed us through the twilight hours, we continued on into the dark to the bright lights of Las Vegas. 

Ah Vegas. Sin City. The destination of many a wild dream and even wilder realities. What is there possibly left to say about this crazy city that hasn't already been said? And it might seem to some of you who know me, that maybe I'm not the best suited tourist to experience the thrills and spills of Las Vegas. 

For the uninitiated amongst you readers, I am a person who enjoys somewhat smaller-scale thrills. I'm not the all-night party princess, lining up shots with wild women, buying mind-altering substances from a penguin in a tuxedo, picking up dudes and whiskey at the bar or smoking cigars with the high-rollers at the tables. If those are the stories you're after, I suggest renting 'The Hangover' because my Vegas had none of that.

It was however, no less exciting in my eyes. 

Vegas for me was about variety. Variety in every sense of the word. These are my veritable highlights of Vegas... 

1) Food

Possibly first on many of my lists. You can find anything your taste buds desire in this town. (Except, I discovered in m&m's World, the superior crispy m&m. Apparently the USA is not ready for this taste sensation. My heart goes out to them in these hard times.) My personal favourite was the mighty buffet. Not the highest end of the dining scale, but I'm not a girl of expensive tastes. I just loved having such a spread. Nothing is as classy as a plate adorned with a spoonful each of mac 'n' cheese, oriental noodles, pizza, spicy veg and salad (my nod to healthy eating at the all-you-can-eat buffet). But the cherry on top was the dessert display. Such a selection, and all in miniature form. I was in heaven. A merging of two favourites. Everything looks more delicious if it's a quarter its normal size. You have not lived until you have attempted to shove a entire mini tiramisu into your mouth. (For the record, my attempt was successful. This isn't amateur hour.) 

2) The Bellagio fountains 

They are famous the world over. You've probably seen them in films or television shows. But nothing quite prepares you for the live experience. You stand there, jostling for your spot on the wall for the show, wondering what the big deal is with some water. You start to think that you're a tad old to be watching dancing fountains. And then every thought in your mind is drowned by the voracious jets of water shooting skywards before you. Even the smell of the water and the cool mist creeping towards you adds to the atmosphere. The movement of the water is so perfectly timed with the music that it is nothing short of magical. We were treated to 'Time to Say Goodbye' by Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli. The sentiments of the song were magnified by the thundering water. Every beat is choreographed to tweak your emotions and by the time the final crescendo came, my heart was ready to burst out of my chest. I felt as though I'd been emotionally exhausted and uplifted simultaneously. That is the powerful beauty of simply water and music. 

3) V - The Ultimate Variety Show

After much debate, stemming from too much entertainment choice, we settled on getting tickets for the V show. This town was once built on the staple of the Variety show and so I felt I owed it to the ghosts of entertainers past to adhere to that tradition. What a show and what a spectacle. Within five minutes of taking my seat I was audibly gasping, and if I was a cartoon character my eyes would have been popping out on stalks. The first act of two men balancing on each other was astonishing. How one grown man can hold himself vertically, upside down, with his hand on another man's head, I'll never know! From then on the acts never let up on the action. Magicians, a contortionist making me peek out through the gaps in my fingers, high-speed drumming, an impressionist and two beautiful skaters swirling each other about on a platform the size of a trampette. I left the auditorium in exhilarated shock, and with a new dream to join the circus. 

4) Gambling 

Ok, so I indulged in one vice during my time in Sin City. But I still held on to my naturally prudent and mindful ethos. Dad went to roll with the big boys whilst my brother and I searched for a suitable place to lose our dollars. We bypassed the lure of 'The Sound of Music' slot machines (how do you solve a problem like gambling?) and found our holy grail of the 25c stake video roulette. Settling down to serious business, we carefully placed our chips. My investment of a whole $5 bill meant I was playing to win. Every time we reaped a profit on a spin, I would panic and shout "Collect! Collect!". Fortunately my brother is made of tougher stuff. He wasn't settling for that. We were to play on for greater gains. Unfortunately, we didn't play on for long. As soon as the single complimentary Bud arrived, (I didn't take up the free drink offer; I didn't want to be in the debt of the casino already) we had lost our initial stake. But we reinvested. After a long fought battle I walked away from the table (computer) with $1 more than I started with. Take that Las Vegas! 

Las Vegas is as crazy and colourful as all the stories paint it as. My experience there may not have been a neon-spattered abstract, but I like to think of it as the sky-high, vividly imaginative but fragile Chihuly piece that we admired at the Bellagio, and I enjoyed every colourful minute. Surely that's what matters. 

Now, what to blow that $1 on...

Dam! It's just a load of concrete right?

Back on the road, the end of the Wild West was in sight. There was just one shining beacon of a city to visit in the middle of the desert first.

But before that we would have to pass across our last time zone boundary. And that line between Arizona and Nevada runs through one of the largest engineering feats in the land. As the sun was sinking lower on the horizon, we arrived at the Hoover Dam. We had seen the signposts for it and decided it would be worth a quick stop. And, on yet another occasion on this journey, I'm thankful we made that last minute call.

I must admit the Hoover Dam was never high on my list of must-see sights on this trip. It wasn't that I had an aversion to the idea of visiting it; it was just that it had only been in my peripheral thoughts as it existing. Not that I want to offend the structure, but in my mind I had an image of concrete. Of a man-made, functional mass of industrial achievement.

And boy, I wasn't wrong. But much to my surprise, I felt that it had a quietly calming beauty radiating from its physical strength and presence. The fading light cast a warm glow over the surrounding canyon sides overlooking us from all angles. Even the miles of electricity cables creeping across the countryside like cobwebs attached to towering steel pylon giants protruding diagonally from the hills looked like a work of art. I simply couldn't get my head around how the engineers and brave workers of the 1930s constructed such a marvel.

The industrial intricacies sit in a certain harmony with the natural wonder of the Colorado River. The river feeding down from the created Lake Mead sat in absolute stillness. The surface reflected the surrounding colours of the canyon just as any mirror would; the colours as deep in reflection as they were many feet above, bathed in sunlight.

Even with the few other tourists left at the late hour, there was a feeling of awe in the air as we gazed upon the ethereal sight of the view of the water intake towers standing proud just before the Colorado meets the Dam. Like a scientific diagram, their cylindrical shapes are attached by rigid barriers to the curvature of the Dam itself. But yet they have a real beauty in their monochrome design, especially as the pattern is doubled in the crystal clear reflection in the waters they appear to wade through.

The word incredible is used so flippantly these days, I feel that I should find another word, but I can't as it fits so perfectly.

Standing on top of the Hoover Dam is truly an incredible sight.

The pie and drive of a lifetime!

We were really on it now. Route 66 had us hanging on its every curve. We'd fallen hook, line and sinker for the romance of the historic mother road.

Every road sign called out as a photo opportunity.
Every passing mile offered an achingly beautiful view of the Arizona landscape.
Every stop we made caused a well-fought argument over who took the wheel next.

One stop we made was in Williams, Arizona. A small town most famous for claiming to be the Southern gateway to the Grand Canyon. In my opinion its greatest fame should come from the old-home styled diner on the corner. The twee lace curtains and pie sign in the window was magnetic enough to pull us in. The splendid array of mouth-wateringly decadent pies staring at me from the glass case was a truly beautiful sight. I was in love. Pies of every type and every flavour. I still feel lucky to have made it out of there alive. Each slice of pie was as big as my face, so with our age of austerity in mind, we settled on a lemon meringue slice and a traditional apple pie to share between the three of us. And my oh my, what delicious pies!

Later that day, en route to Las Vegas, we decided to make a detour to the town of Oatman, Arizona. It was said to be a one-horse, gold-rush town. Or rather, a one-burro town. Several of these donkey like creatures roamed the dusty Main Street, dodging the bullets from the Western shoot-outs held at high noon (and, as it turns out, 2pm and 3.30pm; tourists are pretty demanding!). The sat-nav said it was only 22 miles away, but a reired couple from Nevada we spoke to over our motel buffet breakfast had warned us that it would be about an hour's drive.

Pah! I scoffed at the idea. What route were they taking? These long straight roads were a breeze.  I let Dad take the wheel as I imagined rolling into Oatman in less than half an hour. Yet we had only travelled a few miles when the route took on an altogether more English trait, and the reason for our breakfast buddies' extended journey time became apparent.

The road turned into a mountain racetrack. There were more twists and turns than a murder mystery and every other turn was sandwiched between a giant face of orange rock on one side and a 50 foot drop to sparse, desert scrubland the other. And it was genuinely breathtaking. The views all around us were vintage cowboy country. To be honest we'd been driving through similar landscape, yet we still weren't tired of it. The road was another beast altogether. I insisted Dad had a rest from driving on the return leg, and I can truly say that it was the best drive of my life. I may only have been driving a Kia, but easing it around the corners and revving up the winding hills was a real thrill.

Manoeuvering hairpin bends bordering steep ravine drops added time on to the journey, but the bulk of the time was spent stopping every few miles to take pictures. With such incredible scenery and a ridiculously exciting road like that to drive through it, we were like kids in a candy shop. Or should that be, for the second time that day, kids in a pie shop?

Talk about a work of art...

Somewhere in the Arizona desert, on the way to Flagstaff, we made a detour into the Petrified Forest. The lure of tales and photos of the neighbouring Painted Desert was too much to pass up. And seriously, I'm not sure anyone should pass this place up if they are in the vicinity.

We entered at the northern entrance, consulted the helpful assistant in the otherwise deserted tourist information centre, and then headed off on the first hairpin bend of the road through the desert. And it's no exaggeration to say that it took over an hour to navigate the first few miles.

The reason for this slow pace was the numerous vantage points pulling us over at the side of the road. Every single signposted vista offered an amazing and unique view of the incredible Painted Desert. The hills, plains and other-worldly shapes of rock shaping the landscape are simply mesmerising. The northern area of the desert glows with a varying scale of red hues. The undulating pock marks on a otherwise flat terrain, stretch for miles to the horizon. As you watch the red dust touching the electric blue sky, it's easy to feel this land must've been designed.

Continuing on the winding road, we visited the Painted Desert Inn to learn the history of the area. Then, as we headed towards the southern part of the desert, we crossed the old Route 66; a road that has been left for nature to reclaim.

The features of the landscape drastically changed in the southern desert. The so-called teepee structures loomed above us in spectacular fashion. Rings of different colour sediment showcase the layers involved in this land.  They reach up to the endless blue sky like an offering to the universe. This stunning sight could be mistaken for the set of an alien habitat.

Rounding the next corner we came across the Blue Mesa. This unbelievably structured area offers the most exciting walk through these rock monsters. Again, I felt as though I could be walking amongst the terrain more akin to a lunar landscape. Completely alone, we wandered, surrounded by hundreds of shades of blue and grey, seemingly closing in on us from all sides. All sides except the great expanse of breathtaking blue sky above us that is.

I feel this was one of the most humblingly beautiful places I've been fortunate enough to visit. I never realised such an array of colours and shapes could work together so boldly, but at the same time in such detail. Keep all your galleries and art shows. This is the best, most strikingly emotive painting I could ever imagine. And it's all there for us to live through.

ABQ

Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was at this point that we joined the traditional Route 66. 

The old mother road passes through the downtown area of the city. Having two days set aside for here, we had more time to explore the city and surrounding areas.

After reflecting on my time there, it seems that there are three things that will enhance your life (or at least your time in Albuquerque). 

1) Get a bird's eye view 

A short drive to the edge of the city, and the Sandia Mountains loom on the horizon, providing a sharp contrast of snow against the otherwise arid landscape. Those of us wishing to climb these giants are ably served by the Sandia Peak Tramway; one of the longest aerial tramways in the world. 

In glorious sunshine, we rode the fifteen minute ascent up the side of the mountain. As the gondola swayed, we watched the trees below us; a place where size and scale of reference lost all meaning. 

From the tram station atop Sandia Peak, almost three miles high above the city, we were transfixed; gazing for miles around. Grid lines crisscrossed the orangey brown desert where the city was sprawling out miles below. In the distance it's possible to view the Rio Grande valley and the Redondo Peak. It was a fitting place to reflect on the physical power of nature and the recognition of how small we are in comparison. A better view you'd have to travel for hours to find. 

2) Embrace the past

Driving, and/or walking along the original stretch of Route 66 is essential. I loved the whole feel of the area. Yes, it looked a little run down and it didn't heave with throngs of shoppers, but that is a great part of its charm. 

The architecture of the buildings, and even lamposts and street signs, offered a glimpse into the glory days. Art Deco shapes the sides of theatres, 50s curves and pastel colours adorn the empty shop fronts and this taste of wholesome Americana is juxtaposed with Spanish colonial style structures just to remind you how close to the border you are. 

Stopping and browsing in some of the local shops is not just an act of consumerism. I spent an enlightening time in a well-established Native American shop. The wares on display were just as interesting as museum pieces, and the people in the shop were eager to talk to us about the history of the shop and surrounding area. 

3) Geek out

To be fair, this stage is most exciting if you have seen a low-key little television series called Breaking Bad. 

As this television show was filmed here, familiar sights are all around. We lunched at The Dog House, swung by the White homestead, had an A1 time at the car wash and ended the day feasting at Los Pollos Hermanos. 

You can see how much those with an entrepreneurial mind in the city are trading in on their new found interest by talking to The Candy Lady in Old Town. This old fashioned candy shop is now raking in a sweet profit by flogging tiny plastic bags of crystallised sugar, which can be paraded around as the infamous blue meth from the show. Happy customers entering the shop looking for a fix can even indulge in a photo opportunity with a tub of the blue product and top it off with the Heisenberg hat. 

It may seem that my comprehensive medal podium of ABQ tourism points has missed a vital stop on the whirlwind tour. But I feel it's a stop that should go without saying. 

Clearly, the first port of call would be one of the original Route 66 diners. Refuelling is an integral part of any long road trip, and is particularly poignant along this stretch of road. You can call in at a diner that transports you back to the 1950s. Milkshakes, burgers, hot dogs and a plethora of pies. But the food is only part of the fun; a phrase I never thought I'd say! 

It was a real treat to dine in surroundings that we're so familiar with through years of television and film sets. The vinyl booths, the stools along the bar, the neon coloured lights, the 50s memorabilia covering every spare inch of space, the jukebox, and I believe milkshake never tastes so good as it does out of an ice cold stainless steel beaker. 

This journey was taking us back in time as well as further West. It was time to get back into the driving seat, but we did so worried that we'd never again find a diner that ticked so many boxes of the nostalgic American dream...

The open road

Finally we hit the highway. The type of roads you visualise as being an almost natural aspect of this part of the world. 

These are the roads that you dream about. The type of road that is as far as you can get from the bumper to bumper stress of the M25. The type of road that can seriously be described as beautiful. 

Driving through western Texas and into New Mexico, we passed through some of the biggest space I've ever seen. 

'Space' is the best way I can describe it. The scale of the scenery is just incredible. The roads plow through the endless landscape on a journey that seems to never end. Being used to the small, winding, country roads of England, I found the sheer presence of empty space breathtaking, making up a view of boundless beauty. 

The stereotypical image of this desert landscape was reinforced by the punctuating appearances of the long cargo trains. These railroad beasts often ran alongside the road for miles at a time. By the time the last carriage passed us, the first would surely be arriving at the next town. 

Not that it would be likely that there would be much going on in the next town. The few one-horse towns we passed through were verging on ghost towns. Boarded up shops, abandoned industrial sights and I swear I even saw a tumbleweed. We were a long way from the nearest Wal-Mart. 

For times, we were the only car on the road as far as the eye could see. The straight ribbon of road snaked through the dust for miles in either direction, and we had it all to ourselves. 

En route to Lubbock, Texas we had company for a while. The road was flanked on both sides by fields of wind turbines. These grand, imposing figures loomed on the horizon and crept towards the road. Hundreds of the things were spread across the land like alien invaders, but I suppose we were heading towards Roswell, so it might not be too much of a stretch of the imagination. 

Let's go Mavs!

...let's go Mavs!

And so goes the slightly drudgingly, obligatory chanting that accompanies the Dallas Mavericks basketball team as they take to the court.

Thanks to my brother, we got tickets to Dallas Mavs vs LA Lakers. My brother went through a basketball phase in his youth so he had a good knowledge of the game, and a historic allegiance to the Lakers, although we changed sides as it seemed rude not to support the home team. Yet the fans were mixed in their seating arrangements. No worries about rival fans causing a ruckus here. I'd be interested to know if it's the same in other sports.

It seems only fitting during my time in the USA that I would participate in the great sport of spectating. Yes Americans love sports, but I would dare say they love spectating even more. The whole experience of a national league sporting event is geared around entertainment. It's almost as if the actual sport isn't enough.

The crowd isn't paying enough attention to the humungous video screen? Hurry, pan the camera onto people until they make the silliest face they can.
Someone hasn't got a beverage in their hand? Quick, send a stop-me-and-buy-one man down their row!
A punter is drifting off during the time-out? Pick them out for a giant game of Simon Says pronto!

And to be fair, I'm glad I had this extra entertainment. Not being the biggest basketball fan, it's fair to say I struggled to follow all the rules. Yes, I whooped when a ball was basketed (correct yes?!) and threw my arms up in disgust when a boisterous young player got a bit physical in the defence, but my highlights were definitely the bits between the sport.

Situated just behind us were the Dallas drummers. A group of incredibly talented drummers twirling sticks and keeping the crowd pumped up to the max. For further enjoyment I'm sure my dad would agree the cheerleaders gave us lots to cheer about in their slick, crowd-pleasing routines.

But in a stab at equality Dallas Mavs also have a set of male cheerleaders. Named the Dallas ManiACCs (corporate name, obviously), this group of loud, brash, larger than life tough guys knocking out super-charged, tongue-in-cheek dance routine after routine made my evening. They are dedicated, push themselves to entertain and at one point dance-battled against the real cheerleaders who were left looking ridiculous in their sizeable wake. I have new sporting heroes.

I may have been slightly more enthusiastic than normal, whooping at the end of the game, but that was probably because I was still riding the sugar high of my first toxic-coloured slurpee. But I was somewhat dismayed that the rest of the crowd started leaving before the final whistle, and even the players trudged off after the show, sorry, match, without even a wave to the few supportive fans left.

To be honest, I have absolutely no recollection of who won, let alone the score. But I guess the game's not really the point of this performance is it?