tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46319365501371059722024-03-19T01:33:10.038-07:00WORLD OF WILLTravel tales from a roaming idiot...Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-25673213643936982422017-09-03T07:50:00.001-07:002017-09-03T07:50:13.728-07:00Plain sailing – and plane mad!<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">To reward it for not dying in the mountains, we took the van
for a short holiday to Lake Annecy. The city of Annecy itself is a living,
breathing picture postcard of medieval quaintness. On the day we ventured into
town it was market day so the streets were awash with cured meats, Savoyard
cheeses and strong beers, which is my idea of heaven, and we grazed at the
samples laid out by each stall, treating the place like an enormous outdoor
buffet. Talking of scavengers, instead of being littered with pigeons like
other European cities, Annecy is inhabited by an inordinate number of swans. It’s
almost as if the council decided that pigeons weren’t twee enough for Annecy and
so shipped in herds of swans instead – trained swans that mill around posing
for photos and, well, swanning about I guess.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Anyway, laden with produce, we retired to the south end of
the lake and made our way to the beach. Now, when I say beach what I actually mean
is a swathe of foot-lacerating gravel. For while the lake is large and stunningly
beautiful, it naturally lacks the rock-macerating wave power of the sea needed
to create fine sand. So instead of casually trotting into the crystal-clear waters
like the cast of Baywatch might do, you get people hobbling along like they’ve
just been shot by a sniper and flopping into the lake like a carelessly-flung
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What didn’t help was that the flip-flops I’d purchased for
the princely sum of €3 chose this moment to decide they no longer wanted to be
flip-flops but instead wanted to become mere litter. This left my feet to be
tortured by the aforementioned “beach of death” and my only solace was to
waddle between the sunburnt cadavers of unseasoned bathers out into the
soothing water. So far out that, in the end, we decided to just hire a
speedboat. The “speed” part of speedboat was a bit of a misnomer as we chugged
out into the lake at the pace of a cloud on a breezy day. I think at one point
we were even overtaken by a couple of those pesky swans. We tried in vain to
reach a castle we’d seen half way up the lake but after about half an hour,
with it not seeming to get any closer and the unknown amount of fuel we had
becoming a concern, we decided to abandon the expedition and, instead, just
have a swim. There is something wonderfully glamorous and romantic about diving
off a boat into a lake on a beautifully sunny day. There is nothing remotely glamorous
or romantic about trying to clamber back onto that boat. All I can say is that
it was a good job we were too far from shore to be seen, otherwise indecent
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After Annecy we headed back towards Burgundy and a little
village called Savigny-Les-Beaune to have another attempt at some wine tasting.
Sadly, the hot sunny weather we’d enjoyed over the rest of the holiday finally
gave way to rain, so when we found a large chateau that offered some wine tasting we
jumped at the chance to get out of the wet. The wine tasting was excellent.
What we weren’t expecting, however, was that the eccentric old owner of the
chateau (we met him – mad as a bag of squirrels) would also have an enormous collection of automotive history in the
grounds too… </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We first entered an old stable block and were confronted by his
collection of Abarth racing cars, many of which he drove in his younger years. Next, we wandered among hundreds of classic
motorcycles, in various states of restoration, just stashed away in a loft.
Outside was a shed containing historical tractors and another stuffed with
vintage fire engines. Beyond those was a field containing about 70 old fighter
jets. Actual fighter jets! There was just too much to take in. In the main
castle itself there were even more motorbikes – rows and rows of Nortons,
Harley Davidsons, Indians and more. The money and obsession involved in this
man’s collection was mind-boggling. The mad old bugger had even parked a
hovercraft on the front lawn! An ex-racing driver who lives in a chateau, makes
excellent wine and collects boys’ toys… he might just be my new hero!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The
plus side of it raining was that we were limited to more indoor pursuits – ie,
more wine tasting and a nice dinner in a local bistro. The down side of it
raining was that we spent a sleepless night listening to what sounded like
gravel being poured onto the tin roof of our van. The next day we drove our
soggy selves towards Dunkirk and the ferry home, hoping to outrun the weather
and glean one last bit of sunshine out of our holiday. Sadly, the rain was even
harder the further north we went and our last night in the van was akin to
sleeping inside a snare drum while several hyperactive toddlers banged on it
with spoons. We boarded the ferry exhausted, sleep-deprived and grumpy. Still,
it’s good to get away, isn’t it?</span></span><br />
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</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-47400906225174043142017-08-31T11:48:00.000-07:002017-08-31T11:49:38.243-07:00The hills are alive, with the sound of campervan<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Auxonne is a fortified town with a military college which,
for just two years back in the late 1700s, was attended by none other than Napolean
Bonaparte. And, boy, don’t they make a meal of that fact. If they can’t name a
street, square or shop after the diminutive despot, then they simply whack up a
bloody great statue of him instead. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We’d been met in Auxonne by our friend Matt who would join
us for the rest of our trip. Once we’d ensconced ourselves in the town’s
campsite, the three of us set off on a bike ride along the river to the village
of Flamarans, seeking out vineyards that might let us taste their produce.
However, despite Auxonne being situated in Burgundy, we found not a single
grape. Even more annoyingly, Flamaran’s one and only bar was shut. In fact, the
only shop in the village was a taxidermist’s and, given that none of us were in
particular need of a stuffed boar, we cycled all the way back to Auxonne, hot,
disgruntled and empty-handed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After our sweaty bike ride, Claire remembered that there was
an outdoor swimming pool next to the campsite, so we all trotted off to enjoy a
nice cooling swim. At the gate there was a sign showing a picture of some
floral board shorts with a cross through them. Thinking that must mean “no
awful patterns”, I checked with the woman at the gate to see if my tastefully
monotone swimming shorts were acceptable and was told, in no uncertain terms,
that they were not. Matt fared a little better, in that he got past this grumpy
fashion sentry and made it to the water’s edge – only to be forcibly ejected by
a little old man wearing a pair of skimpy briefs and masquerading as a
lifeguard. It turns out that, as in much of France, men must wear tight little
Speedos if they wish to swim in a municipal pool. As a heterosexual man of a
certain age, I don’t own a pair of Speedos. In fact, I’d go as far as to say
that nobody with the kind of exotic physique that I possess should ever be seen
in Speedos. Certainly not in public anyway. Why do they want to see my man-parts
all trussed up in a little pouch? Also, nobody was stopping girls in one-piece
swimsuits and telling them to go put on a skimpy bikini. I was outraged. It
seems that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">liberté, égalité and
fraternité</i> don’t extend to swimming apparel.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To console ourselves we visited Auxonne’s weekly night
market (surprisingly not called Napolean’s Bona-mart or something) imagining
we’d be able to partake in some lovely local produce and sample some delicious local
wine. It turned out that what was mostly on offer was burgers, cheap
electronics and, bizarrely, native American dream catchers. Not quite what we (or
Napolean) had in mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We left Auxonne and pootled off to Morzine in the Alps.
About three years ago, Claire and I worked as chalet hosts for an amazing
company called AliKats and we’d arranged to meet up with our Alpine friends for
the weekend. Of course the Alps, famously, are quite hilly. I’d go as far as to
say mountainous. So our poor little tin van, with its hairdryer-sized engine, struggled
a bit with some of the steeper inclines. By the time we were crawling up the
hill to AliKats HQ the bread bin was in first gear, moving slower than walking
pace and making a noise like a dying walrus. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was great to see Al and Kat (the eponymous owners of
AliKats) and their kids (the AliKittens?!). Five-year-old Ivy was particularly
excited to see Claire and celebrated by spending the afternoon colouring in her
face. We had a simply brilliant weekend of eating like kings, drinking like
winos and hill walking like asthmatics. And after a week of sleeping in a
cramped metal box, the joy of an actual bed is something that is very hard to
better. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We left Morzine refreshed and revived. It was time to see if
the van felt the same way. As the squealing brakes echoed around the valley and
the engine coughed and spluttered its way back down the hill, we guessed it
hadn’t. Maybe it just needs a holiday…</span><br />
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</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-87627557564577341362017-08-25T22:59:00.001-07:002023-11-08T03:14:51.781-08:00Scream if you want to go slower
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<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif">Due to our mechanical issues, we’d not been able to reach
our intended target of Vitry Le Francois on that first day. Instead we made an
impromptu stop at a campsite next to a small, walled town called Le Quesnoy.
We’d never heard of the town before but can confirm it is a lovely little
cobbled enclave and comes complete with its own moat, boating lake and historic
town centre. Our stay at the campsite itself was slightly less rewarding, in
that there was some sort of children’s karaoke competition taking place until
late into the night which meant we had to endure a noise worse than when foxes
mate. Imagine a recording of Joe Pasquale being tortured, played backwards, at
the wrong speed…</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC94ABu93cDkleL7Po1GznJc9who8-Qs4nZw9EAbyEDcYneu3jej-sZFd3RSjyDcXfYNVCJuR-f1whnw8bG5lrgXRMfgOCG7IC9WOlP_Zzm2yRXKd9__HnaEzH5gOomKEvRh-_qULtz4PB/s1600/quesnoy+town.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC94ABu93cDkleL7Po1GznJc9who8-Qs4nZw9EAbyEDcYneu3jej-sZFd3RSjyDcXfYNVCJuR-f1whnw8bG5lrgXRMfgOCG7IC9WOlP_Zzm2yRXKd9__HnaEzH5gOomKEvRh-_qULtz4PB/s320/quesnoy+town.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif">Talking of horrific noises, in the weeks before we set off
on this trip, we’d had new brakes fitted to the van. The van is celebrating the
fact it has new brakes by emitting a glass-shattering scream every time we come
to a stop. You can see people physically cringe and cover their ears every time
we approach a junction or set of lights. So, imagine our concern when we were
waved into a layby at a random police check point and watched about eight
police officers immediately regret that decision as we screeched to a halt in
front of them. </span></div>
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<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif">We’ve seen a few of these police checkpoints in random
villages and on various roundabouts during this trip and can only assume it is
a result of the heightened terror alerts of late. Our stop, however, was less
terror-related and more error-related. Once they’d recovered their hearing, the
heavily-armed police officers approached our van, led by a heavily-gummed
policewoman. She was very smiley (which might not have been deliberate, given
the gum situation) and asked us a series of questions: Where were we from?
Where had we been? Where were we going? And so on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif">When she’d asked where we’d stayed the night before I said
Le Quesnoy, pronouncing it “Kwezz-noy”. She laughed and said “Oh – Le Kinny” or
something equally as ridiculous. Anyway, because of this slight on my
pronunciation I wasn’t really listening to her next question. I thought she
said “Has it been good?” so I responded, very enthusiastically, saying “Oh yes,
very much so!” The confused look on her face, combined with the fact that a couple
of the other officers had now started looking in the side windows, led me to
believe I might have said something wrong. I turned to Claire, who was laughing
and shaking her head saying, “No! No, we don’t!” Apparently, what the
policewoman had actually asked me, in her heavy French accent, was “Have you
any forbidden goods?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif">Once we’d convinced them of our innocence (and our inability
to pronounce French place names) we were waved on our way. I had to stop at a
junction just a few metres later and I could see them all in my wing mirror,
laughing at our screaming brakes. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq2Dep8SGBSg-8y44ZUsXO1Z7h7nzFtMcVdQtEKWITNIuVW7C_0FB7rpu3udZmJCVmXVKSaoH0X_ambS1u2Oe0yZtr_48W-NW4ebStFgSfwd5lni7A9MtQiK3T0GaToy3OJMPHkoG1kswc/s1600/IMG-20170822-WA0001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq2Dep8SGBSg-8y44ZUsXO1Z7h7nzFtMcVdQtEKWITNIuVW7C_0FB7rpu3udZmJCVmXVKSaoH0X_ambS1u2Oe0yZtr_48W-NW4ebStFgSfwd5lni7A9MtQiK3T0GaToy3OJMPHkoG1kswc/s320/IMG-20170822-WA0001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif">We eventually reached our campsite just outside Vitry Le
Francois and what a great little place – really peaceful and completely
uncontaminated by singing children. It was also just a pleasant 15-minute cycle
ride along a canal into Vitry itself and we made the most of this by heading
into town for a spot of lunch and a beer. We chose a random bar on the main
square and Claire tried to order a Caesar salad from the board. “I don’t think
we do this,” said our waiter before checking the blackboard and revealing that
what was actually written there was “Salade Gésier” – gizzard salad! Claire is
vegetarian so asked what they served without any meat or, more importantly, gizzards
involved. </span></div>
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<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif">“Oh, flippin’ ‘eck!,” said the waiter, “I will check with
chef.” </span></div>
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<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif">We asked him how he knew a phrase like “Flippin’ ‘eck” and
he said he’d worked a lot in Australia and the UK. He asked us where we were
from and we said, “A little place called Shrewsbury, you probably don’t know
it…”</span></div>
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<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif">“Oh yes,” he replied, “Home of Charles Darwin. I once got
very drunk on Pride Hill!”</span></div>
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<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif">What are the chances? He got a good tip!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmzN42eFiDrt0hdN01JxWUWKBA_DVfM1jYGz9EWXNL3pQKJIe3QZnBJg7VgB-l92KJCqges4GGz8AZ2JuEq5ZmzEI3x-2n5IMjOVg6bYNqovFS7MCOMxmbmnBnHZoZQe5QSgiPQr4SHpjC/s1600/vitry.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmzN42eFiDrt0hdN01JxWUWKBA_DVfM1jYGz9EWXNL3pQKJIe3QZnBJg7VgB-l92KJCqges4GGz8AZ2JuEq5ZmzEI3x-2n5IMjOVg6bYNqovFS7MCOMxmbmnBnHZoZQe5QSgiPQr4SHpjC/s320/vitry.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif">After a great couple of days, it was time to move on. When
we’d arrived, we were under the impression that the campsite owner was a grumpy
old bugger with an exaggerated limp but he turned out to be quite a nice chap. Albeit
with an exaggerated limp. So nice was he, that when we went to check out he
limped towards me brandishing two massive green sex toys. They turned out to be big, gnarly cucumbers that he’d just picked from
his garden and he was insistent that I took them with me. I’m not a massive
cucumber fan but didn’t want to appear rude so I thanked him and said I’d take
one.</span></div>
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</span><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Non!”
he barked, “You take both!” and he thrust them into my hands. Rather nervously,
we left one of our favourite campsites clutching two really big, ugly
cucumbers. Next stop, Auxonne.</span></span><br />
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</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-61769720379413695572017-08-24T10:00:00.003-07:002017-08-24T10:00:47.829-07:00What's French for throttle?
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So, we are off again in our little yellow bread bin. This
trip will be just a fortnight this time and, subsequently, I wasn’t planning on
documenting it – but then we started getting into a couple of scrapes on Day
One so, hey, why not eh? The plan is to head across France to the Alps via a
couple of wine regions (Champagne on the way, Burgundy on the way back). Simple,
right? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We were about half an hour outside Dover, on our way to
catch the ferry, when the accelerator pedal went slack and we lost all power.
On a dual carriageway. After a panicked phone call to someone who knows more
about engines than we do, I was directed to look in the engine bay to see if the
throttle cable might have become detached. We quickly unpacked the back of the
van and gained access to the engine (for the uninitiated, the engine lives in
the boot). Sure enough, the throttle cable was detached and lying slack on the hot
engine block. Luckily, and somewhat precariously, resting next to the cable was
what is technically referred to as the “cylindrical bolt thing” that should be
holding it in place. I’d been instructed to insert the cable end into the “cylindrical
bolt thing” and tighten it up using an alan key. Miraculously, I’d heard of an
alan key and, even more miraculously, I had a set with me so I tightened the “cbt”
as best I could, successfully started the engine and set off with the smugness
of someone who has just worked out how to re-attach a throttle cable. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">By this time, we’d missed our ferry. Cue the following
interaction at the ferry port: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Sorry we’re late. Please can you put us on the next one?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Yes, but it’s going to Calais not Dunkirk.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Calais in France?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Yes.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Get us on it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Our new ferry reached Calais without serious incident
(unless you count overcooked sausage and undercooked bacon as serious) and we
disembarked onto French soil with glee in our hearts and poorly-cooked
breakfast in our stomachs. About 10 minutes outside Calais the throttle went
again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Don’t panic,” I shouted, “I know what to do!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I leapt out of the van, donned the obligatory high-vis
jacket, deployed the (also obligatory) warning triangle and set about fixing
the throttle cable. Unfortunately, it appeared that our alan key and the “cylindrical
bolt thing” had fallen out with each other somewhere mid-Channel and were now
refusing to co-operate. We were stuck. We decided to phone for assistance and then
spent quite a while trying to describe the issue to someone who couldn’t even
work out which road we were on. As we tried to describe our surroundings, it
dawned on us that the area was very reminiscent of the recently-cleared refugee
camp we’d seen on the news. We then started to notice small groups of refugee-looking
guys watching us from the dunes. After about an hour, much to our relief, a police
car arrived and three genuinely friendly police officers ask us why we’ve chosen
to park on this particular stretch of motorway. Our French vocabulary doesn’t quite
extend to engine components so it’s frustratingly difficult (for all concerned)
to explain what is wrong. I end up showing him the “cylindrical bolt thing”,
pointing to where it should live and demonstrating how useless my alan key is.
He laughs, tells me his brother used to have a van like this and then asks if
that is all that is preventing us leaving. Embarrassed, I nod. He kindly phones
a local garage and says he’ll wait with us until they come. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Our kindly copper then proceeds to tell us that we have
stopped in what was quite a dangerous area up until a few months ago. He points
out the remnants of smoke bombs littering the verge, smoke bombs they’d had to
use to disperse some of the refugees who had been attacking passing traffic and
leaving trees in the road to stop trucks. Now, he tells us, there are just a
few refugees still around trying to sneak on to trucks etc. Right on cue, a
10-car transporter pulls in to the hard shoulder behind us and an angry Latvian
truck driver jumps out of the cab and starts shouting at the cars on the back.
A cheeky refugee emerges from one of the cars and skulks away sheepishly. Our police
escort watches all this unfold, gives approximately zero fucks, shrugs and says
“See!”. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">About five minutes later, an elderly Lithuanian couple pull
in to hard shoulder to ask the officers for directions! The police take far
more umbrage at this flagrant flouting of motorway rules and shout at them to
go away with all haste. Finally, a flatbed truck arrives to scoop us up off the
hard shoulder, we bid farewell to our uniformed saviours and are taken to a
local garage. The mechanic doesn’t understand the word “throttle” or my
explanation about imperial and metric alan keys so I just show him the afflicted
part. He shrugs, disappears into the workshop and starts working away on a
grinder in a shower of sparks. He comes back with a small bolt of the correct
calibre to the one that we can’t do up and tightens it with a spanner. As far
as I’m concerned, this man is some sort of magician. Just to cement his
legendary status, he then says he’ll only charge us for recovering us off the
motorway but not the “magic” bolt! I resist the urge to hug him, pay up and off
we finally trundle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Let’s
hope we don’t run into any more police on this trip…</span>
</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-61307327902399782172014-10-28T15:19:00.000-07:002016-02-24T11:28:48.943-08:00Captain cook<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At this time of year a lot of the campsites have started closing for winter so, as we made our way back towards the Alps, our choices of where to stay became a bit limited and we ended up choosing campsites that we might not normally stay at. Which is how we ended up staying at a fairly surreal place in a little town called Torre Daniele. It’s not a massive town but we still had difficulty locating the campsite itself and, even after spotting it, couldn’t find a way in and somehow ended up driving over a sort of rickety old foot bridge. The place was full of old knackered caravans and looked abandoned, apart from a single dog who was barking loudly. Claire hopped out to see if she could find someone in charge and approximately 20 seconds later was back in the van with the barking dog hot on her heels. We drove a bit further into the camp and an elderly couple emerged from one of the caravans. They were Dutch, very friendly and told us that they came here for two months every year to help harvest the local vineyards. As if to illustrate the point, the husband disappeared for a couple of minutes and returned with a magnum-sized bottle of red wine which he promptly presented us with. “Four euros,” he squealed, “good, no?!” Good, yes!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We were about to open the wine (we’d been in the camp about five minutes by this point) when we became aware of a strange ringing sound, faint at first, but rising in volume until it became an almighty jangling cacophony. A massive herd of cows were being, er, herded down from the mountains along the main road. Each cow sported a very large cowbell and the din was incredible. In fact it was borderline unbearable. The farmers doing the herding must have been deaf or, at the very least, have suffered from extreme tinnitus. Chaos reigned and traffic came to a standstill as the bovine orchestra ambled down the road clanging and rutting. Yes, there was rutting being attempted along the way too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Back at the campsite, it never really became clear who was running the place and our suspicions were that it might have been the noisy dog – it even had its own chair outside the office. There were humans around but none of them seemed to know (or care) what was going on. When we went to pay the next morning, the dog ran into the office and through a door at the back to fetch a little old lady who came out to take the money. Then she disappeared again and it was the dog who stood at the gate and barked its goodbyes as we left. Very odd.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As some of you may know, we are going to do a season as chalet hosts this winter so we thought it might be a good idea to get some practice in. To that end, we’d booked a place on a “Chalet Hosting and Cookery Course” in the French Alps. To get from Italy to France, we took the very steep and winding San Bernardo pass, the same route taken by Hannibal and his elephants when they famously crossed the Alps to attack the Romans. Those elephants were possibly more suited to the journey than our clockwork campervan.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The cookery course we were booked on was to take place in an actual chalet and we assumed it would be attended by other like-minded couples hoping to become chalet hosts. When the rest of the students turned up it became very clear, very quickly, that they were <i>actual</i> students – all aged between 17 and 19. None of them had ever cooked before, most of them had no interest in cooking and a lot of them were there simply to complete some sort of module on the Duke Of Edinburgh scheme. This meant that the course started off on a very basic level. So basic, in fact, that on day one we were taught how to wash our hands properly and how to chop an onion. As Claire and I looked at each other in despair, one of the students, a fairly posh 17-year-old girl, took it upon herself to faint. It wasn’t clear whether this was caused by boredom or that her brain couldn’t cope with the complex information it was receiving and had simply shut down. <br /><br />As the week went on we were subjected to highly intellectual lectures with titles such as “Why Germs Are Bad” or “What Is A Herb?” after which we had to answer frustratingly patronising questions and if we answered correctly we were rewarded with a sweet! Even though to us it felt like being back at primary school, for some of the other students that sweet was often a hard won thing – one lad was given a multiple-choice question about where to store raw meat and somehow came up with “by the bins”. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />Each mealtime we were split into groups and were charged with preparing and cooking various cakes, breakfasts and three-course dinners for the instructors and other students – 16 of us in all. The quality of the cooking varied greatly from group to group and there was a fairly high state of apprehension whenever anything was being made by Group D, three 18-year-old lads who actually had to be shown the difference between a sieve and a colander. A memorable highlight of their week’s endeavours was a cake that had been made with salt instead of sugar.<br /><br />To give the course its due, Claire and I did learn how to bake at altitude, are a lot more confident about cooking for large groups and (because they were all teenagers) got first-hand experience of what it will be like when guests are tired and grumpy. On the last night we all had a big drink up and, as well as being novice cooks, some of them proved to be novice drinkers. The last lesson of the week for us was that a sieve is the best way to remove teenage vomit from a hot tub. That’s a sieve and not a colander. </span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-58955434511752148212014-10-21T23:03:00.000-07:002014-10-21T23:03:14.975-07:00The coast with the most<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I’d always assumed that the famous leaning tower of Pisa was once straight and that it had gained its unusual tilt over centuries of subsidence. Turns out that it was just a dodgy building job and has been an almighty cock up all its life. One thing is for sure though: it’s one of those landmarks where it is better to be outside looking up at it, than up it looking out. That little gem of wisdom cost Claire and I 18 euros each in entrance fees. You see, aside from the arduous climb up the stairs seeming a bit steeper in places and ever-so-slightly easier in others, all you get at the top is a view of the rest of Pisa which, apart from the neighbouring cathedral, is pretty dull. There are a few bells up there (it is, after all, a bell tower) and some annoying tourists, whose sole job is to get in the way of every single photograph you want to take, but otherwise there’s not much going on. The best views are to be had down on the ground and they are actually best viewed with the tower behind you – that way you get to see lots of people posing for photographs where they pretend to either lean against or prop up the tower. Viewed without the tower, it looks like a group of escaped mental patients taking part in a some sort of wacky yoga class. Even better still is watching relationships fall apart before your very eyes as increasingly frustrated men try desperately to explain perspective to their even more exasperated wives and girlfriends.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Taking the main road out of Pisa, we became increasingly aware of what can only be described as half-dressed women, loitering in laybys, waving at cars. These prostitutes (for that is what they were) were presumably trying to lure men into their particular layby for a bit of light relief, but what we struggled to understand is why any man would want to take part in such a transaction next to what was a very long, slow-moving stream of rush-hour traffic. Especially given the high likelihood of someone they knew being sat in that traffic. One woman was obviously doing it to pay for a new skirt or some trousers because her’s were nowhere to be seen…</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The coastline on this side of Italy was really beautiful and a world apart from the depressing desolation we’d witnessed on the east coast. We’d read that one of the highlights of this particular bit of coast was an area called Cinque Terre (pronounced <i>chink-wee terror</i>). Although translating literally as Five Lands, it actually refers to five villages, of varying levels of prettiness, that are accessible only by boat or train. Or that was what we were led to believe. We got a train to the furthest village, Riomaggiore, to find that it was quite nice and consisted of a collection of colourful houses built into the cliffs overlooking a little natural harbour. Just like the tower at Pisa, it was quaint if seen from afar but not quite as stunning once you were in it. More galling was the sight of some cars that had miraculously managed to drive to the village along roads that shouldn’t exist. Maybe the rail company started the myth about them being inaccessible to increase ticket sales.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As we stopped off at each of the villages on the way back to where we’d been talked into parking (an hour away by train) each successive settlement became slightly more disappointing with increasingly large numbers of ‘magic’ cars. On the plus side, it proved to be a good workout and, given the number of steep paths and long sets of steps we had to ascend, I can only assume that the locals must have the biggest calf muscles in Italy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />Getting on and off the trains was a bit of a task too because Italians don’t have any notion of queueing and certainly don’t want to wait for you to get off the train before they start getting on. Add to this mix a herd or two of hapless elderly tourists on a day trip from their cruise ship, being led around by a disinterested tour guide, and chaos soon ensues. In amongst this maelstrom were a couple of teenage girls who seemed intent on getting in everybody’s way… until we realised that was exactly what they were doing, distracting people, bumping into them and attempting to pick their pockets. A guard came along so we told him what we had seen and pointed the culprits out to him but he was a very long way from caring, even a little bit, and seemed much more concerned with telling us we had the wrong tickets.<br /><br />It was Claire’s birthday last week so it was decided that we should treat ourselves to a hotel in order to celebrate appropriately. Rather randomly (by looking at a map to see what was nearby) we chose a little town called Santa Margherita Ligure and a proper old riviera establishment called the Grand Hotel Miramare. The service was beyond impeccable and they simply couldn’t do enough for us – though when the concierge offered to park our car, his heart must have sank when he saw what we’d given him the keys to. Due to its height, our van wouldn’t fit into their car park so they found a special place for it on a bit of the promenade, right on the seafront outside the hotel, which meant that any guests who’d paid for a sea view now also got a lovely view of our little yellow van. It became a bit of a celebrity while it was there and we spotted several passers by taking photos of it – though I’m not sure whether that was because they liked it or were maybe going to report it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">About half an hour walk or, in our case, a ten minute boat ride along the coast is the small fishing village of Portofino. It is a lovely little village but the operative word in that sentence is little – we’d seen the whole place by lunchtime – which is why it surprised us that it is famous as a being a celebrity haunt. From Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall to Jay-Z and Beyonce, from Clark Gable to Michael Douglas, Steven Spielberg, J-Lo, Rod Stewart and Rihanna – this little village draws them all. The old fishing harbour is now full of ridiculously luxurious sci-fi super yachts and the streets off the harbour – of which there are approximately two – are crammed with high-end stores (Louis Vuitton, Yves Saint Laurent, Gucci etc) as if somebody accidentally misplaced a shopping mall. It’s like taking Bond Street and transplanting it into Port Isaac. Only with better weather.</span><br />
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Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-65713976790297162392014-10-17T03:02:00.000-07:002014-10-17T03:02:00.743-07:00Rage against the (cash) machine<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Now back in Italy, our plan was to drive up what we thought would be a lovely coastal route, looking at dreamy scenery, all the way to Rimini. Unfortunately that whole section of coastline is nothing like we’d imagined and was, instead, a depressing 120km stretch of tawdry, dilapidated beach resorts and empty hotels all closed up for the winter. It was like repeatedly driving through out-of-season Morecambe, continuously, for two hours. And, just to make it even more unbearable, the roads felt like the tarmac had been applied by some sort of angry primate, using a fork, while having an epileptic fit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Surely this couldn’t be right. We needed something beautiful to look at, so we headed inland to Urbino, a hilltop town we’d never even heard of until a couple we met told us that it was a bit of a stunner. They weren’t wrong. It’s a fairly small town but within its walls is a treasure trove of impressive buildings, pretty piazzas and Renaissance art. It was a welcome respite from the horror of the coast.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The hilltop town theme continued as we headed into the Republic of San Marino, a wealthy independent enclave where Fiats are suddenly outnumbered by Ferraris. In fact they seem to be obsessed with cars and motor racing (it used to be a regular fixture on the Formula One calendar) and it wasn’t long before we saw evidence of this in the form of some rally cars being worked on by the side of he road. A few minutes later, while searching for our campsite, we noticed that the little road we found ourselves on was lined with bales of hay… and there was some stripy plastic tape emblazoned with some sort of warning… and, hang on, why are there people with clipboards making notes about which way the road bends? I think that was probably the moment it dawned on us that we were actually on the rally course. A steep and challenging rally course not suited to a rattling camper van with squeaky brakes and the power output of a hairdryer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It turned out that our campsite was about 100 yards from this rally course and that the race would be going on until midnight. With no hope of a peaceful evening, we decided to wander up to the course to see what was going on. The event was called “Rally Legend 2014”, a series of races featuring classic rally cars of the Seventies and Eighties. For the car nerds amongst you, we’re talking Lancia Delta, Audi Quattro, Porsche 911, Lancia Stratos – even a Triumph TR7 – in other words, all the cars I had as toys growing up. Only these were the real things – fast, noisy and exhilarating. It was brilliant. Needless to say they made much shorter work of the twisty hill than we had in our little tin box. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The next day we visited the historical capital of San Marino, an impressively majestic walled city of medieval buildings – and, on the day we were there, host to some of the tackiest weddings we’d ever seen. The other thing we couldn’t help but notice was the very high number of shops selling guns, crossbows, knives and (I’m sure I saw this) hand grenades. It seems to be the ideal place to go for anyone wanting to tool up in preparation for a post-apocalyptic survival situation. Perhaps they’re worried about the Italians invading or crime is very high or maybe there’s an imminent zombie attack forecast. Either way, San Marino will be ready. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We left the next day and headed north via Imola, actual home of the San Marino Grand Prix – the infamous track where Ayrton Senna lost his life. I wanted to drive past just because I’d never been there but as we approached the town we could hear the unmistakable sound of cars racing. As my excitement grew, and Claire’s heart sank, we drove up to a high concrete wall, beyond which the noise seemed to be emanating. A quick clamber up onto an old concrete junction box and we found ourselves with a great view, not just of the track, but of the latest round of the Porsche Carrera Cup. Bargain!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And so to Florence – or Firenze as the Italians insist on calling it – birthplace of the Renaissance, stomping ground of Michelangelo and Donatello (and possibly the other two Ninja Turtles) and, now, home to what I think must be more American students than there are Italians. You cannot move for American students, they even outnumber the pigeons (I’d say conservatively two-to-one) and seem to spend their time endlessly discussing where the best place is to have “just the most awesome” breakfast/coffee/lunch before seeking out and completely overrunning any cafe that offers free Wifi.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And the few Italians that remain are, on the whole, out to get you. They go out of their way to impede a tourist’s enjoyment of their city. If they are not inventing closing times that happen to coincide with the exact moment you want to visit the Duomo, they are conjuring up ingenious ways to extort money from you. Like the two very helpful women in an <i>official</i> Bureau De Change who, because the ATM was broken, very kindly offered – in perfect English – to provide cash on my card. Once I’d entered my PIN however, they presented me with an invoice for 65 euros “service charge” and suddenly their English became a lot worse as they failed to understand why I was so livid and struggled to explain why they couldn’t (or wouldn’t) cancel the transaction. We did eventually manage to get some of our money back but not before Claire was told that if she didn’t stop her one-woman protest outside their shop (she was telling other tourists of the rip-off scam within) the Polizia would be summoned.</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Talking of inappropriate behaviour, were there no pants in 15th century Italy? Florence is, of course, renowned for its art but that doesn’t justify the sheer volume of statues featuring bearded men with their genitals exposed. And they are usually committing the most horrific crimes: molesting women, beheading people, beating the crap out of a centaur or just forcing other nude men into compromising positions. They might have a helmet on or sandals or even the medieval equivalent of a pashmina but, to a man, they all go about their sordid business with their little Renaissance willies on show. Maybe that’s why they’re so violent. Maybe they just needed to put some pants on and calm down.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-78263393212360009082014-10-13T00:37:00.000-07:002014-10-13T00:37:02.243-07:00Sleepless into battle<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After a drizzly few days in the mountains it was back to the coast and back to the sunshine. We stayed at a great little campsite in a town called Sveti Filip (immediately re-christened Sweaty Phillip) where we were one of just two vans staying on site. From there we cycled to a town called Biograd (which sounds like some sort of chemical waste by-product but is actually quite nice) and caught a ferry to the nearby island of Pasman. There we had a bit of a cycle round, stopped for a well-earned beer and stumbled upon a nudist camp where I had the pleasure of being confronted by a leathery German chap’s tallywhacker. All in all, a successful island visit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">For the next couple of days we drove down the stunning Dalmatian coast without seeing a single spotty dog. The shores are lined, alternately, with pretty peninsula towns and beautifully quiet little beaches of the whitest… er… gravel. Yes, for some reason Croatian beaches are completely devoid of sand and instead consist of a small white stone that can best be likened to cat litter. It’s not great to walk on in bare feet but, on the up-side, it is surprisingly comfortable to lie in, doesn’t work its way into your bum crack – and probably cancels out unwanted odours too!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Two stops worth a mention are Trogir, another old Venetian outpost with all the trimmings (fortified wall, narrow streets, lots of shutters, Unesco rating) and, of course, Split. Split is a big city but at its heart is the old town which has – you guessed it – a fortified wall, narrow streets, lots of shutters and a big thumbs up from the lovely people at Unesco. What sets this city apart is the people – they are lunatics. The first person we met was a car park attendant who also happened to be the world’s leading exponent of misogyny. We were about to enter his car park but Claire wanted to wait to take a ticket until we could see a vacant space. This simple act made the man storm out of his little kiosk, yank a ticket from the machine himself and thrust it into Claire’s hand while shouting at her to get a move on. Then when Claire tried to point out that there were actually no parking spaces available, he snatched the ticket back off her, shooed her away and gave me the ticket instead! He was a very angry man. So imagine his rage when the next lunatic turned up in a battered old Lada and drove straight through his metal barrier, bending it into a perfect 90 degree angle. And then there was the nutter dressed in an outfit that I’m going to call “Summer Santa”… </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We’d decided to get a ferry across to Italy so booked ourselves on the Split to Ancona crossing. The ferry company were adamant that we should be there by at least 6.30pm to start embarkation, even though it was a 9pm crossing. We actually arrived at 5.30pm which is possibly the first time in Claire’s existence that she has been early for anything. We were really pleased with ourselves. However, three hours later we still hadn’t been loaded on to the boat. The problem, apparently, was that the cars (and campervans) couldn’t go onto the ferry until all the big articulated lorries had been put on – and three trucks hadn’t turned up. So we waited. And waited. And you know that thing where you’re waiting for three lorries to turn up and then seven all come along at once… That happened. Once we’d finally been packed aboard we headed excitedly to our room because, as it was a night crossing, we’d booked a two berth cabin. Unfortunately, due to what I assume was a clerical error, we were instead given the key to a small cupboard with two narrow shelves in it. In this cupboard, I slept not one jot. This was partly due to the confined quarters but also to the paper-thin walls, through which you could hear the people in the next cabin breathe. Let me be clear: not snore – breathe. So thin were these walls that the screws from next door’s fittings actually protruded into our side, which added an extra layer of jeopardy to proceedings. Then, as a literal crescendo to the whole hellish experience, someone came round knocking on everyone’s cabin doors at 6am with what sounded like a metal soup ladle.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So we were back in Italy, feeling unclean and bleary-eyed. And I’d forgotten just how mental Italian drivers can be. Traffic lights, lane markings and road signs are all treated as mere suggestions. Indicators have been deactivated on every single car so that the drivers won’t be distracted from their mobile phone conversations. Roundabouts are one massive game of chicken and overtaking can, and will, happen at any time – even if there is a blind bend, oncoming traffic or a sign saying “No overtaking”. What you don’t want to do is attempt to enter this melee having had no sleep the night before…</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-25851438688414209472014-10-08T09:28:00.000-07:002014-10-08T09:28:44.642-07:00Get your Croat, you've pulled...<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The whole goal of this trip had been to get to Croatia and that finally happened this week. Our first stop was Rovinj, a stunning little coastal town built on a peninsula by the Venetians – so, as you’d imagine, it has lots of narrow cobbled streets and crumbling buildings with lots of wooden shutters. Imagine Venice on a little hill with no canals. It is very beautiful – and thankfully pigeon-free.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We ran out of camping gas while we were there and it turned out the only place we could get this was down the coast in a town called Pula. Just before we set off though, we were approached, rather randomly in a car park, by a man who was the colour of a conker and the texture of a walnut. He told us that Pula was “crap man, just horrible” and that instead we should give him a lift to a nudist beach just along the coast. “Yeah, come with me to the nudist place, get naked, you’ll love it” he pleaded. This was a person that looked like he really shouldn’t be allowed any further exposure to the sun. Our need to get gas suddenly became even more urgent so we left him standing in the car park shaking his little walnut head. <br /><br />We got our gas and then headed up into the mountains and, almost immediately, the weather changed. We literally went into a tunnel in blazing sunshine and emerged on the other side a few minutes later into a misty realm of cold grey drizzle. We were heading to Plitvice Lakes but it was quite a way, and our little van really isn’t comfortable attempting anything even approaching an incline, so we found a campsite on the map that seemed about half way. Unfortunately, when we arrived, that campsite was very closed. While we were discussing our next move, a smiley farmer appeared beside the van and started to helpfully point out that the campsite was closed. Now, most Croatians seem to be able to speak either English or German as a second language. This farmer spoke German about as badly as I do but we managed to ascertain that he was offering us a room for the night. “Great. Why not?” we thought. He led us to his farm where we were joined by his portly English-speaking wife who directed us to a small building in the yard, proudly opening the door and ushering us in. What they’d managed to do was somehow recreate a Communist-era Gulag camp inside a big refrigerator. It would actually have been warmer – and possibly more comfortable – to sleep out in the yard. But, of course, we are British and when faced with a potentially embarrassing situation we take the path of least resistance. So rather than apologise and say that we’d go elsewhere, we smiled, made approving noises and handed over our passports. And if we were wondering what it was exactly that this farmer farmed, well that was answered upon entry to the bathroom… there were herds of mosquitos lining the walls like a living wallpaper. Presumably we’d been lured here from the roadside to become feed for his livestock. We spent about half an hour in that bathroom chasing down and squishing every single last one of them. After an evening spent wearing our coats indoors and a fairly restless night sleeping on wafer-thin mattresses, we woke early, grabbed our passports, thanked them very much and fled. And, despite the cull the night before, we’d still managed to get bitten.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We are great believers in karma and the redemption for our night of penury came that same morning when we came across a stunningly enchanting village – albeit with a stunningly depressing name – Slunj. This pretty little settlement is literally awash with waterfalls cascading down between, under and through the houses. It is unreal and looks like a ready-made set for <i>Lord Of The Rings</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And if you’re a fan of waterfalls (who isn’t?!) then our target destination, Plitvice Lakes, will have you positively quivering with excitement. This is a series of about ten or so interconnected lakes that cascade down into each other via a series of waterfalls and they are truly awesome and the fact that we arrived on such a misty day just added to the ethereal nature of the place. The crystal clear lakes and their resulting waterfalls vary massively in size but are all equally arresting. It’s hard to know just what is so mesmerising about what is essentially some water falling off a ledge...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Just as mesmerising, for me at least, was watching people turn up in the most inappropriate attire for what ends up being a 7km uphill hike through the lakes. Seeing girls wearing wedged flip flops or high heels slip and slide across the wooden bridges and through the mud was as entertaining as the waterfalls themselves. But my favourites were the group of Japanese gentlemen who turned up in business suits, clutching their packed lunches in little paper bags and wearing hats they’d made from the tour maps to protect them from the drizzle. One guy even spent the afternoon walking around with a cardboard box on his head. Utter genius. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-79107989466417325812014-10-03T08:24:00.000-07:002014-10-03T13:40:51.528-07:00Sparks fly in Slovenia<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After Venice, we
headed along the beautiful coast road to Trieste. We stopped a couple of
times to admire the views and, while they are stunning, they are
slightly marred by another altogether unwelcome sight – the entire coast
seems to be littered with leathery old men sunbathing in tiny trunks. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We had a nose around Trieste itself before spending the night in what has become our new low bench mark for campsites. I didn’t think those old squatty toilets with the badly placed footplates still existed in Europe but it turns out they do. Feeling not-at-all rested or refreshed we headed to the nearby Grotta Gigante which, as you’d imagine, translates as Massive Cave. So massive, in fact, that the Guinness Book Of World Records has recognised it as the “largest visitable tourist cave in the world” which, to me, sounds like one of those categories that Guinness make up when they can’t pigeon-hole something into an existing category… like the record for how many boiled eggs someone can peel with their feet while bouncing on a trampoline. If Guinness had been there on the day of our visit they could have created a category for “the largest and most annoying group of disinterested German school kids to ever visit a cave” as that was who we had to share our tour with. Anyway, it is undoubtedly a very big cave and, just to illustrate the point, they show you a video of someone base-jumping inside the cave, hurling himself off the uppermost platform and having just enough time for his parachute to unfurl before crashing into a staircase at the bottom. Thankfully it is a short film. <br /> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Next stop was Slovenia and some more caves. These were the Skocjan Caves and, weirdly, they are even more vast than the “largest visitable tourist cave in the world” which makes no sense at all as we were clearly tourists who were clearly visiting it. Anyway, while the Grotta Gigante trades on its size alone, the Skocjan Caves go for the “absolutely breathtaking” angle and get a World Heritage Site badge for their efforts. If you like lots of stalactites, stalagmites, narrow bridges and nausea-inducing sheer drops, then Skocjan is the place for you. We went for a 3km hike through the caves and that only took in about a third of the whole thing. In your face Grotta not-quite-so-Gigante. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Then our van’s battery died. And, as I keep telling Claire, this had absolutely nothing to do with some dingbat leaving the lights on while they went off hiking through caves for the afternoon. We got a jump start and drove to Portorose (Slovenia’s answer to Las Vegas) but it kept dying and just wouldn’t recharge, so we found a garage with a very helpful English-speaking guy called Andrej who confirmed that our battery was “kaput” and who helped us fit a new, bigger, better battery. When he was fitting it though, he couldn’t get the plastic caps back on the positive and negative contacts so simply shrugged, told us we didn’t need them and chucked them in the bin. That all seemed fine to us. The engine started first time and so we happily set off to visit Piran, a quaint little fishing village about three miles down the coast. Now, in a Volkswagen T25, the battery is located directly under the driver’s seat. The underside of the driver’s seat is solid metal. What you don’t want to happen, as fate would demonstrate, is for a piece of metal to connect the two exposed contacts on your car battery. As we parked up in Piran there was a sudden crackling sound and a shower of sparks from beneath my seat, followed by some smoke and the distinct smell of burning. But I was in the middle of trying to parallel park. On a hill. With other cars waiting. So I was desperately trying to manoeuvre the van while simultaneously moving my electrified seat off of the battery and calmly urging Claire to locate the fire extinguisher with all haste. We leaped out of the cab, Claire handed me the extinguisher and I aimed a blast directly at the flames that were by now licking the underside of the seat. I managed to put the fire out but, in doing so, also managed to cover everything in the van with a layer of grey dust making it look a bit like what I imagine Pompeii must have looked like just after Vesuvius went up. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The rest of the morning was fairly uneventful in comparison. We pottered around the picturesque village of Piran as planned – but I couldn’t help but keep one eye on the horizon, just checking that there wasn’t a plume of dark smoke rising up from a burning yellow van... </span><br />
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Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-35564224315923625402014-09-30T11:11:00.001-07:002014-09-30T11:11:40.212-07:00Matri-moany<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We emerged from the Mont Blanc tunnel into the sunny Italian countryside and a fairly persistant cross-wind that battered us around the autostrada like a crisp packet. There’s pretty much just the one route you can take across the top of Italy towards Milan and so, to break up the monotony, the Italians have thoughtfully built a series of medieval castles on every available hillside for travellers to gawp at. Literally every mile or so another fortification would hove into view – some of them were so close together it was like driving through some kind of historical housing estate.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />We stopped at a campsite just outside Milan and I was immediately set upon by the nation’s entire EU quota of mosquitos. But even these were outnumbered by Irish traveller kids, swarming over the place like a plague of evil munchkins. While they didn’t bite us quite as much as the mozzies, they did run riot around the campsite hurling insults, stones, pool cues and each other with equal enthusiasm. We stayed a single night and then fled to Venice. <br /><br />Venice is Italy’s largest pigeon sanctuary. Over the centuries it has become a place where pigeons can come to enjoy art and architecture specially provided for their relaxing qualities. For a lot of tourists, getting a photograph with these noble birds can be as important as viewing some of the novelty bird houses dotted around the place, like the Basilica, Campanile and Doges’ Palace. Venice has, of course, had to diversify over the years and has now also become the world’s leading outlet for papier maché masks and some of the planet’s most grotesque glassware. If you can imagine the most stupefyingly tacky way of shaping glass into an ornament that nobody except the most criminally insane would consider decorative, then maybe there might just be a job for you in the Venetian glass industry. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Another great activity to do in Venice is to photograph a quaint little alleyway, a pretty bridge, a shimmering canal and maybe some shuttered windows. Then repeat this exercise for the next four hours until each alleyway, bridge, canal and shuttered window all start to look exactly the same – or until you realise that you have actually been going in circles and really are photographing the same alleyways, bridges etc etc… We spent the early part of the day trying to get the definitive Venetian shot with a gondola floating by in the background. By lunchtime it was pretty difficult to take a photograph without a bloody gondola getting in the way. Sometimes there are so many gondolas they all sort of clump together like leaves in a gutter. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The weekend we were in Venice, though, the one phrase that was on everyone’s lips was “Have you seen George Clooney?” That’s because the <i>Ocean’s Eleven</i> star had arrived in town for his much-publicised wedding to Amal Alamuddin. That very same weekend, a couple of friends of ours were getting married back in the UK, so as the Hollywood elite and international jet-set flew in for possibly the most glamorous wedding Venice had ever seen, we – the <i>easyJet</i>-set – flew back to the UK for possibly the most glamorous wedding Ironbridge Rowing Club would ever witness. As the world’s press descended on Venice, any awaiting paparazzi at Gatwick airport must have been on a cigarette break because we managed to slip back through arrivals unnoticed and unphotographed. My shades and hood-up look garnered the attention of nobody except passport control. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />After a spectacular and lavish ceremony, we returned to Venice 48 hours later just in time to see the media circus checking their footage, packing up their camera equipment and throwing beer down their necks with relief that it was all over. As we’d missed all the excitement, the kind people at <i>Entertainment Tonight</i> showed us some of their footage so that we could relive the moment Matt Damon and Bill Murray bobbed past in water taxis being hounded by a flotilla of journalists and screamed at by a bazillion tourists. Thankfully, there was no such kerfuffle on the River Severn that weekend. I think George Clooney would have been jealous.</span><br />
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Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-47922345663414904352014-09-24T12:56:00.000-07:002014-09-24T12:56:00.546-07:00Back on the road<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It’s been two years since we returned from what I like to refer to as our “World Tour”. We went back to work, back to “normal” life and, as Soul II Soul once sang, back to reality. Now, with a couple of redundancies under our belt, we’ve decided to go back on the road. So,
what’s changed? Well, our Ebay van, the massively ungainly mobile
bungalow with a 5.7litre V8 engine went, fittingly, back on Ebay to
bring its own particular brand of joy/heartache/stress-related illness
to a new owner. With the proceeds we have “down-sized” to what is almost
the polar-opposite in vehicular terms - an air-cooled Volkswagen T25.
It is essentially a bright yellow bread bin with a wheel on each corner,
powered by the motor from a lawnmower. This means that it is much
easier to drive but much smaller to live in. It’s what an estate agent
might call “bijoux”. It still has a stove, a fridge, a sink, a bed -
it’s just that you can only use one of these things at any one time.
But, on the plus side, you do have the added pleasure of being waved at
by other owners of motorised bread bins. <br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> “But where are you going in your little yellow van?” you ask. Well, as
you’ve asked, I will tell you. The plan is very simple - to drive to
Croatia via France and Italy. Just a little trip relative to our last
adventure but a massively daunting task in our chosen mode of transport.
As ever, we didn’t really think it through. The air-cooled engine, as
the name might suggest, needs a lot of cool air otherwise it smells like
it’s about to explode. This means that we have to take a break every
two or three hours so that the engine can calm down and get a grip on
itself. Added to this, the van has decided that it will only let me
select second gear when it chooses - which can be a bit stressful on,
say, a hill or busy roundabout. Anyway, despite these setbacks, we have
managed to coax the little bugger onto a ferry, across the Channel and
into France. <br /><br />What we weren’t expecting for September was
glorious sunshine. Another feature of the van we discovered is that it
can harness this glorious sunshine and, with its tin roof and a giant
magnifying glass for a windscreen, amplify it to a heat capable of
roasting a Christmas dinner. So, with our temperatures rising, our
patience melting and our skin becoming crackling, imagine our joy as we
stumbled across our first campsite - right next to a beautiful river and
replete with cold beer and a swimming pool. If we could have rubbed a
lamp and wished for three things to be waiting for us, it would have
been those three (Well, maybe the beer was my wish but, hey, Claire
chose a bloody river). That was the moment when we realised that we were
back doing what we love doing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As a result of our obligatory
engine breaks, our lunch stops have become quite a daily highlight as we
try to find ever more interesting places to stop. So far we have had
lunch by a lake, in the foothills of the Alps… and on a bit of waste
ground by a level crossing. As you can see, we are trying the full gamut
of beauty spots. <br /><br />Quite a lot of France seems to be shut at the
moment and it’s like the whole country is “out of season”. We spent a
night in a town called Gray which, despite its name, was actually quite
pretty and quaint with a beautiful medieval old town. However, we tried
to find a bar open after 6pm and drew a blank. A local woman I
interrogated in my best Francais suggested that we might want to try
McDonalds, as they sell beer. Not what we had in mind. Turns out chicken
nuggets make an ideal beer snack though. <br /><br />Annecy was a bit more
promising. It is a beautiful old town at the top of Lake Annecy
where swan-laden canals wend their way through crumbly old medieval
buildings and tourists wander the streets, filling their camera’s memory
card with street scenes and deciding which bistro to have lunch in.
That’s what we did anyway. We were there to meet a couple of friends of
ours, Heather and Liz, and spend a day or two relaxing, indulging and
not driving. It was the perfect place to be. Our campsite was a very
pleasant half hour cycle ride from the town and it was still quite pleasant
even after a big dinner, a lot of wine and in total darkness. </span><br />
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<br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The
only drawback from being in the mountains, though, is that there are a
lot of steep roads which meant that when we had to leave Annecy, the
poor little bread bin was really put to the test. We urged it up the
steep inclines as lorries, buses and occasionally even cyclists whizzed
past us. That elusive second gear came into its own as we rattled up and
up, straining and gurgling towards Mont Blanc and its tunnel. If we
could just get to the tunnel, the next stop would be Italy…</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-38229534052728139772012-05-17T13:13:00.023-07:002012-05-17T13:44:35.680-07:00God bless America!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib7BiHZz-D_v720hrsI1T7LE_2Gaj4f2GK5tdalkwzckILeHO4D2h5Mk-aCs5BsB-Ep0WjhW5kSi_BN3AJo3mK0GBgYOsw0hMSHrFB9u3Yq8Qubt7QYTf9j5nyazvvc4jjzHnbOytRhIHu/s1600/downtown1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib7BiHZz-D_v720hrsI1T7LE_2Gaj4f2GK5tdalkwzckILeHO4D2h5Mk-aCs5BsB-Ep0WjhW5kSi_BN3AJo3mK0GBgYOsw0hMSHrFB9u3Yq8Qubt7QYTf9j5nyazvvc4jjzHnbOytRhIHu/s320/downtown1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743604977344553522" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Los Angeles</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> is a city with many different personalities – all of them dysfunctional. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Downtown is a muddle of shabby and chic. There are boarded up old theatres, run </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyiuTmkEbOqo7oaDnZcyXYxdHSaHbVAM3uymCpznarSJsxCs3hxOSMzb3K913NdM3jqMTA6xMDzLBtZ5fNtMOzswpKvZcaeQo3IOEIdvEGysyEIaxZ2LmmlRbor49yalWZpTJZeYtrd9G/s1600/mural1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyiuTmkEbOqo7oaDnZcyXYxdHSaHbVAM3uymCpznarSJsxCs3hxOSMzb3K913NdM3jqMTA6xMDzLBtZ5fNtMOzswpKvZcaeQo3IOEIdvEGysyEIaxZ2LmmlRbor49yalWZpTJZeYtrd9G/s320/mural1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743604795445050546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">down hotels (including ours) and discount stores but then in amongst that are trendy loft apartments, artisan bakeries and expensive restaurants. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Vagrants, beggars and loonies roam, stagger and limp the grubby streets</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5XM8KmxL4_FtQP5XGLdBeblpk1Ajaw7ZxMQLzUKwoLEGVQq_upyTkiWQuAU7Be6PFgCdsyhp0QgaKZu5xjsZlOwHlKlWjU6dq4Kq56C8tcQ75pSdXs2jnQHOTjibm0hCl0iQlO5J6R8L5/s1600/mural3.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 50px; height: 64px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5XM8KmxL4_FtQP5XGLdBeblpk1Ajaw7ZxMQLzUKwoLEGVQq_upyTkiWQuAU7Be6PFgCdsyhp0QgaKZu5xjsZlOwHlKlWjU6dq4Kq56C8tcQ75pSdXs2jnQHOTjibm0hCl0iQlO5J6R8L5/s320/mural3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743604332970570258" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsO7ZO-Y5z8U_JsI4y5VtSg5cjzYb4gcoN3mlzQgYC3CWRnnS2phaqMDFwewiv_ab8VlxQRVdV4zkdbUaCkL9kZCLO7DV2qn50GfW8kTLx6vQ29hbdoo3hdsjSle282vBN0dCZSsFcgRi7/s1600/mural2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 86px; height: 63px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsO7ZO-Y5z8U_JsI4y5VtSg5cjzYb4gcoN3mlzQgYC3CWRnnS2phaqMDFwewiv_ab8VlxQRVdV4zkdbUaCkL9kZCLO7DV2qn50GfW8kTLx6vQ29hbdoo3hdsjSle282vBN0dCZSsFcgRi7/s320/mural2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743604576466677218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> but then so do trendy media types and go-getting executives in power suits. We found ourselves </span><span style="font-family:arial;">dodging incoherent appeals for money one minute and overhearing a </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB8k_a0T-f20O7ubE2sdMrsLpR3n8gqyqjsaIDlAYzXnQhaX2CYrw9aAp5g6lW6Z7YBEqhtK7roh37PE0EoUXAhQw5dUDC5V9KgqThllVYMWo9OaCvZB4yeFpFMyOG6Cm3nw_InsGvG7bG/s1600/downtown2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 67px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB8k_a0T-f20O7ubE2sdMrsLpR3n8gqyqjsaIDlAYzXnQhaX2CYrw9aAp5g6lW6Z7YBEqhtK7roh37PE0EoUXAhQw5dUDC5V9KgqThllVYMWo9OaCvZB4yeFpFMyOG6Cm3nw_InsGvG7bG/s320/downtown2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743604069199536338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">beyond-pretentious analysis of a $500 pop-up book the next. The backdrop to this part of the city is a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">brilliant jigsaw </span><span style="font-family:arial;">of old buildings adorned with vintage painted adverts and funky contemporary</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3gstrIz59-_QNbYAxmtnCGNo-aCJeJm8vdOI2OxVazhiwM_jXUe4yh5NblcJ921t3Rg256Fj539bjSz4o8DpvlzoMqQkK13t9avmVYXfKIQqD0csqyiiXXgoMovetnb9Ivx479Ax2x30d/s1600/downtown3.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 39px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3gstrIz59-_QNbYAxmtnCGNo-aCJeJm8vdOI2OxVazhiwM_jXUe4yh5NblcJ921t3Rg256Fj539bjSz4o8DpvlzoMqQkK13t9avmVYXfKIQqD0csqyiiXXgoMovetnb9Ivx479Ax2x30d/s320/downtown3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743603852809247714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> murals, while the soundtrack is a near-constant cacophony of sirens and </span><span style="font-family:arial;">helicopters. If nothing </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbv4g-MyLuH52WGAhx2mZs_rhsMONWL1BN-ZHhxCh4vdI3zhvjBkXVfx8ovWfZYXYqJvxp2sKB9HImyaJf99Ss7X5ZbI8aNnon9EuEwN_IkRNYSwZBfqG8X6NuF7wW3EwVUej3COE2F0vE/s1600/police.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbv4g-MyLuH52WGAhx2mZs_rhsMONWL1BN-ZHhxCh4vdI3zhvjBkXVfx8ovWfZYXYqJvxp2sKB9HImyaJf99Ss7X5ZbI8aNnon9EuEwN_IkRNYSwZBfqG8X6NuF7wW3EwVUej3COE2F0vE/s320/police.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743603614599602914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">else, it feels edgy and exciting. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRayJ9gJo0GvGKUVPXqHmGA9xtvXqoEZQ5ylLnO2gJ7IP_mcPQBF_jpP88ufD28i1Ky12wFyyFJAosqRlYpHPNlWTxgshsHnhxsuRvyKYm3eAGicFvShl2h1Y9TyJ8dOsHol1nfqQbN-dy/s1600/hollywood.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 53px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRayJ9gJo0GvGKUVPXqHmGA9xtvXqoEZQ5ylLnO2gJ7IP_mcPQBF_jpP88ufD28i1Ky12wFyyFJAosqRlYpHPNlWTxgshsHnhxsuRvyKYm3eAGicFvShl2h1Y9TyJ8dOsHol1nfqQbN-dy/s320/hollywood.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743603352008567282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Then there's Hollywood, a word that conjures up glamour and fame. Hollywood, in reality, has an air of cheapness and desperation. Hollywood Boulevard is home to the famous "Walk Of Fame", a series of stars set into the pavement carrying the names of celebrities past and present. I'm not sure what the criteria is to</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6V6ikydvb5x8rCVtG0007W7hhAFaHbMcFiBYBuGKUdA-dMS4FR3Zc9kR8TYoLVHgn9HUHfq-jOIZKK3xmI4bKNjwO7o7A3qlIuquGLxlfJYKu13kuWIS9nItQbmirap3JUDTrOR1BLP28/s1600/stars.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 53px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6V6ikydvb5x8rCVtG0007W7hhAFaHbMcFiBYBuGKUdA-dMS4FR3Zc9kR8TYoLVHgn9HUHfq-jOIZKK3xmI4bKNjwO7o7A3qlIuquGLxlfJYKu13kuWIS9nItQbmirap3JUDTrOR1BLP28/s320/stars.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743603181401827826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> receive a star but everyone seems to have one – even fictitious characters like Kermit The Frog, Tinkerbell and Shrek. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">It even turns</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPHF7t2psbEbSSVCAZa5DhI8XjRbwsvpz7IitJZWrgktAnBJoS3qYGA9DusHtD0TSod9XswwEaiiDBV298Szim6lo9l1hyphenhyphenqSsmhEiQmC1Nq7EBX044fjHuvsAYvlojdrwbEJ0jfayHvWEi/s1600/stars+mine.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 67px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPHF7t2psbEbSSVCAZa5DhI8XjRbwsvpz7IitJZWrgktAnBJoS3qYGA9DusHtD0TSod9XswwEaiiDBV298Szim6lo9l1hyphenhyphenqSsmhEiQmC1Nq7EBX044fjHuvsAYvlojdrwbEJ0jfayHvWEi/s320/stars+mine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743602798415788434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> out that I have one – though that could possibly belong to my namesake who</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> founded </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;">20th Century Fox</span>. The street is also home to a wide variety of oddballs desperately trying to earn a buck in anyway they can, whether it be dressing as Yoda for a photo opportunity </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYpvXIBn0mmKqo4C9oPlvTKZ8oLENrDJWneqPug_CKKPeDK-_h5cRXX-EMFcq103GR-y3R-ODwRXkeHjCaMG1-dWbhVaz7fJISyfGn_CLCaHXMH90Tl3m4CrZ7Ombq6YaXDpX_77C9DEt/s1600/freaks.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 40px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYpvXIBn0mmKqo4C9oPlvTKZ8oLENrDJWneqPug_CKKPeDK-_h5cRXX-EMFcq103GR-y3R-ODwRXkeHjCaMG1-dWbhVaz7fJISyfGn_CLCaHXMH90Tl3m4CrZ7Ombq6YaXDpX_77C9DEt/s320/freaks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743602543445660402" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">or sitting in a litter bin </span><span style="font-family:arial;">begging.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrJUD2LsAUru6BoyTdNYlGcfk65VdSZhS_5hskS3QwGbaf3ej_Nn9mJ5b0AQbFxEPGDQ443EQ7E4FJBXjNtXJwVvcT9kD432IuAgse_H3lIro_nJ0NsRTtVWX8RXe45Bymi4NyYGvxdAJU/s1600/cemetery.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 53px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrJUD2LsAUru6BoyTdNYlGcfk65VdSZhS_5hskS3QwGbaf3ej_Nn9mJ5b0AQbFxEPGDQ443EQ7E4FJBXjNtXJwVvcT9kD432IuAgse_H3lIro_nJ0NsRTtVWX8RXe45Bymi4NyYGvxdAJU/s320/cemetery.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743602285102384018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">We also visited</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, hoping to see some of the final resting places of the rich and famous – but we could only find one of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Ramones</span> and the dog from <span style="font-style: italic;">The </span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Wizard Of Oz</span>. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">If Hollywood is where people go to try to 'make it' then Beverly Hills is where people go once they have made it. It's a place to go when you have a bank balance that by </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifiKQsr4ep4TVTdF1dBlAFKj2zie7c9yVAE4OPhgKFfK57ibZYbVglTvrcAJvGbVKsQqBh0WwIyfjVWHGXB7-HnTgMoZFA9WlReqOe9kkmVlMYpTLHL8o_o1tv45nIOWs1RLTMJWHfO8bt/s1600/bev+hills+1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 47px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifiKQsr4ep4TVTdF1dBlAFKj2zie7c9yVAE4OPhgKFfK57ibZYbVglTvrcAJvGbVKsQqBh0WwIyfjVWHGXB7-HnTgMoZFA9WlReqOe9kkmVlMYpTLHL8o_o1tv45nIOWs1RLTMJWHfO8bt/s320/bev+hills+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743602041704391778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">far outweighs any sense of taste and logic you may have. We saw sunglasses REDUCED to $600, we saw the most appalling fashion available to man and we saw the world's most expensive road car with the world's worst paint job. We saw the <span style="font-style: italic;">Beverly Wilshire</span>, a hotel that prides itself on </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_CVTQ4n9dDQFc3loBSOoX25MqFTXNICpQEi-p58dlCrkBAHMsHwFgFpA6bKW-szXKYWYZESGp3NYFzfAO4zfLERl1Op7wGOsg0iFtGpbUreVUgLx8Ut07msHzifp5upzoV7JUJ9rbfnX/s1600/bev+hills+2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_CVTQ4n9dDQFc3loBSOoX25MqFTXNICpQEi-p58dlCrkBAHMsHwFgFpA6bKW-szXKYWYZESGp3NYFzfAO4zfLERl1Op7wGOsg0iFtGpbUreVUgLx8Ut07msHzifp5upzoV7JUJ9rbfnX/s320/bev+hills+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743601774284090850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">being a prestige establishment, but that was happy to be featured in <span style="font-style: italic;">Pretty Woman</span> as the location in which Richard Gere seduces a prostitute. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">LA's dichotomy continues elsewhere too. While the streets are full of people</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ESZAwYY1nYHWQXsFuGSzRCbixnxqOjEYZ0t-_Dd8BimwEJStMlrpeYaGFDdVDoWX6mBq7uPbU0GBk_O4Esoyd9pMCvu57GzbmSmdNg8vJ9gq5W9fnBm7rpon6eDLsT-yXhRlEyZAb0Um/s1600/dogs.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 57px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ESZAwYY1nYHWQXsFuGSzRCbixnxqOjEYZ0t-_Dd8BimwEJStMlrpeYaGFDdVDoWX6mBq7uPbU0GBk_O4Esoyd9pMCvu57GzbmSmdNg8vJ9gq5W9fnBm7rpon6eDLsT-yXhRlEyZAb0Um/s320/dogs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743601320286912738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> begging for</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> food, pampered dogs are provided with iced water outside posh boutiques and get to choose their </span><span style="font-family:arial;">own treats from a specialist dog bakery. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWd6294Rl0Hj_m0RWKM6Zm3azhVy1RZ7hoxGtOjBknfa_cUqVt9a-0Eirhlgi9UTnKen85rsJsZ8wXMxEmu9yG78rA0FvI1v-UTx64_GzSunQUL3uy0wL4t-vtSWx7lLcNSPsxXg9FZOP/s1600/filming.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 40px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWd6294Rl0Hj_m0RWKM6Zm3azhVy1RZ7hoxGtOjBknfa_cUqVt9a-0Eirhlgi9UTnKen85rsJsZ8wXMxEmu9yG78rA0FvI1v-UTx64_GzSunQUL3uy0wL4t-vtSWx7lLcNSPsxXg9FZOP/s320/filming.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743600943218928450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Los Angeles is supposedly the home of movies, we saw filming taking place everywhere, and yet it was really difficult to find a cinema where we could actually watch a film. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Confused and bemused by the city, we took ourselves off to the seaside and Manhattan Beach.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0lC6NCgH6f33U7dYeFZpVhlLmPpCJ0rLF282LcBAB4jXUBDInfonBe4CbV73xCArxcS4la-uL1pfKTbmM1gfqyAMZRub4WLdnETQvdKr-EceqsOH-eKuSU581B1_WHErrSdKNgbooq_C/s1600/beach+3.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0lC6NCgH6f33U7dYeFZpVhlLmPpCJ0rLF282LcBAB4jXUBDInfonBe4CbV73xCArxcS4la-uL1pfKTbmM1gfqyAMZRub4WLdnETQvdKr-EceqsOH-eKuSU581B1_WHErrSdKNgbooq_C/s320/beach+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743600513048582210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> This was much calmer. This was an area full of art galleries, trendy housing and healthy living. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">In fact for the first time since being in the States we saw people actually jogging, cycling and rollerskating. There were people playing volleyball on the beach and surfing in the sea. It's like all </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV7qojRK58JeQnmEZRteLViTw4H6oH5-3h6pMnxjhYT-cFRrzcMFYYoGWQhR70_83LglRcUBy_EQtuJDFJaE-oBwIEwKwMkLd23STCUi8XSLRL1iH3rhXwDADGoCLgB0DbqisBUzHiy01n/s1600/beach+2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 46px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV7qojRK58JeQnmEZRteLViTw4H6oH5-3h6pMnxjhYT-cFRrzcMFYYoGWQhR70_83LglRcUBy_EQtuJDFJaE-oBwIEwKwMkLd23STCUi8XSLRL1iH3rhXwDADGoCLgB0DbqisBUzHiy01n/s320/beach+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743600255504539106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">the big unhealthy people in the middle of the country had driven all the smaller, fitter people to the coast. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">It was a nice relaxing place to spend our last couple of days before catching our flight home. And so our adventure ends. Before we came to America, I had preconceptions. I thought the friendliness would be fake and irritating but actually I've enjoyed meeting people </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZYpb3emxW6Yhn0zGo3JniVdZsVay_be0vXWYJSm1fQr4EaVgDQPZ1AbhWFrDPE605C7elZewXUzQ6pRcTO8H-lHm-RswfzHqOYf7vE28RYeppyuCI1RWl1lzXHMS0rzWtDdIDjxImP-F/s1600/beach+1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 48px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZYpb3emxW6Yhn0zGo3JniVdZsVay_be0vXWYJSm1fQr4EaVgDQPZ1AbhWFrDPE605C7elZewXUzQ6pRcTO8H-lHm-RswfzHqOYf7vE28RYeppyuCI1RWl1lzXHMS0rzWtDdIDjxImP-F/s320/beach+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743599943215424034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">who, on the whole, have been generous, genuinely helpful and genuinely nice. I was worried that, as a country, it would be very 'samey' and lack the diversity which we've seen in Europe and Asia but it's actually been the most dramatic and I leave wishing that I'd been able to see more of it. Everything IS bigger over there – the people, the cars, the landscapes, the portions – but now so is my fondness for it. God </span><span style="font-family:arial;">bless America!</span><br /><br /><span style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >BURGER OF THE WEEK</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AG9cfzQaowkXUKo3awVDyzXvNR4X2x167AO32r9nYhJH7V1lld6Zvih1vfIc_c3WFGAc4aReVTT15jh6MFC_vDU1PKRaKK3dGiUIdeHEwgENzHoh_PWs-r_ThuuvVNrl3SoxDLyMfzVU/s1600/16+LA+lobster+burger1.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 57px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AG9cfzQaowkXUKo3awVDyzXvNR4X2x167AO32r9nYhJH7V1lld6Zvih1vfIc_c3WFGAc4aReVTT15jh6MFC_vDU1PKRaKK3dGiUIdeHEwgENzHoh_PWs-r_ThuuvVNrl3SoxDLyMfzVU/s320/16+LA+lobster+burger1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743599487439419794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">As this will be my last American burger I thought I'd make it a good one. It was from a bar called <span style="font-style: italic;">Five O Four</span> on Hollywood Boulevard – right next to the William Fox star! </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC2_u5lEE2uA-jLxGRHL6tyoQyq6jDrVRKi3N0IwKDg2hmnks1JASH2RJ7-mPfoFOdKXiyJ1xDfGDP1IQo7Biwtgw5xzgZamRSOgPHjAuEhRRteR6qP-n4NxPJzSpzHmqfYxKxuzqqrvSo/s1600/16+LA+lobster+burger+menu1.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 51px; height: 57px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC2_u5lEE2uA-jLxGRHL6tyoQyq6jDrVRKi3N0IwKDg2hmnks1JASH2RJ7-mPfoFOdKXiyJ1xDfGDP1IQo7Biwtgw5xzgZamRSOgPHjAuEhRRteR6qP-n4NxPJzSpzHmqfYxKxuzqqrvSo/s320/16+LA+lobster+burger+menu1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5743598924719166994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">How about that for serendipity?! A half pound Angus beef burger topped with lobster, lobster bisque, red onion and ginger orange cream cheese, all served on a sweet Hawaiian bun. D-E-L-I-C-I-O-U-S-! </span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-35991281850922997332012-05-05T17:20:00.025-07:002012-05-05T18:55:31.112-07:00End of the road... nearly<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwj_LtQ4oZ69RdAV3mfJv6G-I_LQ1_FCRfNubRnmV0jIuTEgTqdOxfA_iaEwLqWuG1OB2HVvZJ9RYZYFmhZmty4AFpz5xJczy78LWFDD83yMnRCxL8RIRwuJ4g6XwAnv8mtXWPKgePRWIV/s1600/cars+5.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwj_LtQ4oZ69RdAV3mfJv6G-I_LQ1_FCRfNubRnmV0jIuTEgTqdOxfA_iaEwLqWuG1OB2HVvZJ9RYZYFmhZmty4AFpz5xJczy78LWFDD83yMnRCxL8RIRwuJ4g6XwAnv8mtXWPKgePRWIV/s320/cars+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739228178223968290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">One of the great things that comes with the freedom of driving around the States is stumbling across people and places you wouldn't normally see. One such place was in a small town</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_7IqNpqm1zkB_NYghBm0q2w25G5fSSwddPAnZHGmLB1Z5-Z7G47PoIO94IUrNcoBJIKKdw8QvvzvM6_wA1u0eQgVrh03UjmYnmr2FDI6BS_mpT8VJpmuLg1uMhwZQ9Zgb4YmvbHysXsn/s1600/cars+4.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_7IqNpqm1zkB_NYghBm0q2w25G5fSSwddPAnZHGmLB1Z5-Z7G47PoIO94IUrNcoBJIKKdw8QvvzvM6_wA1u0eQgVrh03UjmYnmr2FDI6BS_mpT8VJpmuLg1uMhwZQ9Zgb4YmvbHysXsn/s320/cars+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739227853386687602" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> called Glendale, Utah. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">We were heading west, away from Bryce Canyon, when I spotted a couple of old rusty classic </span><span style="font-family:arial;">American cars by the side of the road so we stopped for a closer look. It was then that we saw another old car, then another and then another – there were hundreds of them and they were all</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> lying around in this sort of overgrown garden. Then an old man appeared on </span><span style="font-family:arial;">an old </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMhuvfpqHSulT9zt0JGa5Q2VA0H76taCZB-2iwrKjzFYNixqCenoc_UHmKdUgWOs3m5elOcBusW2Q5qdcqvm9vy6jcuWzxDjIvIsVJmwf7n7iRZCfnkZXBY9NIFy7afTPvO1bRcbYlPFbu/s1600/cars+3.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMhuvfpqHSulT9zt0JGa5Q2VA0H76taCZB-2iwrKjzFYNixqCenoc_UHmKdUgWOs3m5elOcBusW2Q5qdcqvm9vy6jcuWzxDjIvIsVJmwf7n7iRZCfnkZXBY9NIFy7afTPvO1bRcbYlPFbu/s320/cars+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739227457947678786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">tractor </span><span style="font-family:arial;">wanting to know, understandably, what I was doing on his land. After a quick chat he told me that he'd lived there his whole life and </span><span style="font-family:arial;">amassed all these cars over the </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnNvMWm2Au7N606EOIUdqrQ6QWerhyphenhyphen5mNy88P8E7jTJteDYUM_GMCFlkEbDIjAWNpISt4igDI5AZQMuqAHLKIMEfsf2dA65HPNp-e3jJuSKidFpx0BgD6ZkpnG_jwKxDUJtoGcxye9X-DI/s1600/cars+2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 57px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnNvMWm2Au7N606EOIUdqrQ6QWerhyphenhyphen5mNy88P8E7jTJteDYUM_GMCFlkEbDIjAWNpISt4igDI5AZQMuqAHLKIMEfsf2dA65HPNp-e3jJuSKidFpx0BgD6ZkpnG_jwKxDUJtoGcxye9X-DI/s320/cars+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739227162209325490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">years – </span><span style="font-family:arial;">though to what end wasn't entirely clear. Upon finding </span><span style="font-family:arial;">out that I was English, he told me that his </span><span style="font-family:arial;">family </span><span style="font-family:arial;">had originated in England, that his surname was Spencer and he </span><span style="font-family:arial;">wondered if I knew which part of England they might </span><span style="font-family:arial;">have been from. I had to explain that Spencer was quite a common surname and I wasn't sure where they'd be from – but he still </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8E93cRwkH7TLzpt68HWsdlwtE1cTUlW0OGcqEW8t0IOSfYx1heliLHvNJUvA-knuhkZRfDbquX3GnaocO2okqLhLVxVKxyT4K4WzzAosxYSGi1SD4Dg6FyyO9wI43kCNUoGaCW77j_7P/s1600/cars+1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 40px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8E93cRwkH7TLzpt68HWsdlwtE1cTUlW0OGcqEW8t0IOSfYx1heliLHvNJUvA-knuhkZRfDbquX3GnaocO2okqLhLVxVKxyT4K4WzzAosxYSGi1SD4Dg6FyyO9wI43kCNUoGaCW77j_7P/s320/cars+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739226837038021250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">gave me his card anyway, just in case I ever found out and could let him know!</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxvdjAihCN6coD4TasjpDbSlGD287HsL_Kis7ftY9GRdKnx_prXKZymhN-4iO8nl5AMFvl_Q9TbeXBfvC4K_i3mJ7k-mAQGwBvBd5us6JmnLd4dYLW1NwoLMhp6KopCfbWFbCQKTW9feA/s1600/cars+badges.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 82px; height: 30px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxvdjAihCN6coD4TasjpDbSlGD287HsL_Kis7ftY9GRdKnx_prXKZymhN-4iO8nl5AMFvl_Q9TbeXBfvC4K_i3mJ7k-mAQGwBvBd5us6JmnLd4dYLW1NwoLMhp6KopCfbWFbCQKTW9feA/s320/cars+badges.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739226533255791746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> Then, when he discovered my name was Will, he was genuinely delighted because his name was Bill and he shouted "well don't that beat all!" as if we might somehow be related. We're not. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It was time to start our journey back towards Los Angeles to drop the van off. From where we were, the most direct</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> route took us back through </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgivtn1gppy7N66R8j9tgOzOPo3ZLU9JAOHLztlctNSb9tVgZYTzDAN0-YaaSxk8Z0NZyoV7ub9_hOYy3DW9pHk1hFmbP4blbyZS9wWBzKDk03KMi7ZPG3XBoDcWCATB87L5kD5jy52jgko/s1600/vegas+2.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgivtn1gppy7N66R8j9tgOzOPo3ZLU9JAOHLztlctNSb9tVgZYTzDAN0-YaaSxk8Z0NZyoV7ub9_hOYy3DW9pHk1hFmbP4blbyZS9wWBzKDk03KMi7ZPG3XBoDcWCATB87L5kD5jy52jgko/s320/vegas+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739226128518108258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Las Vegas – which pleased Claire no end as</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> she seems to have acquired a gambling obsession since we've been out here. We limited our </span><span style="font-family:arial;">stay to just one </span><span style="font-family:arial;">night and </span><span style="font-family:arial;">it was just as well because Vegas had changed. When we came here back in March it was fairly quiet and the hotels were all very cheap. Now it was much busier, all the prices had gone up and even the gambling was more expensive – the $3 limit tables we'd </span><span style="font-family:arial;">played before had </span><span style="font-family:arial;">all become $15 limit tables. At least the drinks were still free! With Vegas being busier however, the madness seemed to have been turned up a notch too. We were particularly taken with a bizarre karaoke lounge we found, where senior citizens belted out classic pop hits while a scantily-clad dancer writhed around enthusiastically on a podium beside them. The under-dressed girl seemed </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN489eE7mN3qVaP5dbTs-zVckYn9jymv328b6OxHVxmZlt8rdQ6034U_3Y6MUX6aKwUS-6pOwe3RtQmvrSAPcuGUduxMc6O3wlgye-NdVajtUVpc2sxU1cqH2yV8Qkf7171IxVmXpSe_ya/s1600/vegas+1.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 53px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN489eE7mN3qVaP5dbTs-zVckYn9jymv328b6OxHVxmZlt8rdQ6034U_3Y6MUX6aKwUS-6pOwe3RtQmvrSAPcuGUduxMc6O3wlgye-NdVajtUVpc2sxU1cqH2yV8Qkf7171IxVmXpSe_ya/s320/vegas+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739225858523651650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">incapable of dancing in time with anything, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">which might have had something to do with the many empty cans of <span style="font-style: italic;">Red Bull</span> that surrounded her. I was worried that her exertions may cause one of the old chaps to get over-excited and keel over so we left to the surreal sound of an </span><span style="font-family:arial;">octogenarian pipe-smoker banging out <span style="font-style: italic;">Ladies' Night</span> by <span style="font-style: italic;">Kool & The Gang.</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Jqcqi94Mq4Ve58-Q7iAH6hHAgTg-T9KErpF1foDxIRJQLgs2H-gd0vzh1eiIcVmRPc_yBJWeCKzILwxn3vb8T1KpyTkXan9NzytgAKGk5aO3ku6m1OIW1Sy1XGdoV0_vQXOLm3UsJ89Y/s1600/calico.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 79px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Jqcqi94Mq4Ve58-Q7iAH6hHAgTg-T9KErpF1foDxIRJQLgs2H-gd0vzh1eiIcVmRPc_yBJWeCKzILwxn3vb8T1KpyTkXan9NzytgAKGk5aO3ku6m1OIW1Sy1XGdoV0_vQXOLm3UsJ89Y/s320/calico.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739225539401292098" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">From arguably</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> the liveliest town in the world we went next to what should have been one</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqe2hEajbUWHvPx6VxprUgwWisIF_h_48mtodfv5ug64oLGwtQywbl2CdzWQVTgC7UWnkzZ4qXvR88SnkuIi4NGYC89Au15bb6Cuxh4L9C9KNCJeJD2PHSZjl59YUcCEDOHKopi4_CNr7/s1600/calico+hotel.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqe2hEajbUWHvPx6VxprUgwWisIF_h_48mtodfv5ug64oLGwtQywbl2CdzWQVTgC7UWnkzZ4qXvR88SnkuIi4NGYC89Au15bb6Cuxh4L9C9KNCJeJD2PHSZjl59YUcCEDOHKopi4_CNr7/s320/calico+hotel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739225278120857186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> of the</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> deadest – a small ghost town called Calico. This was once a bustling silver mining town but once all the silver had gone, so had any reason to stay and the town was all but abandoned. I was really excited about seeing an abandoned mining town but sadly, like most things that should be </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBJzLRiR0eEiF8MFQO5zEJNfsGB9FodB7ah0bj9YLkWGuomXQCh_PytiaiLzSqfG86b0QdUklHad7wUHut_3SRAXeiuG7Y_xl2by-UXdVBuUgl35bggcAQZOPD-VaE37DwTpykzHoAAWN/s1600/calico+beer.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 56px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBJzLRiR0eEiF8MFQO5zEJNfsGB9FodB7ah0bj9YLkWGuomXQCh_PytiaiLzSqfG86b0QdUklHad7wUHut_3SRAXeiuG7Y_xl2by-UXdVBuUgl35bggcAQZOPD-VaE37DwTpykzHoAAWN/s320/calico+beer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739224833986617554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">just left alone, this has been turned into a gaudy pastiche of what an old </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI2XdlvZAEYfuKRpvZ4a-ZV3Oa0YgID4nhOqO8slroN5oGzQ3DpaOoV3LLEPF9WGiXeF4O4xMkw3R49JUpzypiahi_z7hnS6hABLMdYmS2pJyuRxEcqDCrQQbEOyaYrLQ4h4DcmnkPsHgj/s1600/calico+street.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI2XdlvZAEYfuKRpvZ4a-ZV3Oa0YgID4nhOqO8slroN5oGzQ3DpaOoV3LLEPF9WGiXeF4O4xMkw3R49JUpzypiahi_z7hnS6hABLMdYmS2pJyuRxEcqDCrQQbEOyaYrLQ4h4DcmnkPsHgj/s320/calico+street.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739224421603677474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">mining town</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> might look like in the mind of some theme park proprietor. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">The old</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> hotel is now</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> a restaurant, the old post office a gift shop and the old drugstore is a pizza parlour. There are ice cream stands and juice bars, ATMs and restrooms. The main street has been tarmacked and there's a naff</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBpwW5Y1zS2lXlnwtiAE-x9DNDiAJlmTOHZ4FcIeG9CITDxzkwL2kWm3gVkHOu3QHG9qCtONfARvcgwM-erMpRBH8U6aYkdXDYBeZIOg_JY3fm7zhhFylHQInhIS7WxZX4MFoAb6WQuaNY/s1600/calico+train.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBpwW5Y1zS2lXlnwtiAE-x9DNDiAJlmTOHZ4FcIeG9CITDxzkwL2kWm3gVkHOu3QHG9qCtONfARvcgwM-erMpRBH8U6aYkdXDYBeZIOg_JY3fm7zhhFylHQInhIS7WxZX4MFoAb6WQuaNY/s320/calico+train.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739223702416988754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> little train to take you round some fake mine entrances. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKGFDGEgZ_GUCX-hDhkje5AIAW4DLAQZbGs92zjhCj-x_g8sySv5SJxrzBv8PXuzaLBgcyMuaBo_nUaRJv2YORiBKnaMaA3JMzeAaCm8VGSVtVux2uJtydI56XcUE39y2S85ucNppu-qnl/s1600/calico+leather.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKGFDGEgZ_GUCX-hDhkje5AIAW4DLAQZbGs92zjhCj-x_g8sySv5SJxrzBv8PXuzaLBgcyMuaBo_nUaRJv2YORiBKnaMaA3JMzeAaCm8VGSVtVux2uJtydI56XcUE39y2S85ucNppu-qnl/s320/calico+leather.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739224121938824674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Restoring it for posterity is one thing</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> but turning it into a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">commercialised toy town is just tawdry and unnecessary. What would those old miners think if they could see their town now? They'd probably be given name badges and be employed as greeters.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqdxr7kbBdk5iq1C13UX_xC-kBNlf4bdpkM-d97V9oYXvA6xaNVsrW3ivTWcMRq4bA37gETA0ftcOLkVq3surXxZQEzRIaxtxH4oZFhVHAT2a4HAKNTRXBqp7rtodFgBGAM5ZBWIUkJbo0/s1600/san+bernardino.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqdxr7kbBdk5iq1C13UX_xC-kBNlf4bdpkM-d97V9oYXvA6xaNVsrW3ivTWcMRq4bA37gETA0ftcOLkVq3surXxZQEzRIaxtxH4oZFhVHAT2a4HAKNTRXBqp7rtodFgBGAM5ZBWIUkJbo0/s320/san+bernardino.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739223234769809058" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">San Bernardino could be described as a modern day wild west town. It is on the very periphery of the Los Angeles area and we chose to stop there for a couple of nights so we could pack up our bags and clean the van, ready to return it to the rental company. We didn't really do any research on what sort of area it was but, to give you an idea, the RV park owner commended our bravery and said that at least we'd arrived in daylight. Then one of the permanent residents on the RV park came over to ask us, with a confused look on his face, "Why the hell would you come to San Bernardino?!" He explained that he was saving up enough money so that he could get "the hell out of here". The final clincher was the poster on a nearby telegraph pole pleading for witnesses to a murder. We mostly stayed within the confines of the gated campsite. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">So that was the last time we stayed in the RV. We took it back to the rental company, cleaner than it was when we'd received it, though with a lot more gaffer tape around the roof area. We ended up having to pay $100 for the damage we'd caused to the skylight, which seemed quite reasonable and we made a swift exit before they could examine it further. It was a sad end to our road trip – but then we realised we still had a week left in LA before our flight home. A week's holiday in Los Angeles? Oh, go on then, if we must! </span><br /><br /><span style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >BURGER OF THE WEEK</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnb-Kh50bngNYhlad8Fhzl-0B3chDxC2nQpkCRhjbGos7uyiAh5DDBVh964aPpf8gyFC1G_jK2tXhr7Ko_sOTPxfqCHOfqmol2G7V1KAjMZ3V-13drF6OpxjMdpXSZjjNXFNd_TvfUpU8Z/s1600/15+Vegas+Max+burger3.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 46px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnb-Kh50bngNYhlad8Fhzl-0B3chDxC2nQpkCRhjbGos7uyiAh5DDBVh964aPpf8gyFC1G_jK2tXhr7Ko_sOTPxfqCHOfqmol2G7V1KAjMZ3V-13drF6OpxjMdpXSZjjNXFNd_TvfUpU8Z/s320/15+Vegas+Max+burger3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5739222756772900482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">As we were back in Vegas I was able to visit the <span style="font-style: italic;">Grand Lux Café</span> at <span style="font-style: italic;">The Venetian</span> and sample their <span style="font-style: italic;">Max Burger</span>. A 10oz certified Angus beef burger topped with cheddar cheese, crisp bacon, mushrooms, onions and – here's the good bit – a roasted short rib (with the bone removed obviously). This was one of the most succulent and delicious burgers I've ever had the good fortune of wrapping my mouth around and the added meatiness of the rib was a stroke of genius. Definitely my favourite so far!</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-84635401826852372392012-04-26T17:24:00.000-07:002012-04-29T18:56:01.569-07:00Let's rock!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSNawXiHtaRD3ewTP1gQv9BR2i4Fl-UbiPt0lKF_XIO-paY-aeFKcNs8Mlcsjr4kWVQbCxMIZ8ek_vs7OE-WL-PanLAl4-_VAeAbM_Nn3_SQUzaEv6wpfeLFvGKd7JxkGTIEF41S72TPUH/s1600/volcano2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSNawXiHtaRD3ewTP1gQv9BR2i4Fl-UbiPt0lKF_XIO-paY-aeFKcNs8Mlcsjr4kWVQbCxMIZ8ek_vs7OE-WL-PanLAl4-_VAeAbM_Nn3_SQUzaEv6wpfeLFvGKd7JxkGTIEF41S72TPUH/s200/volcano2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGmI96efqU_iS2mrfz6JNVQnB32Go9amlGJu-I9U9XckMOV6bxT0PmH4QkGJD2wpesKuY6pMvn4CCktodreS_5kjbIIjX7ot_zEmfYan0GJ2vOEFx5gICYEyK6VKKjhdxm8-yQHaX-tqk/s1600/volcano1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGmI96efqU_iS2mrfz6JNVQnB32Go9amlGJu-I9U9XckMOV6bxT0PmH4QkGJD2wpesKuY6pMvn4CCktodreS_5kjbIIjX7ot_zEmfYan0GJ2vOEFx5gICYEyK6VKKjhdxm8-yQHaX-tqk/s200/volcano1.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEzkuW7VImqBmjGo5Y-FwDGDlBpE3IoC8_xq3YYsslTE6evd2eHeYAPcSslgfwGZd5-d5Td91EJzSytOVTPN5BYFpjlTdgO-81OZQhsT_hGXcosDiuFyMQ7uggN3WuiJkPkui1_wCW_pvi/s1600/volcano3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEzkuW7VImqBmjGo5Y-FwDGDlBpE3IoC8_xq3YYsslTE6evd2eHeYAPcSslgfwGZd5-d5Td91EJzSytOVTPN5BYFpjlTdgO-81OZQhsT_hGXcosDiuFyMQ7uggN3WuiJkPkui1_wCW_pvi/s200/volcano3.jpg" width="200" /></a>Having left Roswell, we spent an uneventful couple of days in Albuquerque searching fruitlessly for a new skylight to replace the one that had been annihilated during that unprovoked attack by a tree. Undeterred by our lack of success, I managed, through my experiences in Europe of mending a broken van with gaffer tape, to lash the carcass of the old skylight together in such a way that at least it wouldn't liberate itself from the van entirely. With the RV all bandaged up we headed west, out into the desert wilderness, for a week of rock-based adventure. We drove through an old volcanic area called El Malpais – the badlands – in which we visited an extinct volcano called Bandera. While this was all very nice and, you know, volcano-shaped, the real surprise was what lay down below. Beneath the ancient lava flow was a cave and in that cave was a "lake of ice". The temperature down there never gets above 0°C so this ice has been there for centuries – scientists have dated the oldest ice as being 3,400 years old. Native Indians and early settlers used to 'mine' the ice (to keep food fresh in the days before refrigerators) but now it is merely a spot for tourists to gawp and marvel at while getting goose bumps on an otherwise hot, sunny day.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7qNGGRI5kLirWlFFsTP8A_69b8P4Zl6mzcaAJiAAXJn2ipxc77g1WBuU23EeDBKu9m_R53rqDhoqVcxJ97TsYysh2LRd64DxJg7qD3i9FPXgK6VycTXl_quaqMjRWskkrw_Nwb9tJIW_C/s1600/inscription5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7qNGGRI5kLirWlFFsTP8A_69b8P4Zl6mzcaAJiAAXJn2ipxc77g1WBuU23EeDBKu9m_R53rqDhoqVcxJ97TsYysh2LRd64DxJg7qD3i9FPXgK6VycTXl_quaqMjRWskkrw_Nwb9tJIW_C/s200/inscription5.jpg" width="191" /></a>From a wonder of volcanic rock we went to wall of ancient graffiti called "Inscription Rock". This cliff face is next to a pool of natural spring water, the only fresh water for miles around, and so over the years it has been a stopping point for weary travellers. Once refreshed, these travellers then took it upon themselves to carve their details into the adjacent sandstone cliff. There are ancient native-American petroglyphs, inscriptions from Spanish conquistadors of the 1600s, right through to the settlers of the mid-to-late 1800s. Some of the carving is crude, a sort of early form of "Kev woz 'ere", but some of it is stunning script and calligraphy of the sort of you might see in churches. Absolutely amazing. It was while looking at these old carvings that Claire's bare ankle garnered the unwanted attention of a rattlesnake. Thankfully it did what rattlesnakes do and gave a little warning rattle before it chose to hospitalise anyone but it was a close call. We've been enjoying the company of a lot of reptile life out in the hot and dusty deserts of the southwest. Most seem to be harmless lizards but since the snake incident they all make me a little jumpy.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnun-rym_LARjApOBcw0exZ6aeS5vPM2PKW5JA9Q-BTfpzU5WgqCjS_7ZAr3PXo68PpMAyT9c32hJZe4S6mteHZoC3XXI6KvqnH1NXXQQ1hJhFojTXW53MI9NonG7kBzgyr7J6F_YBHlt_/s1600/4corners1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="103" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnun-rym_LARjApOBcw0exZ6aeS5vPM2PKW5JA9Q-BTfpzU5WgqCjS_7ZAr3PXo68PpMAyT9c32hJZe4S6mteHZoC3XXI6KvqnH1NXXQQ1hJhFojTXW53MI9NonG7kBzgyr7J6F_YBHlt_/s200/4corners1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKwCwKRcyLsRXBfIHRbYh0EWB3hwpgFV1gExYd3EiQJTLPRQElo6kCc7HHz7Orx-niBluvN_Vl1W9XbOaiREpJeItqRAcjYJWiKWjBjp2Ck0kS0qbrk4cTXFzJtUYEdUX6rB05cFNqGb-s/s1600/4corners2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKwCwKRcyLsRXBfIHRbYh0EWB3hwpgFV1gExYd3EiQJTLPRQElo6kCc7HHz7Orx-niBluvN_Vl1W9XbOaiREpJeItqRAcjYJWiKWjBjp2Ck0kS0qbrk4cTXFzJtUYEdUX6rB05cFNqGb-s/s200/4corners2.jpg" width="200" /></a>We found ourselves next at "Four Corners", the only point in the USA where the borders of four states meet. It means you are able to stand in New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona and Utah all at the same time. So we did. Once that was done, however, there isn't really a lot else to see or do except peruse the slightly tacky offerings of the surrounding Navajo stallholders, but as we didn't need a gaudily painted necklace or a "dream-catcher" we left. Our next calling point was a balancing rock called "Mexican Hat" (from a certain angle it did look like an upside down sombrero) and then we entered Monument Valley. Monument Valley is full of those distinctive buttes and outcrops that are synonymous with old western movies, <i>Roadrunner</i> cartoons and the cowboy level on <i>Angry Birds</i>. It was like driving past a vast painted backdrop and didn't seem real at all. Especially when we spotted an actual cowboy. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix8yCsKzy1Z-1F009k-0j3oIARAqkahJ5OUrLGT7_IfH3Z6alHq0f91ahXjxLLmbfM9sUMppcwPDXp3wKZEsiPW-qUbIZDOsAT0RE_bV51NInmhKxhcWP9oecKTxFnKqP3LsH3TX5LyPqM/s1600/antelope2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix8yCsKzy1Z-1F009k-0j3oIARAqkahJ5OUrLGT7_IfH3Z6alHq0f91ahXjxLLmbfM9sUMppcwPDXp3wKZEsiPW-qUbIZDOsAT0RE_bV51NInmhKxhcWP9oecKTxFnKqP3LsH3TX5LyPqM/s200/antelope2.jpg" width="200" /></a>Then we dipped back into Arizona and arrived at Antelope Canyon. Like Four Corners, this is on Navajo-owned land and, as such, is subject to their own creative pricing system – but it was worth every cent. It is simply one of the most amazing places I have ever had the fortune to visit. If I've said that about anywhere else before then forget those, this is the new number one. Unlike the Grand Canyon, this one is very compact and bijou and you enter it through a narrow slot in the rock – like you're actually climbing inside the ground. You are then enveloped in this extraordinary red swirling rock as you walk along a narrow channel that has been carved out of the sandstone by years of river torrents and flash floods. The combination of smooth stone, rich red colour and ethereal shapes is just mesmerising. At the risk of sounding like a wet hippy, it's a genuinely spiritual place. You slowly make your way along this seemingly-organic channel and emerge at the other end, in a sort of symbolic rebirth, and feel attuned with the Earth itself. Or we would have if our Navajo guide hadn't brought his guitar along to serenade us with <i>Radiohead</i> songs.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZXbLjknWvpO5GilNmJNWmPXty4KIYsSW73dDPCDzkGLQGtVT1v1XwQzdVAgkC7ty0ZljJluiCQHPzI5PgnBoOb_i896RLupXnhLoEvG_wdPV7ugkA4DCOO8KRE_loFD53HnszAjFCeAye/s1600/mushroom3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZXbLjknWvpO5GilNmJNWmPXty4KIYsSW73dDPCDzkGLQGtVT1v1XwQzdVAgkC7ty0ZljJluiCQHPzI5PgnBoOb_i896RLupXnhLoEvG_wdPV7ugkA4DCOO8KRE_loFD53HnszAjFCeAye/s200/mushroom3.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfWcRK3y3RvPn7jpNeIsp5c-UhMLBi5SCnhnq_NCXrSsBDWCwjA41ixY4uvXJHHQmkcEV-jbWhC3Njvfwqixldgrs_HA2W98xtlAE0iGiD9Ft5XcoPFthe6D3yTniiF-wwMwS3NvD-pYWi/s1600/mushroom4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfWcRK3y3RvPn7jpNeIsp5c-UhMLBi5SCnhnq_NCXrSsBDWCwjA41ixY4uvXJHHQmkcEV-jbWhC3Njvfwqixldgrs_HA2W98xtlAE0iGiD9Ft5XcoPFthe6D3yTniiF-wwMwS3NvD-pYWi/s200/mushroom4.jpg" width="200" /></a> </div>
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Our rock odyssey continued into an area called Grand Staircase – Escalante. We wandered across a landscape worthy of any early <i>Star Trek</i> episodes and replete with alien rock formations known as "toadstools". As with most things in America, the name is of course bleedin' obvious. Softer rock erodes beneath harder rock leaving boulders balancing on spindly columns of sandstone and the result is a crop of rocky mushrooms. This type of erosion was even more evident and even more spectacular at our last rock-based destination – Bryce Canyon. This is a fantastical, magical place where rocks do things that you wouldn't expect rocks to do. There are fins and arches and thousands of these weird sort of knobbly columns of rock which, in a departure from the normal American naming process, are mysteriously called "hoodoos". I wasn't sure how I was going to describe these bobbly towers of orange sandstone but then it struck me – they're like an enormous terracotta army of <i>Spicy Knick-Knacks</i>. I'm not sure I'd get a job writing brochures for the National Parks Service but at least I know what I'm on about. I mean, really, what the hell is a "hoodoo"?!</div>
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<b>BURGER OF THE WEEK </b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxwrBRMfM2J4py9xozjOJ1cU3kxQc7V0cKhd1BX2aqKh03cgVWvaRsfci3cKys33CN5x1bS1lTPRhvbPtRfHDktaaxblHiPNqhFNdHPYJcboL0pfZeQn4qudpe7H9K7Pt0o9R-_icNIAHs/s1600/14+albuquerque+tortilla+burger+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxwrBRMfM2J4py9xozjOJ1cU3kxQc7V0cKhd1BX2aqKh03cgVWvaRsfci3cKys33CN5x1bS1lTPRhvbPtRfHDktaaxblHiPNqhFNdHPYJcboL0pfZeQn4qudpe7H9K7Pt0o9R-_icNIAHs/s200/14+albuquerque+tortilla+burger+2.JPG" width="200" /></a>While in New Mexico I tried out what seems to be a popular local delicacy, <i>The Tortilla Burger</i>. It's a standard grilled burger, wrapped in a flour tortilla and refried before being topped with three kinds of cheese and then grilled again. The resultant offering should be filed under 'over-cooked'. This driest of burgers is accompanied by a cup of homemade green chilli – a sauce so hot and spicy that it renders all of your mouth's sensory functions inoperable to the extent that you could be chewing polystyrene and not realise. Highly recommended!</div>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-11837938431300920472012-04-18T20:11:00.027-07:002012-04-18T21:04:38.203-07:00Close encounter of the tree kind<span style="font-family:arial;">This week we were in three different states. Four if you count 'dismay'. Firstly, from </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-okMGJaAYZdGR8IdGoGq9488JEN9n0F3QbfeoReTqeHhblZ6df8wPTHApH_apZZTOezhvvwuCjfSDK31EkRKbO7_fboCgGPl0FsD9HivPAXNUUA7kaAU5fpVbR5Tu4L_CMZBLnf8rB0pl/s1600/santa+fe+adobe.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 54px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-okMGJaAYZdGR8IdGoGq9488JEN9n0F3QbfeoReTqeHhblZ6df8wPTHApH_apZZTOezhvvwuCjfSDK31EkRKbO7_fboCgGPl0FsD9HivPAXNUUA7kaAU5fpVbR5Tu4L_CMZBLnf8rB0pl/s320/santa+fe+adobe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732957330312654034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">a cool and mountainous Colorado we went to a warmer and slightly flatter New Mexico. Almost immediately one of the things you notice change is the architecture, with lots of pueblo-style adobe buildings everywhere. In fact, in places like downtown Santa Fe there's a strict building code that means all buildings have to be in this style, whether it's <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">McDonalds</span></span> or a covered car park. It makes the whole place </span><span style="font-family:arial;">seem a little bit twee and a bit fake – like you're </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEw2MrKaxi2qwQIDqw-QE9jduGmT9yd8LHXP4xfyA9KR8vmMjhUY31LBM2K7a9aN-tgTbNE0MAmQ4txa7s1OASSf6RSKT39n1srOXaE7x5eUx_NfbP5dPtTLN_Blq62qflTkPdtRcH4dYh/s1600/santa+fe.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEw2MrKaxi2qwQIDqw-QE9jduGmT9yd8LHXP4xfyA9KR8vmMjhUY31LBM2K7a9aN-tgTbNE0MAmQ4txa7s1OASSf6RSKT39n1srOXaE7x5eUx_NfbP5dPtTLN_Blq62qflTkPdtRcH4dYh/s320/santa+fe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732956704250978978" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">walking around a Mexican theme park or something. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Santa Fe is also a very 'arty' city and there are vast amounts of naff paintings </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and weird sculpture </span><span style="font-family:arial;">awaiting any tourists that happen to have more money </span><span style="font-family:arial;">than taste. In terms </span><span style="font-family:arial;">of attractions,</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Santa Fe sticks with the construction</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> theme. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvaYs9kjCgNIPpMemWnHazEwUvH8TXXkKq8JJ6WbfeL1vQG-OmYrNKSXShRSfEmINq9fZ4cHpYmDzWqC18C7vo-fHwF24BI8Ej37_g1WqqGZiXetduc6kr1MAu8bIyAWxyif7ftJx-e4WL/s1600/santa+fe+art.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 32px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvaYs9kjCgNIPpMemWnHazEwUvH8TXXkKq8JJ6WbfeL1vQG-OmYrNKSXShRSfEmINq9fZ4cHpYmDzWqC18C7vo-fHwF24BI8Ej37_g1WqqGZiXetduc6kr1MAu8bIyAWxyif7ftJx-e4WL/s320/santa+fe+art.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732956413443907634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">F</span><span style="font-family:arial;">or a start it boasts </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the "Miraculous Stairway", a spiral staircase in an old </span><span style="font-family:arial;">chapel that </span><span style="font-family:arial;">apparently shouldn't work </span><span style="font-family:arial;">as it has no </span><span style="font-family:arial;">traditional means of support. The </span><span style="font-family:arial;">miracle part, presumably, is that anyone cares. But wait, there's more. What could be more exciting than a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">staircase, you're probably wondering? </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEZVhCLRBrr1w5niaD0zmUbbQyNF7qt8gWHj9NVqgKPkhlhuznLaCr-2p6TQ31TaSHCehSmwmG7kwkJdttFY_VbKa1MGMNkLKPhc8_qEphFjwpWJrcwGLy8kLhgsLidoA5UlqJjIG9IUCw/s1600/santa+fe+stair.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEZVhCLRBrr1w5niaD0zmUbbQyNF7qt8gWHj9NVqgKPkhlhuznLaCr-2p6TQ31TaSHCehSmwmG7kwkJdttFY_VbKa1MGMNkLKPhc8_qEphFjwpWJrcwGLy8kLhgsLidoA5UlqJjIG9IUCw/s320/santa+fe+stair.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732956028918704946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">How about the oldest house in the USA? There's a scene in <span style="font-style: italic;">Only Fools And Horses</span> where Trigger claims to have had the same broom for 20 years, even though it's had 17 new heads and 14 new handles – well, the "Oldest House In The USA" </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2fefoP5P5q0sYyuZ6KjsITrGbbBoWnZMY_x7N4IWOwHZDUiOxCnSuc_mnJrF6uWpEcJ6ZA5k1A8r04EA52579v6BneKEKfzp9QWrHrOoYceG7ZFwdhpBuAY3g8t89FzE5FhE145P-t37Q/s1600/santa+fe+old+house.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 41px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2fefoP5P5q0sYyuZ6KjsITrGbbBoWnZMY_x7N4IWOwHZDUiOxCnSuc_mnJrF6uWpEcJ6ZA5k1A8r04EA52579v6BneKEKfzp9QWrHrOoYceG7ZFwdhpBuAY3g8t89FzE5FhE145P-t37Q/s320/santa+fe+old+house.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732955506227255026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">is a bit like that. It turns out it is <span style="font-style: italic;">part</span> of a house built in 1640-something <span style="font-style: italic;">on the site of</span> something that <span style="font-style: italic;">may</span> have been there in the 1200s that then fell into ruin and had to be rebuilt. Does that really count?</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQBcQlW3I9R2CjROXVioOJh6Q64vf2gCFDOar3ZQ0VQmfv3lXXGSpvArcBzp3QTO5odPSOctqqNzKUPbQ7RtEJ-7GI9XjMe2lXuT9K5lD-nUz6HfQiq1GWPvG0wO_O-aQxI7htwipc9sr/s1600/texas+sign.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 55px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQBcQlW3I9R2CjROXVioOJh6Q64vf2gCFDOar3ZQ0VQmfv3lXXGSpvArcBzp3QTO5odPSOctqqNzKUPbQ7RtEJ-7GI9XjMe2lXuT9K5lD-nUz6HfQiq1GWPvG0wO_O-aQxI7htwipc9sr/s320/texas+sign.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732955028726046866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Time for another new state, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and another new time zone, as we headed to Texas. We knew we were in </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Texas because </span><span style="font-family:arial;">all the cars had cow horns on the front. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUS3J22BUdquSHL_mb1hTtSpR98p6j5-c5aS1_AC5AXls2gvksY_56cV9WxgJq2Vumo5ecOCGP4uOphJ4mOnJfqICbGYAFbMcHSx5XOBs8Ydwupl1281ec2va8v0AvhrktAK8SVAuDcquI/s1600/texas+cars.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 58px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUS3J22BUdquSHL_mb1hTtSpR98p6j5-c5aS1_AC5AXls2gvksY_56cV9WxgJq2Vumo5ecOCGP4uOphJ4mOnJfqICbGYAFbMcHSx5XOBs8Ydwupl1281ec2va8v0AvhrktAK8SVAuDcquI/s320/texas+cars.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732954672893897602" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">We headed to Amarillo to visit </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the Cadillac Ranch.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">This is a sort of art installation created in 1974 when three guys half-buried </span><span style="font-family:arial;">ten Cadillacs in a field with their rear ends sticking in the air (the cars' not the artists'). Anyone </span><span style="font-family:arial;">visiting the cars </span><span style="font-family:arial;">is actively encouraged to graffiti, paint or otherwise deface the cars with the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">result that they are constantly changing and will never again be </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihBf4xYcbg5XeVPoSLBOvp4T3uRwcHNj8EQ-dGEzMVlI5V0MXDDrAhbiuuP7LPfz3GS0leQYubLhbgmCXuCdSXNp1tKN7fZJ9Wp38FwczcowXpPepoRxnBjKmMeSIJu3BmcvnXmrURas6A/s1600/texas+caddy+1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 42px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihBf4xYcbg5XeVPoSLBOvp4T3uRwcHNj8EQ-dGEzMVlI5V0MXDDrAhbiuuP7LPfz3GS0leQYubLhbgmCXuCdSXNp1tKN7fZJ9Wp38FwczcowXpPepoRxnBjKmMeSIJu3BmcvnXmrURas6A/s320/texas+caddy+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732953054706428498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">as they were on the day we saw them. After nearly 40 years of this, they are thick with layer upon layer of paint. It's a beautiful thing to be in the presence of. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUaXPpXA2VT99gBlyv3BcJ27A2sAqgHL3Kq9NiJIpJrCYs28Lt1tcGPUOzRUJb3yGnE6-27_V9r-hoR-SUkmYj5v9UyJgbSazArLS6bX87BJgblzM24JlblvvsEAq3nDPDM4ARAzT8Aj2p/s1600/texas+caddy+2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 46px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUaXPpXA2VT99gBlyv3BcJ27A2sAqgHL3Kq9NiJIpJrCYs28Lt1tcGPUOzRUJb3yGnE6-27_V9r-hoR-SUkmYj5v9UyJgbSazArLS6bX87BJgblzM24JlblvvsEAq3nDPDM4ARAzT8Aj2p/s320/texas+caddy+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732952816640285458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">We found that someone had kindly left a half-used aerosol can of paint by one of the cars, so Claire and I set to work adding our own marks to this ever-changing artwork. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdzUXFGtN_jlAI6bNndIOGTyLmpb9vsH2j5bdKUU1OHYYnhrUmH3r3WUxZhL94H9zX_o6jox-Y5fESclhrfdTZ-ZNF0PGzpUFiznIuvZTfKlV3-ip5mb7I9okV3mJ8a1htA0p9D-KurldA/s1600/texas+caddy+paint.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 52px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdzUXFGtN_jlAI6bNndIOGTyLmpb9vsH2j5bdKUU1OHYYnhrUmH3r3WUxZhL94H9zX_o6jox-Y5fESclhrfdTZ-ZNF0PGzpUFiznIuvZTfKlV3-ip5mb7I9okV3mJ8a1htA0p9D-KurldA/s320/texas+caddy+paint.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732952254875341954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">We wanted to write something that would be seminal and clever – but we couldn't think of anything so just scrawled our names a couple of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">times! I'm still hopeful that it may be seen by someone from the Turner Prize </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisG0KI0YswSYzdoHVXGzZPpLVDc9k_zqdngnv1SR_X-VGoQC9-zmBOaCAToZxE6i-aj7piprGNvXgIZtbDyqYsPc2es4I3A00d0WedAMiUjACsWR_cmUWYHta8zUGqxv6Y3fcQXRTt0D5L/s1600/texas+caddy+3.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 56px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisG0KI0YswSYzdoHVXGzZPpLVDc9k_zqdngnv1SR_X-VGoQC9-zmBOaCAToZxE6i-aj7piprGNvXgIZtbDyqYsPc2es4I3A00d0WedAMiUjACsWR_cmUWYHta8zUGqxv6Y3fcQXRTt0D5L/s320/texas+caddy+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732951907530030130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">committee. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Not being </span><span style="font-family:arial;">a nation to let a cash-in pass them by, we were </span><span style="font-family:arial;">heartened to see a local RV park had half-buried a </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">motorhome</span> as a tribute-cum-publicity stunt and we also saw a local billboard </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FrgcvA9dWgWCFBvfcTXuBPg_2MaQNOvr8tMKllySAJdds7dNxqNNuVN9DymSRa3gchgCIcp5_1I-18Ok4_r-2r-fX6xralckuV3NNglZag4UCidQCHV8qAM-m8EKJkW03n_5UziqiuxL/s1600/texas+caddy+copy.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 33px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FrgcvA9dWgWCFBvfcTXuBPg_2MaQNOvr8tMKllySAJdds7dNxqNNuVN9DymSRa3gchgCIcp5_1I-18Ok4_r-2r-fX6xralckuV3NNglZag4UCidQCHV8qAM-m8EKJkW03n_5UziqiuxL/s320/texas+caddy+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732951429903640738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">aping the Cadillacs </span><span style="font-family:arial;">– to advertise cowboy boots. Stunningly shameless and yet </span><span style="font-family:arial;">undeniably brilliant.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Just down the road from our campsite in Amarillo was <span style="font-style: italic;">The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Big Texan</span></span>, a restaurant famous</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH2I04hLaKqtliGiwpJbxY-LG_mOHm01fsk2RBYQXXVjROHX14KQqc6mF1M3W3psKMtFsJ9OnrWen-FOpzUMTx3TXUxhTDqUqq6_gjyxs9XZdsBuR-olWPDIslcZwSo0ETvGn0T0N4ggz9/s1600/texas+steak+2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 36px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH2I04hLaKqtliGiwpJbxY-LG_mOHm01fsk2RBYQXXVjROHX14KQqc6mF1M3W3psKMtFsJ9OnrWen-FOpzUMTx3TXUxhTDqUqq6_gjyxs9XZdsBuR-olWPDIslcZwSo0ETvGn0T0N4ggz9/s320/texas+steak+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732951175903132386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> for its enormous 72oz steak – which you get for free if you can finish it in an hour. I was toying with taking up this challenge until I read the long list of very strict rules that state you have to sit at a table for one, on a raised platform, in the middle of the dining room and, as well as the steak, you have to eat all the accompanying side dishes – a prawn cocktail, baked potato, buttered roll and a salad – and failure to finish means you lose the challenge and have to pay. And it's $72. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9Z2GylWgTTcowmUAm0c_ehqKyMufBnxJPoj1xOVipPDh9c4nwWvKUi19_4xyt5bogrxHM-7Ktg-ZVZZzyXWMpRp1z_V1lTbZaMZF0pQoQ5MFtrTWFNxrdcf4zHpLV8M5LfUndxrt6RHy/s1600/texas+steak+1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9Z2GylWgTTcowmUAm0c_ehqKyMufBnxJPoj1xOVipPDh9c4nwWvKUi19_4xyt5bogrxHM-7Ktg-ZVZZzyXWMpRp1z_V1lTbZaMZF0pQoQ5MFtrTWFNxrdcf4zHpLV8M5LfUndxrt6RHy/s320/texas+steak+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732950931838342466" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">That kind of put me off bit. Also, I don't know if this is in any way related, but there's a mortuary next door. Texas </span><span style="font-family:arial;">is definitely a state obsessed by the cow. When they're not eating great big chunks of them for sport or nailing bits of them to the front of their cars, Texans are farming them on a very large scale. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">As we left Texas we drove </span><span style="font-family:arial;">through a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">couple</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">of towns</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> called, suitably enough, Hereford and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Bovina</span> where there were just miles and </span><span style="font-family:arial;">miles of intensively </span><span style="font-family:arial;">farmed cattle. There were </span><span style="font-family:arial;">millions of them, crammed into pens as far as the eye </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUYRbmrFuhR48qc1j1WfnTVR-tMff4ISFLj51lI1KBDQgS2OWcTY0u5jf_4TiEiFM0Kw5ajtK3S1vF2vb-poO3M12_YJqFVDF1Y3L6wn34uZFQ7v8k3c6qZ6IVxrIL91OUOuoPHSjgcW42/s1600/texas+cows.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 36px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUYRbmrFuhR48qc1j1WfnTVR-tMff4ISFLj51lI1KBDQgS2OWcTY0u5jf_4TiEiFM0Kw5ajtK3S1vF2vb-poO3M12_YJqFVDF1Y3L6wn34uZFQ7v8k3c6qZ6IVxrIL91OUOuoPHSjgcW42/s320/texas+cows.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732950562996235970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">could see. It was like battery farming and not a little disturbing. As was the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">colossal odour that permeated through the van as we drove past. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjtztfex7YDhBPUsac1V7Him-q5vpU3hAr_99f0apZMc0hO4Gq51yxhSzIGKF1Rd2tFE9K_e0jyOWKHrXXInrZ6DBcWeGWHHW_d6bhxMbHlcRWJRsw4JRBTuptOqiDGLmM685sfZcIoLKl/s1600/New+mexico.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjtztfex7YDhBPUsac1V7Him-q5vpU3hAr_99f0apZMc0hO4Gq51yxhSzIGKF1Rd2tFE9K_e0jyOWKHrXXInrZ6DBcWeGWHHW_d6bhxMbHlcRWJRsw4JRBTuptOqiDGLmM685sfZcIoLKl/s320/New+mexico.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732950292600911682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">And so it was back to New Mexico and on to Roswell, scene of "The Roswell Incident", when a UFO famously crash-landed in 1947. Possibly. A local farmer was </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixziEK-RsVxui4ogwoxWM7UFcz6c9grlK2KVyoIDagElbi_jjVGkhPagukxS7rO-5Q1tvdlbyBaweCjDu1feSq4KVbA7GjTb4wBrppAnAOHZuvvHFCjuD8f0JGLZtD0U8OqmHf4c1rRHP2/s1600/roswell+1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 68px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixziEK-RsVxui4ogwoxWM7UFcz6c9grlK2KVyoIDagElbi_jjVGkhPagukxS7rO-5Q1tvdlbyBaweCjDu1feSq4KVbA7GjTb4wBrppAnAOHZuvvHFCjuD8f0JGLZtD0U8OqmHf4c1rRHP2/s320/roswell+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732949983541199842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">out, er, farming when he apparently found the wreckage of a spaceship embedded in his land. This wreckage also contained three dead aliens and one who was still alive and probably not that happy. The next day, however, the army had cordoned off the whole area, claimed it was nothing more sinister than a weather </span><span style="font-family:arial;">balloon, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">released some photos of a pile of <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Bacofoil</span></span> and told everyone they should just forget that whole alien nonsense. Well, of course, nobody forgot about it and today </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the town is awash with alien nonsense. You cannot go five yards </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxz74wEhEjvcIPWxR5kwihKYbn6ct6By3CAeFTnOkYARvomT-4H7Bz8nD1mWiLVHuK_JejqBOOzlTjlxMPk91PuWroeI09lw6kX7468K_2exY_h-SpM7-ntcrgznEBw_vfjJD1VN1vN3Sv/s1600/roswell+McDs.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 82px; height: 34px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxz74wEhEjvcIPWxR5kwihKYbn6ct6By3CAeFTnOkYARvomT-4H7Bz8nD1mWiLVHuK_JejqBOOzlTjlxMPk91PuWroeI09lw6kX7468K_2exY_h-SpM7-ntcrgznEBw_vfjJD1VN1vN3Sv/s320/roswell+McDs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732949387024369506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">without seeing a little cartoon </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtXRrUte0qku-Drg3bNUpsIsOQLKL0VqQW72Co_ap_-YX4wGCWdbNM0XflVgG3oAkmWOtLSRRyGd2IFQR9p4ouhF2yQ9fpEnRYFSYn3PPKPYlB4GrCZZ_Ags8SfsI0Wd-nEXDS_HSk1QH/s1600/roswell+3.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 66px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtXRrUte0qku-Drg3bNUpsIsOQLKL0VqQW72Co_ap_-YX4wGCWdbNM0XflVgG3oAkmWOtLSRRyGd2IFQR9p4ouhF2yQ9fpEnRYFSYn3PPKPYlB4GrCZZ_Ags8SfsI0Wd-nEXDS_HSk1QH/s320/roswell+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732949140656624834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">alien waving at you, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">welcoming you into a fast food </span><span style="font-family:arial;">restaurant or adorning everything from tattoo parlours to solicitors' offices. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">The street lamps have alien faces on them, the local <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">McDonalds</span></span> is built to look like a flying saucer and we even saw a post box painted to look like R2-D2. There's UFO <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">paraphernalia</span> everywhere and it can be quite distracting. So distracting in fact, that someone could easily be gawping at </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDEGMrP0Wk3rByb4wSaFtApAee2d1jggCZ79O0o2ImoOcbp_Egnjk1JRpdBSs4pwQnYVdqMHe0PtfbjfDVzo7XE07sAhTvFCNu7cMJWk9QBdkAGzj-IGxgMw50kMULInRRgUxvioV6omBn/s1600/roswell+2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 69px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDEGMrP0Wk3rByb4wSaFtApAee2d1jggCZ79O0o2ImoOcbp_Egnjk1JRpdBSs4pwQnYVdqMHe0PtfbjfDVzo7XE07sAhTvFCNu7cMJWk9QBdkAGzj-IGxgMw50kMULInRRgUxvioV6omBn/s320/roswell+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732948876519346738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">one of these little green men, lose concentration, and drive their rented RV a little too close to the low</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrvb7WnZioAnhixCCb6Ce84i1APN2102ao1CXhyNLst5kp0utWx97R4icJQzi3rQDsHHsm27ooDtFkyW1IV6Dm_Q4b-YxViwlCSJ2patPqlOYFx0TOpCiAHjcXcwjXYuASYHD2JEBOaZKF/s1600/roswell+skylight.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrvb7WnZioAnhixCCb6Ce84i1APN2102ao1CXhyNLst5kp0utWx97R4icJQzi3rQDsHHsm27ooDtFkyW1IV6Dm_Q4b-YxViwlCSJ2patPqlOYFx0TOpCiAHjcXcwjXYuASYHD2JEBOaZKF/s320/roswell+skylight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732948343437268994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> branches of a tree and rip one of its skylights to shreds. Hypothetically. I'm not sure I can claim extra-terrestrial interference on the insurance form though. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinVtuEY78rlZNJtYz2ql5cnKiyInpRK7MXdSGfpxnq_4nrDSG_qNByJqn8Fu62C2dPt0OoT71ROkzO0fDJBunoMGrCCsrfj8fyyjaZKxdBAcfrtxU5RMRSY3H53puQSILJVHE6a6SHRFXF/s1600/roswell+museum.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 52px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinVtuEY78rlZNJtYz2ql5cnKiyInpRK7MXdSGfpxnq_4nrDSG_qNByJqn8Fu62C2dPt0OoT71ROkzO0fDJBunoMGrCCsrfj8fyyjaZKxdBAcfrtxU5RMRSY3H53puQSILJVHE6a6SHRFXF/s320/roswell+museum.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732947833919251698" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">At the heart of Roswell and its alien infatuation is the <span style="font-style: italic;">UFO Museum And Research Center</span> housed in an old cinema. The "museum" part of the building sets out the events of that fateful day in July 1947, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">mostly using signed statements from eye-witnesses as they lay on their </span><span style="font-family:arial;">deathbed many years later. It's not entirely clear what the "research" section of the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">establishment does. By the looks of it though, it may have spent a lot of the 80s and 90s visiting possible witnesses as they neared death in the hope that they'd agree to testify that there definitely was a UFO crash. There is then a large section given over to a diorama of what the aliens may have looked like, lots of awful paintings of aliens and badly drawn spaceships, some tenuously-related photographs of crop circles and a few "realistic" props that have been donated from various TV shows and films. The place boasts</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR5m4IJujiva-m-OK3cU0twg4VONZaf2SWi3OZVJSzFXPW8gxj-Aimly8UH8E2Auh6z3DA81rVPDiceTwYMDlx3LMMz0BG_4mqsym_sB7HuI4p1M22Y9xqf6yhvvSNbk9wrkmo83PSflzS/s1600/roswell+museum+2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 53px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR5m4IJujiva-m-OK3cU0twg4VONZaf2SWi3OZVJSzFXPW8gxj-Aimly8UH8E2Auh6z3DA81rVPDiceTwYMDlx3LMMz0BG_4mqsym_sB7HuI4p1M22Y9xqf6yhvvSNbk9wrkmo83PSflzS/s320/roswell+museum+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732947485036443154" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> 150,000 visitors a year and, as it charges $5 per person, it should probably manage to look a little less tatty and amateur than it does. It was a fun way to spend an hour though – and helped take my mind off our own tree-based Roswell incident. </span><br /><br /><span style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >BURGER OF THE WEEK</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was hoping, what with being in Roswell and all, that I'd be able to bring you an Alien Burger or UFO Burger this week but, having scoured the town, it seems nobody in the burger business has any imagination. Would it have been so hard to put little oval eyes on a green olive or possibly used a fried egg as a flying saucer? I feel unbelievably let down. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKlUxZQ49VgDE7NKBxeT0vbDhcClt8yrM9mzA8f3fH8jDkvUckTpuFcT7QG5IbE_JsVyZMv9xh5B3udnT6_KZC2vNL-8JgdvYe9PwKvbo4qGtywgPquSzR26VjRhn7zclxlSy2P8If0omR/s1600/10+teriyaki+melburger+1.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKlUxZQ49VgDE7NKBxeT0vbDhcClt8yrM9mzA8f3fH8jDkvUckTpuFcT7QG5IbE_JsVyZMv9xh5B3udnT6_KZC2vNL-8JgdvYe9PwKvbo4qGtywgPquSzR26VjRhn7zclxlSy2P8If0omR/s320/10+teriyaki+melburger+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732946774494411506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">So, instead, I bring you my favourite choice from a </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zEY__SI5GGGhTzRjTayX1BUM_SFb-aFBTVTUuMCZytVdqyFt-oHsnOyhUyp7day96_xfx0veRULJ9fVcMFbqeoc_XsiyVv2IK264sRDR5oxnoG6xSTyVOODIOKAaObtjzbsCky5slcRc/s1600/10+teriyaki+melburger+2.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 60px; height: 81px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zEY__SI5GGGhTzRjTayX1BUM_SFb-aFBTVTUuMCZytVdqyFt-oHsnOyhUyp7day96_xfx0veRULJ9fVcMFbqeoc_XsiyVv2IK264sRDR5oxnoG6xSTyVOODIOKAaObtjzbsCky5slcRc/s320/10+teriyaki+melburger+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732946070863195794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">traditional 1950s-style diner called <span style="font-style: italic;">Mel's</span> – the <span style="font-style: italic;">Teriyaki Mushroom Melburger</span>. A 1/3 pound pure beef burger sprinkled with Mel's special seasoning and topped with fresh sautéed mushrooms over a teriyaki glazed pineapple ring. It was deliciously juicy and wonderfully messy. And it came with curly fries!</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-7245679498982548702012-04-13T18:56:00.028-07:002012-04-13T19:52:59.163-07:00Good sports<span style="font-family:arial;">Denver, Colorado, like Chicago, Illinois, or Memphis, Tennessee, is one of those American cities where you can't say its name without automatically saying the state name too. It does add a lot of commas to your sentences though. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EDCR7b-INn2i0b2qvXsStlF64AkGDgnRZTmDtvLMU4a-wkCDeukFzqETbe34svBOMGzJ8hTcpVnc_RmISy0_GtRQ4WUYFaGfGWtBILF5Fbg-5qfich1d4WPQvgKLLVzvAU_kZUXRYyVV/s1600/avalanche+helmet.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 62px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EDCR7b-INn2i0b2qvXsStlF64AkGDgnRZTmDtvLMU4a-wkCDeukFzqETbe34svBOMGzJ8hTcpVnc_RmISy0_GtRQ4WUYFaGfGWtBILF5Fbg-5qfich1d4WPQvgKLLVzvAU_kZUXRYyVV/s320/avalanche+helmet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731082854075847538" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Anyway, we were in Denver, Colorado, to meet up with some friends who were over here on holiday and we'd all managed</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-jEahWlfnEZW8SpO5JqNAaEXGID4p4MgeUoGMYEJUecCWz2JSj52O6ILEqKkXgHfUFU_sC8wXOIOBG-SR4cUBTb6MjFdHSKqIyY_856aCbjo94r842-H9bZKzPybAMPsVnCwUKSxBMqp/s1600/avalanche+game.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 47px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-jEahWlfnEZW8SpO5JqNAaEXGID4p4MgeUoGMYEJUecCWz2JSj52O6ILEqKkXgHfUFU_sC8wXOIOBG-SR4cUBTb6MjFdHSKqIyY_856aCbjo94r842-H9bZKzPybAMPsVnCwUKSxBMqp/s320/avalanche+game.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731082534353531378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> to get tickets to see local ice hockey team </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Colorado Avalanche in their last game of the season. Our friends had secured </span><span style="font-family:arial;">seats quite</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> near the rink while Claire and I were somewhere </span><span style="font-family:arial;">up in the stadium's attic with the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">cheapest</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">tickets available. After the first period, however, we got a text from our friends saying </span><span style="font-family:arial;">there were </span><span style="font-family:arial;">a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">few </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4jhpOeMw-fqu4xoATiGPfCWA5naRknIZcxdej-gqPzfmg4hiDThlEA_nen-TRWA1HaaYGjkwf3sXGz7Oi89p5vaVAsiRZEdy43Ib1HE6C9JD1ST9AqTbEwnI00deU0hGYYBam5-RzlYDM/s1600/avalanche+puck.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4jhpOeMw-fqu4xoATiGPfCWA5naRknIZcxdej-gqPzfmg4hiDThlEA_nen-TRWA1HaaYGjkwf3sXGz7Oi89p5vaVAsiRZEdy43Ib1HE6C9JD1ST9AqTbEwnI00deU0hGYYBam5-RzlYDM/s320/avalanche+puck.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731081971639004706" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">spare seats down near the front so we snuck into their section and </span><span style="font-family:arial;">spent the</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">remainder </span><span style="font-family:arial;">of the game </span><span style="font-family:arial;">much closer to the action. And</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> 'action' is probably the most </span><span style="font-family:arial;">appropriate word </span><span style="font-family:arial;">because it is one of the most frenetic sports </span><span style="font-family:arial;">I've ever</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHZUZs5FHuPK7eIRE7UQOeIdiwuZLL-z_vxwez1oIV1cwbYQHp2U2WPP8dt8tvdusmcyeDgdak3eA2p1MrLsufkQneB56cTd3sZKEdwCFXyI9I6a1lu3NuGvDOouH1dv6V2ar1qGPosVg/s1600/avalanche1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 55px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHZUZs5FHuPK7eIRE7UQOeIdiwuZLL-z_vxwez1oIV1cwbYQHp2U2WPP8dt8tvdusmcyeDgdak3eA2p1MrLsufkQneB56cTd3sZKEdwCFXyI9I6a1lu3NuGvDOouH1dv6V2ar1qGPosVg/s320/avalanche1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731081241220337378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> watched.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> In fact it's so</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">fast </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and furious that the players can only manage about 60 </span><span style="font-family:arial;">seconds on the ice at a time </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and there is a continuous string of substitutions in and out of the team box. There's only</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> ever six players from each team in </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VaHV7788RxwXVu4eyVuNvrImByUWBZ-dpDpPxBwR2OydReUARwEchotn42xUudnfmUniU3_cWPaW5NU6iBYdTq-i0uIhMPWvxI4ZbrwE3sT_fQTpxwBqwySnbNcjbq4kYZbD287syqMj/s1600/avalanche+goal2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VaHV7788RxwXVu4eyVuNvrImByUWBZ-dpDpPxBwR2OydReUARwEchotn42xUudnfmUniU3_cWPaW5NU6iBYdTq-i0uIhMPWvxI4ZbrwE3sT_fQTpxwBqwySnbNcjbq4kYZbD287syqMj/s320/avalanche+goal2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731080826097215282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">the game at any one </span><span style="font-family:arial;">moment but there are about 20 of them in constant rotation, so it's hard to keep </span><span style="font-family:arial;">track of who's on the ice at any one time. In fact it's </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNiuRvCt3qFUt8yZOWbYjWyXyf3gJIa3fUCoMhcFnnrQsHmuMZ_hBFUhksni0z2Hs2my05evnJL-o4PnNwmQ954Kmf_bV4FwXS7syoI0We1N52LxJ8q-yXUXVFguDmmbc4ny-28joCiprD/s1600/avalanche+fight2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNiuRvCt3qFUt8yZOWbYjWyXyf3gJIa3fUCoMhcFnnrQsHmuMZ_hBFUhksni0z2Hs2my05evnJL-o4PnNwmQ954Kmf_bV4FwXS7syoI0We1N52LxJ8q-yXUXVFguDmmbc4ny-28joCiprD/s320/avalanche+fight2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731080650295247714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">hard to keep track of most of the game, especially the puck which is quite </span><span style="font-family:arial;">small</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> and moving at such a speed that it's difficult to know where the thing is until a klaxon sounds to let you know it's come to rest in one of the goal nets. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes the location of the puck is irrelevant anyway as, every now and then, the </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZT_KQTcr_MzaHVHwCfBSyXrjrxUvaOmHn0btUCj0NK2WnB-1N_Kf5Bym9PV3oPdYb0l4DRFRmTeMZfPHxq-0j4uiq6O2KmRDa07A05k5EWZzpnlvCmnI5AMBtjkNW8wQWA2ZU6iqlRwv/s1600/avalanche+fight1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZT_KQTcr_MzaHVHwCfBSyXrjrxUvaOmHn0btUCj0NK2WnB-1N_Kf5Bym9PV3oPdYb0l4DRFRmTeMZfPHxq-0j4uiq6O2KmRDa07A05k5EWZzpnlvCmnI5AMBtjkNW8wQWA2ZU6iqlRwv/s320/avalanche+fight1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731080370726637186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">teams will take a break from the game to have a mass brawl.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As we'd seen </span><span style="font-family:arial;">at the basketball in San Francisco, there is a lot of fan participation during the</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">game with free </span><span style="font-family:arial;">T-shirts being flung into the crowd between periods or signed team equipment</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">being</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> given away or even little radio-controlled</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDIFxpiBnbscRCtvXT4dwEby7ie1AY0ICUbBNUVf6-0kHJMyjx6-5Ng6FYn4z64vYP-yc96XWHDosgSUAjXAosXY4H6GmJsELRPajde7r6bk_QeMefbDHC6EeE2_zhbbegVXO2UlaP6Fpf/s1600/avalanche+blimps.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 85px; height: 45px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDIFxpiBnbscRCtvXT4dwEby7ie1AY0ICUbBNUVf6-0kHJMyjx6-5Ng6FYn4z64vYP-yc96XWHDosgSUAjXAosXY4H6GmJsELRPajde7r6bk_QeMefbDHC6EeE2_zhbbegVXO2UlaP6Fpf/s320/avalanche+blimps.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731079779971022498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> inflatables floating </span><span style="font-family:arial;">around the crowd dropping </span><span style="font-family:arial;">vouchers for food and souvenirs. Given the slippery playing </span><span style="font-family:arial;">surface there are obviously no cheerleaders</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlvnRxjrk7l9Q_BN9qPCSgQSU2aMyxhvF46gFnHQocv3TeGAbohUDDR4qw0yc9_GBIdNvC5gBmq9gJWytebNPuq_AxdW6tlvSRQIfSUgIbUX_Elr7Ijbu7kxbTU9tJ39naQH19ukUrX9N/s1600/avalanche+dance.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 90px; height: 43px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlvnRxjrk7l9Q_BN9qPCSgQSU2aMyxhvF46gFnHQocv3TeGAbohUDDR4qw0yc9_GBIdNvC5gBmq9gJWytebNPuq_AxdW6tlvSRQIfSUgIbUX_Elr7Ijbu7kxbTU9tJ39naQH19ukUrX9N/s320/avalanche+dance.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731079376175319442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> (I actually think seeing scantily-clad girls trying to stay upright on ice might be fun) but there are </span><span style="font-family:arial;">some lads that come out to clean the ice in between each play and at one point they took </span><span style="font-family:arial;">it upon themselves to down tools and do a little dance routine! Not quite as sexy </span><span style="font-family:arial;">as girls in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">hotpants</span> but entertaining all the same. At the end of the game</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVuH-f8yp9gpjry-4YVkemWvgTpDSYEB00P19BGZ_1QKu5CLrMynl0fa-t8wmsyi4N9rCTS5OMTuy6FFwiC_bTXaVM80RCJOeQAOH18FoH8a4eBbIiFwZHrQhC2azwhkSxCarN-mLhE2Ey/s1600/avalanche+shirts.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVuH-f8yp9gpjry-4YVkemWvgTpDSYEB00P19BGZ_1QKu5CLrMynl0fa-t8wmsyi4N9rCTS5OMTuy6FFwiC_bTXaVM80RCJOeQAOH18FoH8a4eBbIiFwZHrQhC2azwhkSxCarN-mLhE2Ey/s320/avalanche+shirts.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731079052983468930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> there was a</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> thing called "The Shirts Off Our Backs" where 20</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> 'lucky' fans went down onto the ice and each received the smelly </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYKJyJZXDwcQ0bx5eXrko_rmaZN8yBiE3eWlTslxowyEE7kEX1omYQKM2vHLXmB-z8agjO_RIqO3MC4B4-lEXO0d2fK8blRG-GC4BKWOxc-1h6WpmCQ-mErPYHCB0xitsNkgmbwfD3YoNb/s1600/avalanche+me.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 55px; height: 58px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYKJyJZXDwcQ0bx5eXrko_rmaZN8yBiE3eWlTslxowyEE7kEX1omYQKM2vHLXmB-z8agjO_RIqO3MC4B4-lEXO0d2fK8blRG-GC4BKWOxc-1h6WpmCQ-mErPYHCB0xitsNkgmbwfD3YoNb/s320/avalanche+me.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731078728759014050" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">wet shirt directly from the player who had just spent the last couple of hours sweating in it. Nice. The game ended with the Avalanche being thrashed </span><span style="font-family:arial;">6-1 by the Nashville Predators. As happened with the basketball, we don't seem to bring the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">home team any luck when we watch them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We went back into Denver, Colorado, again a day or so later just to have a look around</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSnE3EIbPIoVi_Q_4T-SQqiCupjWCftn1uIXMqlXPA8qp5orTcHWo-XYUiLZIFacIWK_PayQqp12ho1aAjRiWQKPFnAOuk4QVLuJtyHSfIxAJrMVNXzZ8LS2ZWZVtV9RCyenf3h-EtguXh/s1600/rockies+fans.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSnE3EIbPIoVi_Q_4T-SQqiCupjWCftn1uIXMqlXPA8qp5orTcHWo-XYUiLZIFacIWK_PayQqp12ho1aAjRiWQKPFnAOuk4QVLuJtyHSfIxAJrMVNXzZ8LS2ZWZVtV9RCyenf3h-EtguXh/s320/rockies+fans.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731078406104247602" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">the city. That was</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> the plan anyway. We stepped off the bus and immediately got caught up in a heaving </span><span style="font-family:arial;">mass of thousands of people all wearing purple. Even though it was a Monday, everyone seemed to be drinking and were in high spirits so we sort of let ourselves get swept along with them all and ended up outside Coors Field, home of the Colorado Rockies. It turned </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5aFeqd7Wh_1zjwBgNNP3ViR0iQ_rjzhREJzktBHP7P7TZLb75CYgN8U-VxvE96j9SugphMs4Y69MHlIsHFz8dbwen64o0JzousebLJx3OpnaG4ks0gj52ii7o817NNihEqmRXPV7FdL3/s1600/rockies+field.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5aFeqd7Wh_1zjwBgNNP3ViR0iQ_rjzhREJzktBHP7P7TZLb75CYgN8U-VxvE96j9SugphMs4Y69MHlIsHFz8dbwen64o0JzousebLJx3OpnaG4ks0gj52ii7o817NNihEqmRXPV7FdL3/s320/rockies+field.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731078118591303874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">out it was the first game of the baseball season. It was all very exciting and, naturally, we wanted to join in and were just wondering whether or not we could afford to spend money on seeing yet another sporting event when a miraculous thing happened – I suddenly got a tap on the shoulder and a woman shouted "Happy Christmas!" as she thrust two tickets into my hand. We couldn't believe our </span><span style="font-family:arial;">luck and immediately hugged her. She, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Andrea, and her husband, </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBlxUgkU6hEuIw8Cu7jhD-WlUkBPUx3s8TyXMTFvtNwD8vbWn5vcXNS9IUale2PKF2yy_Y_gOCwJIUVZiXFk79LoRVTMkTqqg23fx8W2_LddFpcYc0Nf9fU7BDIK2Zwp3Lhn4beVIL1vMj/s1600/rockies+tix.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 58px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBlxUgkU6hEuIw8Cu7jhD-WlUkBPUx3s8TyXMTFvtNwD8vbWn5vcXNS9IUale2PKF2yy_Y_gOCwJIUVZiXFk79LoRVTMkTqqg23fx8W2_LddFpcYc0Nf9fU7BDIK2Zwp3Lhn4beVIL1vMj/s320/rockies+tix.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731077827285596418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Monte, were</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> supposed to be at the game with two friends but </span><span style="font-family:arial;">those friends </span><span style="font-family:arial;">couldn't make it so they had decided to give their tickets away to two people who looked like they </span><span style="font-family:arial;">might be grateful. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">We were VERY grateful. They were a lovely couple and, once we'd furnished </span><span style="font-family:arial;">them with drinks, we joined them in the stand to watch the game. The other great advantage to meeting Andrea and Monte was that we now had someone who could explain </span><span style="font-family:arial;">exactly </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguvR4z6XN9DAHMdQQHuz3CkxozyduR68-CVdxfzrvn0rgB_pr-vfzQ-uoMnlN3IiiqzZt0YKVXOL3ZNfi9KV1zk820NZqAfq8LgDoyJzYskX_63mZAxPOaFpn-IucEj_PSFi24FWdyYEL1/s1600/rockies+anthem.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguvR4z6XN9DAHMdQQHuz3CkxozyduR68-CVdxfzrvn0rgB_pr-vfzQ-uoMnlN3IiiqzZt0YKVXOL3ZNfi9KV1zk820NZqAfq8LgDoyJzYskX_63mZAxPOaFpn-IucEj_PSFi24FWdyYEL1/s320/rockies+anthem.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731077385472979026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">what was going on – and for the next couple of hours they had to endure a lot of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">questions from two baffled Brits trying to fathom the mechanics of what looked like it should be a simple game. But there were so </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3IZWdLw6P_D0JmcHbqAS_RZEBNLS47SAJFJbFNUQdPUpTqaD-V7GQwMRLMJKfMLf4qywsYVacxE1UzaIcbvGFNgzaI85FFtb74uIyZEYJLW8TAC2CNqhc44FOgvDiKPlArC93S1HqaFBZ/s1600/rockies2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3IZWdLw6P_D0JmcHbqAS_RZEBNLS47SAJFJbFNUQdPUpTqaD-V7GQwMRLMJKfMLf4qywsYVacxE1UzaIcbvGFNgzaI85FFtb74uIyZEYJLW8TAC2CNqhc44FOgvDiKPlArC93S1HqaFBZ/s320/rockies2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731077054875876978" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">many things that confused us – like how is it possible that someone with a massive leather glove on, who is paid $15million just to catch balls, is not able to catch a ball?</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3hYAlYU3BQ9KuIzb8vg13zkd9mphzi90ooEt0r9OGQGkJ1UjSW-3XcIk3lP2F66nzpGbg-3zzk7aufou7aPe7hBN-z0-bTrBMlwYaS9-c4hz4hCnSS1HL1tPmr-8ghYL8QyBwclhCZ81/s1600/rockies1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3hYAlYU3BQ9KuIzb8vg13zkd9mphzi90ooEt0r9OGQGkJ1UjSW-3XcIk3lP2F66nzpGbg-3zzk7aufou7aPe7hBN-z0-bTrBMlwYaS9-c4hz4hCnSS1HL1tPmr-8ghYL8QyBwclhCZ81/s320/rockies1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731076679969657394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">There is a lot of money in American sport but it still astounded me that they only use a baseball for a couple of throws. As soon as it's hit or touches the dirt they discard it, sometimes into the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">crowd for a lucky fan to catch or sometimes into the bin. As well as the balls that are tossed into the crowd there is a surprisingly high number of stray balls that are hit into the crowd during </span><span style="font-family:arial;">play. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes these will arc up into the stand where someone will catch it and keep it, sometimes a small scuffle will break out between </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEganAycbQ4SLfmxFlfSEIG5SsX_wTPSggEdk1XyJvR_TI2x64TYVcgUiGQRC5XDSY7fMNrFnkJjUUCAa9e_RlbbC9oR3hFvJGtlNQEpFVw4e_X0sKzya7wGupm2zeDZZWd_iQ34_6xRurIS/s1600/rockies+knockout.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 54px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEganAycbQ4SLfmxFlfSEIG5SsX_wTPSggEdk1XyJvR_TI2x64TYVcgUiGQRC5XDSY7fMNrFnkJjUUCAa9e_RlbbC9oR3hFvJGtlNQEpFVw4e_X0sKzya7wGupm2zeDZZWd_iQ34_6xRurIS/s320/rockies+knockout.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731076316136062722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">over-zealous fans vying to claim ownership and very occasionally a ball will get smashed into the crowd at great speed and completely ruin </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">someone's</span> day – we saw one guy get stretchered off on a golf buggy because he'd been knocked out. They also seem to go through a lot of bats which seem to split or </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPbghesta-ZQTQyyO8HjnzUQ11uBcvWFHGnHnXC1ii6jYy7utwSISKa1mTOV7dkGVMAhdDOBHa7PnFtGzqXJ9r8ZJ-KXarjp3pG5afu0-VBBURi5Obg5v0bGz9NqQnxJNaAW3ELNiS6ePH/s1600/rockies+warning.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPbghesta-ZQTQyyO8HjnzUQ11uBcvWFHGnHnXC1ii6jYy7utwSISKa1mTOV7dkGVMAhdDOBHa7PnFtGzqXJ9r8ZJ-KXarjp3pG5afu0-VBBURi5Obg5v0bGz9NqQnxJNaAW3ELNiS6ePH/s320/rockies+warning.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731075974213672306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">shatter far too readily as they come into contact with a ball travelling at 80mph. In between innings there were, of course, lots of fan interaction which included T-shirts being catapulted into</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> the crowd by a purple dinosaur, </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDLsjdpTAj_cAcl-J98DJHZHQaHvUaRhyEiYGmFPiX-AUKhtObTtUqBuAP-0v32rbCVU7ZBHah757J85FeEZ3jChmH5zxrjrBfBdTtIRC7PGKMb71GJjbqAEH26IxNCWFRk1Pdn7e3vHmN/s1600/rockies+dino.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDLsjdpTAj_cAcl-J98DJHZHQaHvUaRhyEiYGmFPiX-AUKhtObTtUqBuAP-0v32rbCVU7ZBHah757J85FeEZ3jChmH5zxrjrBfBdTtIRC7PGKMb71GJjbqAEH26IxNCWFRk1Pdn7e3vHmN/s320/rockies+dino.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731075385793786866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">one guy winning $450 for playing bagatelle on the "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Jumbotron</span>" big screen and a confusing race between three people dressed as a tooth, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. The toothbrush won. Sadly the Rockies didn't, losing 7-0 to the San Francisco Giants. That's a hat-trick of losses for home teams we've </span><span style="font-family:arial;">supported!</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyIMsAjnG6bEhckjwLG9AFRAS2VFFRd1liQeUZFRd3t0ZLsYuayhtyXVEO77MfmBaF2g6y-LHw1Uzm3xJqG7__bBHdYklxLBtu4xdqGvsIDIa6z63CcNFDEb4LNDChTNynZ11zCXoGXjr7/s1600/vail1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 61px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyIMsAjnG6bEhckjwLG9AFRAS2VFFRd1liQeUZFRd3t0ZLsYuayhtyXVEO77MfmBaF2g6y-LHw1Uzm3xJqG7__bBHdYklxLBtu4xdqGvsIDIa6z63CcNFDEb4LNDChTNynZ11zCXoGXjr7/s320/vail1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731074484561923474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">We left Denver, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Colorado, and drove to Vail so that Claire could show me where she used to live for a while, back in her ski-racing days. Vail struck me as a town that's desperate to be </span><span style="font-family:arial;">European. It has classic Alpine hotels called things like the <span style="font-style: italic;">Swiss Chalet</span>,<span style="font-style: italic;"> Austria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Haus</span></span>, <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Gasthof</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Gramshammer</span></span> or <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Sonnenalp</span></span>. It has a lot of Italian restaurants</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhS6zqTb0U8y5xCfpt7yCb7m05_HcsvuV9wORPJiOLBXeVs-umxhM0VrvfvpV29VHg2vfVC2Y9-pqNooWnOajiZlvI1VCwVhvDCjBbtIx51V0W1DH6F8SvPzWvNIPWaBG9M3emYEnYqANw/s1600/vail2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 60px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhS6zqTb0U8y5xCfpt7yCb7m05_HcsvuV9wORPJiOLBXeVs-umxhM0VrvfvpV29VHg2vfVC2Y9-pqNooWnOajiZlvI1VCwVhvDCjBbtIx51V0W1DH6F8SvPzWvNIPWaBG9M3emYEnYqANw/s320/vail2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731074047241131346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> and French <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">cafés</span> and, if it wasn't for all the American flags flying everywhere, you'd be forgiven for thinking you were in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Chamonix</span>. Just down the road was an equally confused restaurant in the small town of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Minturn</span>, It's called the </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Minturn</span> Country Club</span>, has a golfing logo and a golfing theme – but no golf course. What it does have, however, is a butcher shop in one corner and an open </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYjRJqM1Hc4gVA_fIZ69L4jjezTfWne4eAvJc1jmWVusifvkdTmF8TNlFTB1x7ohOTxTUMCJO8uYK5ttmGoy2DjoHWhyphenhyphenhwVOjh8WSN1EesVX1KxtHiTVdRHZ1KDnR3ZLFrwYZuLOZnpzyw/s1600/minturn+cc.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 61px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYjRJqM1Hc4gVA_fIZ69L4jjezTfWne4eAvJc1jmWVusifvkdTmF8TNlFTB1x7ohOTxTUMCJO8uYK5ttmGoy2DjoHWhyphenhyphenhwVOjh8WSN1EesVX1KxtHiTVdRHZ1KDnR3ZLFrwYZuLOZnpzyw/s320/minturn+cc.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731073698675561874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">grill in another, so that you can choose a nice bit of steak from one then season and cook it yourself at the other, just how you like it. Or over-cook it if you get chatting to someone and forget what you're doing. It's great fun and a brilliant way for a restaurant to not have to pay a chef. They also have a resident barman-cum-magician</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXFprX-9rJ5CWtGf5TC-RrNMU7mgZLKc0fX4xPoGwrAaMoJj6iEERoz9aQMqX4DwFFh3kdeyptG0fu-Vf8MeIdClq9GMmZhza8-iYuNvBjMpR91WQ3zdvMFxOrV3sOBokK1muSvFTNOZhL/s1600/minturn+card+trick.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXFprX-9rJ5CWtGf5TC-RrNMU7mgZLKc0fX4xPoGwrAaMoJj6iEERoz9aQMqX4DwFFh3kdeyptG0fu-Vf8MeIdClq9GMmZhza8-iYuNvBjMpR91WQ3zdvMFxOrV3sOBokK1muSvFTNOZhL/s320/minturn+card+trick.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731073378468287298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> who can bamboozle </span><span style="font-family:arial;">you with card tricks while you're stuffing your face. I should point out that, being on a tight budget, it was a real treat to eat out, we don't get to do it often and are usually sat in the van with a bowl of soup. That said, here's this week's…</span><br /><br /><span style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >BURGER OF THE WEEK</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrkKo154URTe28JCbk1BYSSmulFp2PsqsmuqExi9xfobedHoQ6TALhJs3N1sEzRIM8u6WD-zaWA9B8eAJBm8hrEqkTX6JvFNuFrKQoa6_HA4wzuftAsMEWwGnEVOATF5AJjhQan6ZOzpp7/s1600/13+freshcraft+denver+1.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrkKo154URTe28JCbk1BYSSmulFp2PsqsmuqExi9xfobedHoQ6TALhJs3N1sEzRIM8u6WD-zaWA9B8eAJBm8hrEqkTX6JvFNuFrKQoa6_HA4wzuftAsMEWwGnEVOATF5AJjhQan6ZOzpp7/s320/13+freshcraft+denver+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731072462259375458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">After last week's spicy behemoth, I went for something a bit more delicate this week. It was was from a place called <span style="font-style: italic;">Freshcraft</span> in Denver, Colorado, and consisted a nice juicy 1/2 pound beef burger on a bed of avocado, spinach and rocket, topped with provolone cheese and tomato jam. Sophisticated and delicious – just like me!</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-16027116094999479262012-04-10T09:22:00.023-07:002012-04-10T10:56:03.670-07:00Jurrasic lark<span style="font-family:arial;">After being disappointed by the distinct lack of dinosaurs at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Hagerman</span> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZp2fiAZ5-0Y8irTkrTTYZhowR0qid20t6CAFfYmNoHkpV1qajs2LAShSzlchyK6MpsnNPiZmy85yQmp3TB9Sn3qDopxIbzdoav7EcMnJy_099dNpFCEXZMuphI84EKUQaxV0vHqDXf0Vp/s1600/dino+wall+1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZp2fiAZ5-0Y8irTkrTTYZhowR0qid20t6CAFfYmNoHkpV1qajs2LAShSzlchyK6MpsnNPiZmy85yQmp3TB9Sn3qDopxIbzdoav7EcMnJy_099dNpFCEXZMuphI84EKUQaxV0vHqDXf0Vp/s320/dino+wall+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729832097933206450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Fossil Beds last week, we headed this week to a place on the Utah/Colorado border that surely had to have some – it is, after all, called Dinosaur National Monument. I needn't have worried. This area is so rich with dinosaur fossils </span><span style="font-family:arial;">that, as well as digging up enough to keep several big museums happy, they have </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifcmxUxcNOIIQtCoG5emoVOwtlwJToG_Q_3Ue47JebobNO7wrVobBrYF0gtVjz8j-d_ElmBf-Nh6JGCVqctLbdjMKYYQeG0nnGaSt4E95HDAwGjg8Balux7SKBwA4capHOixdfpS00_CTL/s1600/dino+wall+3.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifcmxUxcNOIIQtCoG5emoVOwtlwJToG_Q_3Ue47JebobNO7wrVobBrYF0gtVjz8j-d_ElmBf-Nh6JGCVqctLbdjMKYYQeG0nnGaSt4E95HDAwGjg8Balux7SKBwA4capHOixdfpS00_CTL/s320/dino+wall+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729831925625860018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">also been </span><span style="font-family:arial;">able to do the most amazing thing – they have left a whole cliff face of exposed </span><span style="font-family:arial;">bones, just as they were found, and put a building around it for your viewing pleasure. There </span><span style="font-family:arial;">are hundreds </span><span style="font-family:arial;">of fossilised bits of several different species of dinosaur jutting out of the rock and you can even go </span><span style="font-family:arial;">up to the </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMmpCnwHnqJlh7F1Z6FVDrfda_HR7UgrGSrWmKsLUki6i7ExB5DhEFxmwrBSQp1WJJkAK74UhB_pJv714SBEF05kUUDJnXySbQZskQ5Ej1zn1kALQKLQlQxRh2ulsia1VlS6vXhClEbVPq/s1600/dino+wall+2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 90px; height: 62px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMmpCnwHnqJlh7F1Z6FVDrfda_HR7UgrGSrWmKsLUki6i7ExB5DhEFxmwrBSQp1WJJkAK74UhB_pJv714SBEF05kUUDJnXySbQZskQ5Ej1zn1kALQKLQlQxRh2ulsia1VlS6vXhClEbVPq/s320/dino+wall+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729831689197792290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">wall and touch them. It's a brilliant idea and was all</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> the far-sighted </span><span style="font-family:arial;">brainchild of the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">chap who originally found them, way back </span><span style="font-family:arial;">at the beginning</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> of the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">1900s. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Top </span><span style="font-family:arial;">bloke. Although, according to our guide, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">there were so many </span><span style="font-family:arial;">fossils here that he apparently got </span><span style="font-family:arial;">bored of finding </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Stegosaurus back plates and used </span><span style="font-family:arial;">to just toss them aside to look for other dinosaurs! As you'd expect, the two nearest towns to the Dinosaur National Monument are full of dinosaur-based imagery, shops and street names. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsa8V_vgtlD8SARVKHiUGG_bK9htPNlzNS7nXISELA4bd1qHO11-pmBFygihyphenhyphen-VKQ2ZcUD1Zsy4ZVplPSfun96JFiDGEX8oU6Ug02lqz2ziUd_6OqeHdNpvkootOCbdlq2FzfgRZLdDmuf/s1600/dino+signs+2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 45px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsa8V_vgtlD8SARVKHiUGG_bK9htPNlzNS7nXISELA4bd1qHO11-pmBFygihyphenhyphen-VKQ2ZcUD1Zsy4ZVplPSfun96JFiDGEX8oU6Ug02lqz2ziUd_6OqeHdNpvkootOCbdlq2FzfgRZLdDmuf/s320/dino+signs+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729831276905319730" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjSr5dD5gG3c_AJephpEMR-sUNY9xLUjdMvsrVun-uf4TGcHD57E1_25O8bwHH3w6VVq80MB582kty3zRvAZaNPtw9l1SsCVtFRC3C-H9PHQ_qBC3kqbm_XWTeeVCiQGJckCNMyBHlDaK6/s1600/dino+signs.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 57px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjSr5dD5gG3c_AJephpEMR-sUNY9xLUjdMvsrVun-uf4TGcHD57E1_25O8bwHH3w6VVq80MB582kty3zRvAZaNPtw9l1SsCVtFRC3C-H9PHQ_qBC3kqbm_XWTeeVCiQGJckCNMyBHlDaK6/s320/dino+signs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729831495768044578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">One of the towns is simply called Dinosaur. You can't blame them for cashing in I suppose but it can be a little unnerving turning a corner and being confronted by a giant pink <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Diplodocus</span>. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Just down t</span><span style="font-family:arial;">he road at Red Fleet State Park we were told there were some dinosaur tracks </span><span style="font-family:arial;">preserved in the rock. It was quite a walk over tricky terrain to get to them but we decided to </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEn0sic1enkQj9SySLkI_PE6UUxHY-03o1joSaXVgDqCG0JSf3UmYxYCWas9Wig3X2hF-lpsZlvTF0pSKErWGaQFsjDqKhiLf0SJQRaoEOhil9mecjGh6xaR04AmCMKG2M-yhpMZjMkPk1/s1600/dino+track+1.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEn0sic1enkQj9SySLkI_PE6UUxHY-03o1joSaXVgDqCG0JSf3UmYxYCWas9Wig3X2hF-lpsZlvTF0pSKErWGaQFsjDqKhiLf0SJQRaoEOhil9mecjGh6xaR04AmCMKG2M-yhpMZjMkPk1/s320/dino+track+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729831012423976946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">make the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">effort. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">The trail to the tracks is marked by black dinosaur footprints painted onto rocks and at first it </span><span style="font-family:arial;">seemed like a novel idea but it does kind of build up your expectations of what </span><span style="font-family:arial;">you're going</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> to see. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">The reality is very different. There was one mark in the rocks that I could </span><span style="font-family:arial;">say, hand </span><span style="font-family:arial;">on </span><span style="font-family:arial;">heart, did actually look a bit like it could have been a dinosaur track. As for the </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhot_EB7hcepDZp-FRzfR27zV3tTS1lAIaRlVv6PEU4S79zfJhfWtB9I0WMNYGhrRnjzsTsqcPHqIQ0ODLGu9tPYlklbWY-KaSKkCu4v7Dt8FGm-JkQ1NCmW_P1g_XdVnycU8r2giqijgan/s1600/dino+track+2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhot_EB7hcepDZp-FRzfR27zV3tTS1lAIaRlVv6PEU4S79zfJhfWtB9I0WMNYGhrRnjzsTsqcPHqIQ0ODLGu9tPYlklbWY-KaSKkCu4v7Dt8FGm-JkQ1NCmW_P1g_XdVnycU8r2giqijgan/s320/dino+track+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729830780521060770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">other dimples, cracks and holes that the signs were telling us were footprints… well, quite frankly they could have been anything. Whoever found these "dinosaur tracks" must </span><span style="font-family:arial;">have had a pretty vivid imagination – or maybe been experimenting with some sort of hallucinogenic mushrooms – because what he said he could see and what I was looking at were far from the same. We trudged back to the van leaving our own footprints for future generations to ponder over.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-SquZ25k1gxoOEMst8bLXhKFNbx30TPzlGwRPpyBmGKU7mTP4Vyvk_7XNrUrU6GhDEUCuk1rNN3Su-Vg6WdP-Of-PYA_p0oUeCo348v4LWXUMi7Bj6DnIfIIsz37RVH5FVlKxWHptm3m9/s1600/arches1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-SquZ25k1gxoOEMst8bLXhKFNbx30TPzlGwRPpyBmGKU7mTP4Vyvk_7XNrUrU6GhDEUCuk1rNN3Su-Vg6WdP-Of-PYA_p0oUeCo348v4LWXUMi7Bj6DnIfIIsz37RVH5FVlKxWHptm3m9/s320/arches1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729830572156213138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Next, we went to see something that is indisputably spectacular. Arches National Park is simply</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0x88ymDlPH-aQwncyh5iy9vqjJ1pzValou-LbTHatuXrN9u5e3QLz4gpwSW06SpE1SztCFibcErIOPvJ9Q6W0jMTsGJOkmgbW5x7v530ciwA3cLugTu9GeB-aOf2GXIVr546xM_-7KaQI/s1600/arches2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 60px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0x88ymDlPH-aQwncyh5iy9vqjJ1pzValou-LbTHatuXrN9u5e3QLz4gpwSW06SpE1SztCFibcErIOPvJ9Q6W0jMTsGJOkmgbW5x7v530ciwA3cLugTu9GeB-aOf2GXIVr546xM_-7KaQI/s320/arches2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729830378948555186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> one of the</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">most amazing places you could ever let your gaze fall upon. Not bad for a bunch of old rocks. It is home </span><span style="font-family:arial;">to incredible rock formations and beautiful sandstone arches, created by </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the erosive </span><span style="font-family:arial;">power of nature over millions of years. You could be looking at a gigantic boulder </span><span style="font-family:arial;">perched </span><span style="font-family:arial;">on top of a spindly sandstone pillar one moment and walking through a perfect arc of</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> red stone</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> the next. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Incredible. And literally </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVMuyPKvAgJm7l-KWbDhM-hodyQtdSii-bMa8J6iIbXW-pCLTFh-w_wynVHW-0MaA3kdOPNYoaP90ahddJh6r7_tU3TMej-gowBH6RChUO0hlLCJOkSXeS-9MwdQbhrGlmfAAl9Vorw48h/s1600/arches3.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVMuyPKvAgJm7l-KWbDhM-hodyQtdSii-bMa8J6iIbXW-pCLTFh-w_wynVHW-0MaA3kdOPNYoaP90ahddJh6r7_tU3TMej-gowBH6RChUO0hlLCJOkSXeS-9MwdQbhrGlmfAAl9Vorw48h/s320/arches3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729830173280273538" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">just across the road is another incredible place, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Canyonlands</span> National Park. If Arches has the most unbelievable rock formations then </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Canyonlands</span> must be home to some of the most unbelievable views. I might be going out </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmVtM2eSxFMliV_zfJV2iBtYLIQ4NwZCgQNxauJ8zw0jbdXWZ4HuNxQvwgZ42CQklqOjPBR9niS6wbM5Gv-quFXU3ybNG87zGzq9h1qLmyur0jVZ8KqTtxKzwb2qxesal6Mghx7QTEtU9/s1600/canyons+1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmVtM2eSxFMliV_zfJV2iBtYLIQ4NwZCgQNxauJ8zw0jbdXWZ4HuNxQvwgZ42CQklqOjPBR9niS6wbM5Gv-quFXU3ybNG87zGzq9h1qLmyur0jVZ8KqTtxKzwb2qxesal6Mghx7QTEtU9/s320/canyons+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729829761163884162" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">on a limb here but I'd say it's possibly more stunning than even the Grand Canyon. This place has </span><span style="font-family:arial;">canyons <span style="font-style: italic;">within</span> canyons that stretch out into a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">vastness which is mind-numbing. In fact it's hard to get any sense of scale at all until you see something</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5MpbMIBFcEuxJ9fuhi8kUe6M-JKtHwM34kh6cww9wF08I3AgqwSCv-gXsdQMLIugV3oHFEd5LBYrMsHnp7bQl9YYyY-QAEJw9_a4SHmPertN0NSXiR8zNyv-Uz-jHaC0R58vUFkF5iJqC/s1600/canyons+3.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5MpbMIBFcEuxJ9fuhi8kUe6M-JKtHwM34kh6cww9wF08I3AgqwSCv-gXsdQMLIugV3oHFEd5LBYrMsHnp7bQl9YYyY-QAEJw9_a4SHmPertN0NSXiR8zNyv-Uz-jHaC0R58vUFkF5iJqC/s320/canyons+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729829184288008834" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSt3zhNgWxOpqEQS_DjX-9UwA5S6sJpkCzSQuNHLyGU43Vus46wnBD8uQJw6mYeabf9MIAvsr6Pe5oykPUhVVChxb96BH02shyphenhyphenI0J-NsLz9qRfhEO7hyphenhyphenkBH84O2IQUL8m6ri4m68j03i_F/s1600/canyons+4.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 128px; height: 58px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSt3zhNgWxOpqEQS_DjX-9UwA5S6sJpkCzSQuNHLyGU43Vus46wnBD8uQJw6mYeabf9MIAvsr6Pe5oykPUhVVChxb96BH02shyphenhyphenI0J-NsLz9qRfhEO7hyphenhyphenkBH84O2IQUL8m6ri4m68j03i_F/s320/canyons+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729829455192280882" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> familiar like a tiny microscopic speck of a jeep </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDIBshsBmIiEzIN8xZmc-_UDK66a64tbkUE6mFHLw8XDaLw1NaiRglbiDxZ-Tyk7C-fk0GAm8aNilZpIs6ze5MROdxXsc3kh0ojM9IY4ljb64bVy_KlscU5FIzIXcPcF3yF9ikwefa3nrh/s1600/canyons+2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 149px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDIBshsBmIiEzIN8xZmc-_UDK66a64tbkUE6mFHLw8XDaLw1NaiRglbiDxZ-Tyk7C-fk0GAm8aNilZpIs6ze5MROdxXsc3kh0ojM9IY4ljb64bVy_KlscU5FIzIXcPcF3yF9ikwefa3nrh/s320/canyons+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729828310118840178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">driving through the desert below. And why </span><span style="font-family:arial;">would there be a jeep hurtling through this land of wonder? I'll tell you…</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Xl5JTHPzXOGAn7GmT7NasobvqiCNVYZbifYUhlkzgtd4gyZGZSN-REQzG5qDPAJBosiariPdicO9HpTfayuJZXqR_V-b4mSTbkMJvADyMVwtWO-eAFLP3ss7dCylx1HQE5UTLcvTgVtZ/s1600/offroad2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 122px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Xl5JTHPzXOGAn7GmT7NasobvqiCNVYZbifYUhlkzgtd4gyZGZSN-REQzG5qDPAJBosiariPdicO9HpTfayuJZXqR_V-b4mSTbkMJvADyMVwtWO-eAFLP3ss7dCylx1HQE5UTLcvTgVtZ/s320/offroad2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729827788608852322" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">We inadvertently chose to visit Arches and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Canyonlands</span> during the busiest time of the year for this area.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> We managed to arrive during some sort of enormous off-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">roaders</span>' jamboree called </span><span style="font-family:arial;">"Jeep Safari" which meant that the two parks, and the nearby town of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Moab</span>, were overrun with petrol heads </span><span style="font-family:arial;">driving some of the most unnecessarily outlandish vehicles ever devised. Jeeps, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">trucks and buggies, with ever more preposterously out-sized wheels, growl around the surrounding desert, kicking up huge dust storms and then chug into town wearing their dirt like a badge of honour. It did look like fun </span><span style="font-family:arial;">though! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Moab</span> was </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-3OSnqM3eFizrr5nRkKY7OMdYriHS2_KHYAkuoUN7LeCoMLiO-9VnB0wKTplZt2jO9P9H3_PjgrZ6iU6cXwEc2L_rXsbkD2seRadywGaoJFh2-K6atSQGphQCBMux9PKovO_tQdB2hqV/s1600/offroad1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 135px; height: 62px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-3OSnqM3eFizrr5nRkKY7OMdYriHS2_KHYAkuoUN7LeCoMLiO-9VnB0wKTplZt2jO9P9H3_PjgrZ6iU6cXwEc2L_rXsbkD2seRadywGaoJFh2-K6atSQGphQCBMux9PKovO_tQdB2hqV/s320/offroad1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729827400281281826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">awash with these things and the people who drive them. People who, for the most part, wore vests, sported moustaches and seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time standing around discussing tyres. And the men were just as bad. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXMfNLlXGLvHe8ezKLGajxLKWiT2lUj7FFbryfQd590O0TZGQlGpUM8WGtzuGs8hhu9vJV-W67YeoC5B8b8kdmuX52polnyHI2Vuhve0MxtJP_6e9oMenO1BZxFp2CuzChgUUkoT_etFI/s1600/steamboat+3.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXMfNLlXGLvHe8ezKLGajxLKWiT2lUj7FFbryfQd590O0TZGQlGpUM8WGtzuGs8hhu9vJV-W67YeoC5B8b8kdmuX52polnyHI2Vuhve0MxtJP_6e9oMenO1BZxFp2CuzChgUUkoT_etFI/s320/steamboat+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729825177145906226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Steamboat springs, in contrast to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Moab</span>, was very quiet and very cold. It is way up in the Rocky Mountains in </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Colorado and, as is inferred by the name, is home to lots of natural hot water </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBhJhFbbTlkm0E9bZVq7EifGkPxsiUpPOkYbTt_UPpCW1eqoxakNf6EzSHXoHIkKaywA3FfVZLnHWxK0wDhwPHz8YjjBAnOvMNyveE_-vWSGrXE5YfzXdP7O9bwLEZF3WgxIFS_I-ccPF6/s1600/steamboat+2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 59px; height: 79px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBhJhFbbTlkm0E9bZVq7EifGkPxsiUpPOkYbTt_UPpCW1eqoxakNf6EzSHXoHIkKaywA3FfVZLnHWxK0wDhwPHz8YjjBAnOvMNyveE_-vWSGrXE5YfzXdP7O9bwLEZF3WgxIFS_I-ccPF6/s320/steamboat+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729824015811542962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">springs. These springs were the reason we were there and the reason why, at 6pm on a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">freezing cold </span><span style="font-family:arial;">evening at 7000 ft, I found myself getting undressed and donning a pair of swimming shorts. We chose the Strawberry Park springs where you can sit in 40°C pools of water in the middle of a snow covered forest. As the stars came out above us, the sensation of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">sitting in such hot water with such cold air around us was strangely pleasant. Less pleasant, however, is the sensation of leaving the warm pools and tiptoeing </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaKKZd8eDVvfCw8wYS0XxVXf8IWQoxjgHgMzYNLSb5GDG4LfaQQtEntGgKuaWhyphenhyphenSPsId_YtouHc-BoWDyiqZUqAXWcjh22nk-7plI5SL5g9rGDNMVtdd_i-lEpbSBzywetrjOsY_O603v5/s1600/steamboat+1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaKKZd8eDVvfCw8wYS0XxVXf8IWQoxjgHgMzYNLSb5GDG4LfaQQtEntGgKuaWhyphenhyphenSPsId_YtouHc-BoWDyiqZUqAXWcjh22nk-7plI5SL5g9rGDNMVtdd_i-lEpbSBzywetrjOsY_O603v5/s320/steamboat+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729823704760811234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">around, </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFaMwQ85kf0IYExhSwCIVbVIwdsSCUCv5ZZcyeCt9xNBkE6KKI7AaGnI46Y5i8unrJ6kibuPG-L2YHIXuUhLEr_lVAg3MDTKYGbC53DVu0lfY7lXoCxADH-veVgnq2NYM3iO-Xslb8PYbt/s1600/tap.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 60px; height: 81px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFaMwQ85kf0IYExhSwCIVbVIwdsSCUCv5ZZcyeCt9xNBkE6KKI7AaGnI46Y5i8unrJ6kibuPG-L2YHIXuUhLEr_lVAg3MDTKYGbC53DVu0lfY7lXoCxADH-veVgnq2NYM3iO-Xslb8PYbt/s320/tap.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729822976097566978" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">half-naked in near-arctic temperatures, desperately looking for your trousers in the dark. Just to illustrate how cold it was, I have included a picture of the icicle we found </span><span style="font-family:arial;">hanging from the tap INSIDE our RV! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Brrrrr</span>.</span> <span style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" ><br /><br />BURGER OF THE WEEK</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtFTk6EZa_XxNQ7GNSKy0wAi2N4Klp7Zx-IEHAwu5F6z6fdDLBRv9sb3fY5E0ohZz3JQU_vzjZHYVTmq_hn2LIFnvD2ijYCbUWR8Qtp17Y9c7X-P054FPcogErhMYMTqijS3kbvtZEsdbf/s1600/12+saul+slammer+2.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtFTk6EZa_XxNQ7GNSKy0wAi2N4Klp7Zx-IEHAwu5F6z6fdDLBRv9sb3fY5E0ohZz3JQU_vzjZHYVTmq_hn2LIFnvD2ijYCbUWR8Qtp17Y9c7X-P054FPcogErhMYMTqijS3kbvtZEsdbf/s320/12+saul+slammer+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729812804631726626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">At <span style="font-style: italic;">Big House Burgers</span> in Steamboat Springs I had something called <span style="font-style: italic;">Saul's Slammer</span>. It was a buffalo-meat burger served open face on Texas toast with </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjim9KD7fCQqhurjyYKgaTF8-ax1_vz9d1-hnSVBWh7uMQ8oWQm7xEgxrsF1pOG0JXrWPsNEJjLi8dIZkk9irPiyDn0ReHqr-BeSP5o7kvzHL3R-rZFqnajxh6q5gwFjUA7z013R9FstUDb/s1600/12+saul+slammer+4.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 60px; height: 58px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjim9KD7fCQqhurjyYKgaTF8-ax1_vz9d1-hnSVBWh7uMQ8oWQm7xEgxrsF1pOG0JXrWPsNEJjLi8dIZkk9irPiyDn0ReHqr-BeSP5o7kvzHL3R-rZFqnajxh6q5gwFjUA7z013R9FstUDb/s320/12+saul+slammer+4.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729809457934199010" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">jalapeno pepper jack cheese, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">applewood</span> smoked bacon and a fried egg – all covered with pork green <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">chilli</span>. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">It also came with sweet potato fries which was a nice touch. This was an epic burger and might well be a hard one to beat. </span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-84300042992390081352012-04-02T21:20:00.027-07:002012-04-02T22:38:00.747-07:00I'm so truckin' happy!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Adi64Krcna-u2lEZVGxZuhP9vJceJ4rahSjvPv-g7VzfKJE_34E3A-kOQOAcqTl2nNZ4zA2ga0T1OW9jBkuNmyqvljoZPiPpd979lYEqUGOag7ZDrI9IgqWM3i3NhQxyxbUrF9a-tuUp/s1600/nevada1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Adi64Krcna-u2lEZVGxZuhP9vJceJ4rahSjvPv-g7VzfKJE_34E3A-kOQOAcqTl2nNZ4zA2ga0T1OW9jBkuNmyqvljoZPiPpd979lYEqUGOag7ZDrI9IgqWM3i3NhQxyxbUrF9a-tuUp/s320/nevada1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727041586285798146" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Leaving </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Tahoe, we headed east across Nevada and drove along endlessly straight roads through a vast barren landscape of nothing in particular. Sometimes it was grassy nothing, </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRbfpsiWUzPZ5cpkO7xp0HtwIaejqyDEmbgE81XkshqSX-54e0q8GeUsuyaHC0Qs-xKfQ8VAOHiph-ImU22CQq1GXpCrm6Vsv_oEb0B9-r1RDfAsNe2Z50dToirZAemkpst2rs9QupfK_7/s1600/nevada2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRbfpsiWUzPZ5cpkO7xp0HtwIaejqyDEmbgE81XkshqSX-54e0q8GeUsuyaHC0Qs-xKfQ8VAOHiph-ImU22CQq1GXpCrm6Vsv_oEb0B9-r1RDfAsNe2Z50dToirZAemkpst2rs9QupfK_7/s320/nevada2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727041167413739922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">sometimes hilly nothing and sometimes dead-flat salt bed nothing, but essentially there was </span><span style="font-family:arial;">lots and lots of bugger all. In a whole day of driving we passed just two trees. This meant that, with nothing else</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOnHMU60iZfgOduZgOxQwuEXWr4ZOrZFlJvGNDCnpqHL05f92oKbywdf1dnfBHJzwy8k2TLjGwm3kecuoBcXEo3wtLoOpUA5pZWo-_eSyTDZBx-7UOCtkkBE74GQwTV9rJdE_Tx67uWVcq/s1600/nevada+trucks1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 36px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOnHMU60iZfgOduZgOxQwuEXWr4ZOrZFlJvGNDCnpqHL05f92oKbywdf1dnfBHJzwy8k2TLjGwm3kecuoBcXEo3wtLoOpUA5pZWo-_eSyTDZBx-7UOCtkkBE74GQwTV9rJdE_Tx67uWVcq/s320/nevada+trucks1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727040793886918274" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">to look at, we found ourselves becoming strangely fascinated by the traffic and, in particular, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">with the huge trucks that thunder through this geographical vacuum. We were </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghd0Kf4IAVX72uDCofnciD_yPZ-rJWW5BzFq2n3GtcDfuAYMT39Qdw-EViH03rikeYKmKHV-PFB-3W_8L8oC_nEw2RMh6_oOdLQRUAZokqwDbhgEhyF9u6PskVzeZ_MAWBnZOaUPMmKa-t/s1600/nevada+trucks+2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 42px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghd0Kf4IAVX72uDCofnciD_yPZ-rJWW5BzFq2n3GtcDfuAYMT39Qdw-EViH03rikeYKmKHV-PFB-3W_8L8oC_nEw2RMh6_oOdLQRUAZokqwDbhgEhyF9u6PskVzeZ_MAWBnZOaUPMmKa-t/s320/nevada+trucks+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727040409109580834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">amazed to</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> see juggernauts pulling three trailers. Then, when this became </span><span style="font-family:arial;">commonplace, we </span><span style="font-family:arial;">started seeing </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPA8uOjpJhwrRq-PRsNKeyHRvsQHyburBYUlbe-qxGWvmw2myWMmLYKb-WTpnZJ4cwkuhRgrKUElokuYzpo0btdjlr4ajnaDxuHlanHy-nqVuXoCyZDqLFUZmUb0zqqIekIuySZtfz3Ycs/s1600/nevada+trucks+3.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 52px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPA8uOjpJhwrRq-PRsNKeyHRvsQHyburBYUlbe-qxGWvmw2myWMmLYKb-WTpnZJ4cwkuhRgrKUElokuYzpo0btdjlr4ajnaDxuHlanHy-nqVuXoCyZDqLFUZmUb0zqqIekIuySZtfz3Ycs/s320/nevada+trucks+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727039876805135602" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">wider and more absurd loads – trucks carrying other trucks </span><span style="font-family:arial;">or gigantic pieces of unidentifiable machinery or sometimes whole houses. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Then we realised </span><span style="font-family:arial;">that sensory </span><span style="font-family:arial;">deprivation had turned us into truck-spotters!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We had almost driven right the way across Nevada when we decided to hang a left and headed due north to Idaho. Claire had spotted something called the Hagerman Fossil Beds on the map and I got all excited that we might get to see some dinosaurs or something. I shouldn't have got my hopes up. The fossil beds have been harvested of their fossils to such an extent that there are now no more fossils. Instead there are lots of signs going on about the "Hagerman Horse", some sort of prehistoric zebra of which they seem to be very</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2tWA_aogPK0y5vC9MFCkeAxsJVWdJyTGDzsq64SGbG2qtonP8IPflmmETMeR2bAo7_hrkSf0nCeo3EAYOe2K9wdNNiLbVdZfdppF6X0DYI-OMki170OAChhXP8pDGSDEu04xHw74gK100/s1600/horse.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2tWA_aogPK0y5vC9MFCkeAxsJVWdJyTGDzsq64SGbG2qtonP8IPflmmETMeR2bAo7_hrkSf0nCeo3EAYOe2K9wdNNiLbVdZfdppF6X0DYI-OMki170OAChhXP8pDGSDEu04xHw74gK100/s320/horse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727039345220343634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> proud. We drove to the nearby </span><span style="font-family:arial;">town of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Hagerman itself and visited the information centre where we came face to boney face with one </span><span style="font-family:arial;">of these horse skeletons. And that even turned out to be a replica. Sensing our </span><span style="font-family:arial;">disappointment, the ranger behind the counter tried to rouse our excitement by showing us the toe bone of what they think might have been a giant camel. It wasn't exactly</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Jurrasic Park</span>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">South then to Utah and Salt Lake City, epicentre of the Church of the Latter Day Saints – commonly known as Mormons. We found an RV park in the south of the city where the owners offered us a free shuttle bus into town which seemed jolly nice of them. What hadn't been explained to us was that we were being taken to </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglgH3KPqSnrhEj4GES0Szue2-mQUquuQJw0Ag0-OQTT96UpVrQL-JjfatNxgwW6TsZ1pusesTwxWCz7MjTpp1lb6K3tj_YSHNVo7lFyzYCvlpwN8b_3fbu2mf5K7obUFur6rdIPevugQSK/s1600/LDS+temple.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 60px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglgH3KPqSnrhEj4GES0Szue2-mQUquuQJw0Ag0-OQTT96UpVrQL-JjfatNxgwW6TsZ1pusesTwxWCz7MjTpp1lb6K3tj_YSHNVo7lFyzYCvlpwN8b_3fbu2mf5K7obUFur6rdIPevugQSK/s320/LDS+temple.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727037648465080002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Temple Square and had been tricked into receiving a tour by Mormon missionaries. We were met by Sister Perez and Sister Christensen, a couple </span><span style="font-family:arial;">of 21-year-old girls who were so happy with life that they seemed unable to speak without </span><span style="font-family:arial;">smiling. They showed us around the impressive temple while I asked them lots of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">awkward questions about arranged marriages and polygamy. They were very friendly girls and they </span><span style="font-family:arial;">even let us hear the echo inside their tabernacle! We were shown around the immaculate</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> grounds before being taken into a building that had paintings on the wall </span><span style="font-family:arial;">depicting the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">moment that Jesus had supposedly appeared in </span><span style="font-family:arial;">America – apparently in front of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">some </span><span style="font-family:arial;">bemused-looking Aztecs going by the painting. Finally, we were led up a spiral ramp to a chamber containing a large statue of Jesus in front of a painted backdrop </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ReQv22gTXpOiLBciibbQHRwFcuq-jtbW7AIbkqCOuEakDHYKbmRYMFj6LdBXre7S3k54n-GZU6tD3XmhDZpJA4NSYjxGh7YtFOUG2hekVaoEKFIDnTKrCfT_MCqW4tOqvKGE-IVgkXJ_/s1600/jesus.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ReQv22gTXpOiLBciibbQHRwFcuq-jtbW7AIbkqCOuEakDHYKbmRYMFj6LdBXre7S3k54n-GZU6tD3XmhDZpJA4NSYjxGh7YtFOUG2hekVaoEKFIDnTKrCfT_MCqW4tOqvKGE-IVgkXJ_/s320/jesus.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727036849242540386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">of outer space. It was here that Sister Perez started sobbing as she told us of the moment she'd found God while Sister Christensen</span><span style="font-family:arial;">, after further questioning,</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> guiltily admitted to having a boyfriend. They were sweet girls, if a little naive and innocent. But, there was no hard sell, no bid to "recruit" us and we left with warm feelings toward them and their odd beliefs. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSw4Hf1-ZAjnmOoeNnuJo3jVbz0GFZRt58VIxs2p4hd8RFnlfCThf6DfFzTKeSVux_MlqCalNcP4ccXBeWb2BJwwypPUrIwMEpnkR63BZ4I78OAO9_UFu58GUyltef3Dv-l3K9gcRLoLHK/s1600/brides.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 37px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSw4Hf1-ZAjnmOoeNnuJo3jVbz0GFZRt58VIxs2p4hd8RFnlfCThf6DfFzTKeSVux_MlqCalNcP4ccXBeWb2BJwwypPUrIwMEpnkR63BZ4I78OAO9_UFu58GUyltef3Dv-l3K9gcRLoLHK/s320/brides.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727036294692220370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Back outside we wandered past a lot of pretty Mormon brides – the temple is such a popular place to get married that there's an almost production-line-like procession of weddings in and </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHX5oJ2JXyzoI2dITiCbTgEn0YcMvmDItqbFiL3jPsTFZYH48q5goQ3tHam0T7fSOxaSQidguy0lqDc0wvLT9GIap0fl4jZ3D2SSOoOZaBAmdsaqWahRBxqDJ2Sqwi7BY4AtgEo_7nrikf/s1600/salt+lake+city.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHX5oJ2JXyzoI2dITiCbTgEn0YcMvmDItqbFiL3jPsTFZYH48q5goQ3tHam0T7fSOxaSQidguy0lqDc0wvLT9GIap0fl4jZ3D2SSOoOZaBAmdsaqWahRBxqDJ2Sqwi7BY4AtgEo_7nrikf/s320/salt+lake+city.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727035442398896866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">out. Along with Temple Square, the rest of Salt Lake City itself is also very neat and tidy place</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> with near-spotless streets and a very visible affluence. It felt safe and welcoming (a policeman</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">let me try on his hat!) and where Sacramento had felt nothing like a State Capital there was no question that SLC could be anything less. We met more Mormons during our time in the city and have to say</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> that they are all very friendly, courteous and happy people who dress very smartly and </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDbKw9ZvX3L5alJKLSVs5dOqcWqivnnIaUMmrfP3HYNs3kMiGRuLNCKps7Z-Lacg6fdEdGw9WWLeHaYlaxHWnclVgbbsTRf3lUgUsSnPFEgqY3z14dgdgQ7FQNffnzGuQR0Wd40mdj4oo/s1600/friendly+SLC.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 72px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDbKw9ZvX3L5alJKLSVs5dOqcWqivnnIaUMmrfP3HYNs3kMiGRuLNCKps7Z-Lacg6fdEdGw9WWLeHaYlaxHWnclVgbbsTRf3lUgUsSnPFEgqY3z14dgdgQ7FQNffnzGuQR0Wd40mdj4oo/s320/friendly+SLC.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727035010841857202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">lead seemingly wholesome lives. In fact the only negativity on display was being directed <span style="font-style: italic;">at</span> them by some </span><span style="font-family:arial;">protesters</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcdUAYPBf9Y67xQAB58NoTbcADcbxuYGqni0MTZeIWj50H4bWtE-7yv1m4QDOQUR8WQrKvayDnWyS7AuM65819FjAhC6yO0ULfvmNv7ebk8-HgQfZpTfNeKXbI_mUiMpGdXeoTBW_Vo-rb/s1600/protestors.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 81px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcdUAYPBf9Y67xQAB58NoTbcADcbxuYGqni0MTZeIWj50H4bWtE-7yv1m4QDOQUR8WQrKvayDnWyS7AuM65819FjAhC6yO0ULfvmNv7ebk8-HgQfZpTfNeKXbI_mUiMpGdXeoTBW_Vo-rb/s320/protestors.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727034529540463602" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> purporting to be "true" Christians who had a problem </span><span style="font-family:arial;">with the Mormon interpretation of The Bible. It was odd that these protesters thought a version of events written 180 years ago should be any more fictitious than, say, a version of events written 2,000 years ago. It seemed a bit uncharitable to me and very un-Christian-like behaviour.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMnXEQCT229RUpL3kO5Kkn6RQTcGaOZ3bt_puWazslZ5WTYBgxARSjDmJaZKQMOPW_Yv_7H5Eg-66PUS0zsst4wf5R1HxkJc9_OHtUDy2T83eK6u2jBSI2mVIQ7-SfyP9xFfYFPBx7DTy8/s1600/mine.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 34px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMnXEQCT229RUpL3kO5Kkn6RQTcGaOZ3bt_puWazslZ5WTYBgxARSjDmJaZKQMOPW_Yv_7H5Eg-66PUS0zsst4wf5R1HxkJc9_OHtUDy2T83eK6u2jBSI2mVIQ7-SfyP9xFfYFPBx7DTy8/s320/mine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727033661847824722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Just south of Salt Lake City is the Bingham Canyon Copper Mine. At two and a half miles wide </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFD9blME7ic8HUZmfB-bSL1Jc0OemiM_ywlQaIgDtu-RWjGZlNc_mZ2VDle7QfEbzyV7UFXKJIn09Pp3d2locf_o-Gdibrl32ivyl9curLjWpj23sgR2cN5eIGzWDpM-jDph5VLalXdSbY/s1600/mine+scale.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFD9blME7ic8HUZmfB-bSL1Jc0OemiM_ywlQaIgDtu-RWjGZlNc_mZ2VDle7QfEbzyV7UFXKJIn09Pp3d2locf_o-Gdibrl32ivyl9curLjWpj23sgR2cN5eIGzWDpM-jDph5VLalXdSbY/s320/mine+scale.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727032592532401506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">and three quarters of a mile deep, it is the largest man-made excavation in the world and can</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> apparently be seen from space. Ironically, on the day we went to see it there was a snowstorm</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> and fog so we couldn't even see it from planet Earth. We returned the next day, when it was a lot sunnier </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and clearer, and drove up to the enormous crater. It is, on the one hand, a mightily impressive testament to man's engineering ingenuity but, on the other, is also a whopping great scar in the middle of a beautiful mountain range. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwQbTVdWU0F_rO7KlprP_I13yPKdms-xoMFsxuQ-kK47zGXGgPIN0fQCW-JiCw6zUG1Wgjg5cFjTF97n9fsuH-4qWxYx87Otu9JmjtLnBwS_KLPgPWxEZapalmd9X_3RWJ0BvhJfPNQ-T/s1600/mine+truck2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwQbTVdWU0F_rO7KlprP_I13yPKdms-xoMFsxuQ-kK47zGXGgPIN0fQCW-JiCw6zUG1Wgjg5cFjTF97n9fsuH-4qWxYx87Otu9JmjtLnBwS_KLPgPWxEZapalmd9X_3RWJ0BvhJfPNQ-T/s320/mine+truck2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727031610649995170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">This moral conflict weighed </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEnXZ-70z_nn6e_Pnjy6XnuHaTUCHsvq-U9mEPQhwF9BD9fsWlPLMJAebuJt2xHv3Bw0Y7DhUayKgmnMYcbinIS-zYp8x-WEayuQx9GozBesfKCMlLHqaWTdq6M8Xq7yPTSM4G-ZhSX4o-/s1600/mine+truck1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 56px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEnXZ-70z_nn6e_Pnjy6XnuHaTUCHsvq-U9mEPQhwF9BD9fsWlPLMJAebuJt2xHv3Bw0Y7DhUayKgmnMYcbinIS-zYp8x-WEayuQx9GozBesfKCMlLHqaWTdq6M8Xq7yPTSM4G-ZhSX4o-/s320/mine+truck1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727030212879062434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">heavily </span><span style="font-family:arial;">on my </span><span style="font-family:arial;">mind for a little while but then I saw one of</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> their gigantic trucks and got all distracted. Because the mine itself is so huge, the trucks seem quite small – a bit like those <span style="font-style: italic;">Tonka</span> toys we had as kids – until you see one drive past a car or dwarf a bus. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqNZrzOlXirkShS5PLvqrMtumTixy8opPuKGOCbtTw7hn_lUMqTq0RmHtEqjSLNJYutxxLKLTeotJJKylThFMvZ7TaCUZeSB9qOOLNqnoy_LioKL5gvgKFmdksBoeDWNzu0lhEU-xlotpP/s1600/mine+truck+wheel.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 78px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqNZrzOlXirkShS5PLvqrMtumTixy8opPuKGOCbtTw7hn_lUMqTq0RmHtEqjSLNJYutxxLKLTeotJJKylThFMvZ7TaCUZeSB9qOOLNqnoy_LioKL5gvgKFmdksBoeDWNzu0lhEU-xlotpP/s320/mine+truck+wheel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727029311197856738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">These things are enormous. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLVZO7zYsRWkRG0wqi6li0eclfThh-JKorQJ7kS8QIouM07tBiiF6nH7fs1FvIQ41CgYdsY34w27oPgV0RGNp07mWHqEMkYUTtpp442wG-okqca4YqynsBZLaXLGMqJU7lyCyyV4-FnFOW/s1600/mine+truck+stairs.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 69px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLVZO7zYsRWkRG0wqi6li0eclfThh-JKorQJ7kS8QIouM07tBiiF6nH7fs1FvIQ41CgYdsY34w27oPgV0RGNp07mWHqEMkYUTtpp442wG-okqca4YqynsBZLaXLGMqJU7lyCyyV4-FnFOW/s320/mine+truck+stairs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727028909620945858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">They have 12 foot high wheels and a staircase up the front of the radiator so that the driver can ascend to the cab. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">They cost $3.5 million each and can carry 320 tons of rock in a single trip and… oh God, I've become a truck-spotter again!</span><br /><br /><span style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >BURGER OF THE WEEK</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3YjRp2_CgJpEkg8j4e-Hc-o1GQaVAYlcrj_Mrsn1ZVqB8lPomNB05SsuHpTTn4RiKs0cOKAHn5dGYuYBjhOlyrGeJyseqrGd0OWRHfiDCpbh7FrIezDIdbR6tR1IGXS7SHGXQtQ7IXQcZ/s1600/11+macaroni+3.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3YjRp2_CgJpEkg8j4e-Hc-o1GQaVAYlcrj_Mrsn1ZVqB8lPomNB05SsuHpTTn4RiKs0cOKAHn5dGYuYBjhOlyrGeJyseqrGd0OWRHfiDCpbh7FrIezDIdbR6tR1IGXS7SHGXQtQ7IXQcZ/s320/11+macaroni+3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727027415816974418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">We found a little burger joint in Salt Lake City which had on its menu a <span style="font-style: italic;">Macaroni Cheese Burger</span> – a half pound burger topped with elbow macaroni, creamy béchamel cheese sauce, chipotle mayo and bacon pieces. It was strangely enjoyable if a little sloppy. The menu said it was "Crazy amazing!" and, about half an hour after eating it, it seemed to have a crazy amazing effect on my stomach.</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-23861716190475517042012-03-29T22:26:00.019-07:002012-03-29T23:21:46.478-07:00Sacramental<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCGA-eWLBCa-dI8uPuDf9ZCKgqraZt79chOK7xzG03sVbP1NmPZA7ptP1MOGv0PKXSrdLWT6ReNQpIf5UG_auvKLvdkm9urmPcOwG92LKZ0u4c3ChJhr2ZmEbPPp23VuB842Zpcr66krs/s1600/sac+cathedral.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 74px; height: 98px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCGA-eWLBCa-dI8uPuDf9ZCKgqraZt79chOK7xzG03sVbP1NmPZA7ptP1MOGv0PKXSrdLWT6ReNQpIf5UG_auvKLvdkm9urmPcOwG92LKZ0u4c3ChJhr2ZmEbPPp23VuB842Zpcr66krs/s320/sac+cathedral.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725570362220432194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">It's hard to believe that Sacramento is the state capital of California. It's not very big, about the same population as Leeds, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and it's a bit rubbish. We found a cheap spot to stay in a dodgy trailer park, in an area of town that seemed to consist solely of dodgy trailer parks, and then got a 'light rail' to 'downtown' (a tram to the city centre). It was ever so disappointing. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">There was a cathedral that was quite nice and the</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVfTaayk4U3TGb2qBrEpRhkxjhusaBknLeauYTzp2-nAu9MQ22JJ_ywGwc6lc2WEofQ_h3P9Qa4H-LJcHix1zQkPc-8mg6NKAVxHDMSZAaC5Vsr0mRHHG7JASqtDDu5HUJ1peqZeymlSQ9/s1600/sac+capitol.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVfTaayk4U3TGb2qBrEpRhkxjhusaBknLeauYTzp2-nAu9MQ22JJ_ywGwc6lc2WEofQ_h3P9Qa4H-LJcHix1zQkPc-8mg6NKAVxHDMSZAaC5Vsr0mRHHG7JASqtDDu5HUJ1peqZeymlSQ9/s320/sac+capitol.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725570225078011794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> capitol building was fairly grand but everything else was </span><span style="font-family:arial;">either run </span><span style="font-family:arial;">down </span><span style="font-family:arial;">or closed. Or both. There was an </span><span style="font-family:arial;">ageing <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Westfield</span></span> shopping arcade and a large police presence – though they just seemed to be interested </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9vb1-586Vi2p-3e3tEg0It8MbbZ5Uu-G_MfvDkwVRAVnjGdHm0t52sGPlz_1Ax65m6AmUNTKNTuAzaBvQS3KlHV9of0QjMXcr7kmizA7FuJXUqbNDI2LbcbagpVoxOk1yE0Lt23dSplN/s1600/sac+police.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9vb1-586Vi2p-3e3tEg0It8MbbZ5Uu-G_MfvDkwVRAVnjGdHm0t52sGPlz_1Ax65m6AmUNTKNTuAzaBvQS3KlHV9of0QjMXcr7kmizA7FuJXUqbNDI2LbcbagpVoxOk1yE0Lt23dSplN/s320/sac+police.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725570065817335506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">in hassling tramps. And where was everybody? </span><span style="font-family:arial;">It was Saturday and yet there was hardly a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">soul to be seen. It was all a bit </span><span style="font-family:arial;">depressing. But then, just as our will to live was fading, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">we spotted </span><span style="font-family:arial;">a sign pointing to "Old </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Sacramento". </span><span style="font-family:arial;">We followed it through an underpass and emerged into a whole new world, blinking in disbelief, as if entering an urban</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqT3cZFXE0K9NmACdi98ZxMndDBc1fmOE3KbG6D8S9V-fKrCw6-U1qc3bR3GDdTQLmZdgRg8aOblyZSo635CTJm2NjtFUGj4jbxUlKhPi0SckJkVh-irJQ5SPKOqug1AT8iOnanGRBfCv/s1600/sac+horse.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 55px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqT3cZFXE0K9NmACdi98ZxMndDBc1fmOE3KbG6D8S9V-fKrCw6-U1qc3bR3GDdTQLmZdgRg8aOblyZSo635CTJm2NjtFUGj4jbxUlKhPi0SckJkVh-irJQ5SPKOqug1AT8iOnanGRBfCv/s320/sac+horse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725569785359962562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Narnia</span>. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6g5YfqdOcVvFXrNScSdQLRKeVshaK5B_lS3u5iLs7ymsKjof2wyTAEcy_jJmnUncKOOsV4PTVu9L8L33IFAZ0CmihzrjC8XzffUea5RDNx784UuyXisN9F2asrb6QEwNky8EgGEXa68QO/s1600/sac+old+town.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 56px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6g5YfqdOcVvFXrNScSdQLRKeVshaK5B_lS3u5iLs7ymsKjof2wyTAEcy_jJmnUncKOOsV4PTVu9L8L33IFAZ0CmihzrjC8XzffUea5RDNx784UuyXisN9F2asrb6QEwNky8EgGEXa68QO/s320/sac+old+town.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725569440056456722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">It was a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">proper old Wild West town with stagecoaches, bustling saloon bars and happy people enjoying themselves. We'd gone from a grey post-apocalyptic ghost town into a brightly coloured storybook about the late 1800s. There were lovely wooden fronted buildings, covered wooden sidewalks, a couple of old trains and a paddle steamer on the river. It was great. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3OFxsd3UrfUr7QJKJgeVr54776ttjcPPM-lCnnUvxTzd3KOdToAxZmpVwHoqkTuw1gyPrnLxZ_Xl6OelPPc8ujv_e6lWG-L4B_637lgG7lXM722aLVUAu8EhLPqTXlxE1QFzLGck4fX8b/s1600/sac+train.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3OFxsd3UrfUr7QJKJgeVr54776ttjcPPM-lCnnUvxTzd3KOdToAxZmpVwHoqkTuw1gyPrnLxZ_Xl6OelPPc8ujv_e6lWG-L4B_637lgG7lXM722aLVUAu8EhLPqTXlxE1QFzLGck4fX8b/s320/sac+train.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725568822435745922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">One thing struck me </span><span style="font-family:arial;">as odd though: in amongst the </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3st6g8JBU5jTMnLczRq18dBflOQIjcfikUEoSNOwesTtlbG16lQ8BRXSDNWRz6ov9UP_gLe59vz5GXjajW0l8c6VhOq23GNQMbA9o0iw5WpRRPa9C0_BEvmQwoN3-7imCmZBA_lXd0eKV/s1600/sac+signs.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3st6g8JBU5jTMnLczRq18dBflOQIjcfikUEoSNOwesTtlbG16lQ8BRXSDNWRz6ov9UP_gLe59vz5GXjajW0l8c6VhOq23GNQMbA9o0iw5WpRRPa9C0_BEvmQwoN3-7imCmZBA_lXd0eKV/s320/sac+signs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725568501378888194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">expected souvenir shops and eateries were a puzzlingly high number of candy stores and tattoo parlours. Was 19<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span> century Sacramento just inhabited by tattooed children with bad teeth? Maybe it was like Leeds…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One of the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">highlights of Sacramento for me was a place called <span style="font-style: italic;">Dive Bar</span> which drew us in with</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhhvFHCD1clT42EwXaS67C_Beu-s3IqXRws6x5aHAFbikiDnkMXBqefzV81LwoRVgBQihzFXFVL0O6VJPOEsXjRrjrRKdf3ckKu-_to8Z5TzyiYYuu5fOqIDR_DJ7d42LqnFtAvQEhwMi/s1600/mermaid+1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 104px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhhvFHCD1clT42EwXaS67C_Beu-s3IqXRws6x5aHAFbikiDnkMXBqefzV81LwoRVgBQihzFXFVL0O6VJPOEsXjRrjrRKdf3ckKu-_to8Z5TzyiYYuu5fOqIDR_DJ7d42LqnFtAvQEhwMi/s320/mermaid+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725568244251069442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> an intriguing sign outside alluding to mermaid sightings. The bar was very dark inside, it took a</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> little while for our eyes to adjust, but the darkness meant that the giant illuminated fish tank that ran above the</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> whole length of the bar really stood out. Then, without warning, a girl wearing a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">big rubber fish tail plopped into the tank and started </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFRhdjl4p74L_D6niDSzmAOuqiAFxC_9_8MhMWD5QCCcBlzwTzc-Rg1yav6M5HBePzvB6tkXualcdAOi9UJAmEM0gc_zN8kF1lnJteCOg_pmKjCcr0Ioxush85CE8fiMA2b0M64hW3Kn0O/s1600/mermaid.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 47px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFRhdjl4p74L_D6niDSzmAOuqiAFxC_9_8MhMWD5QCCcBlzwTzc-Rg1yav6M5HBePzvB6tkXualcdAOi9UJAmEM0gc_zN8kF1lnJteCOg_pmKjCcr0Ioxush85CE8fiMA2b0M64hW3Kn0O/s320/mermaid.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725567546936562898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">swimming around with the fish! She was waving at the punters and blowing kisses – she even had a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">clam shell</span> bra on, just like a proper mermaid! It was surreal but brilliant. If she didn't have to keep surfacing for air it would have been perfect. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Leaving Sacramento, we headed east to Lake Tahoe. A friend of ours was over there skiing in the mountains there so we dropped in to say hello. And as we were in the area, we thought it would have been a shame to not take advantage of the snow so Claire went online and found a</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> great deal where we got cheap lift passes and free snowboard hire – so we went snowboarding.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLu7gHEZwzk5vWgfGpE1MQNgX83PwjI0DwiLfr-DIWhW4WjuJPQA2fOzRUF6eyXUfNaOoNwDOgJK89Zve_BJtoiDU5ZNzL-j46v_uSqQE7nY7IHvUL6JM-GRRSuaLcxaC3ohKOPqGgIWgv/s1600/tahoe+dave.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 50px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLu7gHEZwzk5vWgfGpE1MQNgX83PwjI0DwiLfr-DIWhW4WjuJPQA2fOzRUF6eyXUfNaOoNwDOgJK89Zve_BJtoiDU5ZNzL-j46v_uSqQE7nY7IHvUL6JM-GRRSuaLcxaC3ohKOPqGgIWgv/s320/tahoe+dave.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725567158193881362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> The guy at </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">hire shop was a brilliantly mad chap called Dave who, upon finding out we were</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> from England, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">started to tell us about the time he was at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Knebworth</span> while on tour with <span style="font-style: italic;">The Steve Miller Band</span>. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Yeah, we supported Pink Floyd. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Must've</span> been around '75…" he reminisced.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Wow, really? What did you play?" I asked. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Well, I didn't so much play anything as sort of help out. You know, make things happen and make sure everything ran smoothly."</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"So you were tour manager? A technician? A roadie?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Nope. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">It turns out he was Steve Miller's personal psychic and was employed for his ability to foresee events before they occurred. He told us, as examples of his gift, that he would be on hand to warn the band that a guitar string would snap during the third song of a gig or that the drummer would put his foot through the bass drum or that a certain record wouldn't do so well in the charts. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvMKTGYiBkBtBprGOE119XXFLGM25v8XdSLtnwScHWl3bRULeStMz9EqYP4yVAzRci59E6h8CUhcqgnEh4HQGn1Y2oK10et4gKA6FgTQ5I3x7lBjBtW-Ytm2NoxHIIpDcnT2OormyLq0VA/s1600/tahoe+both.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 70px; height: 62px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvMKTGYiBkBtBprGOE119XXFLGM25v8XdSLtnwScHWl3bRULeStMz9EqYP4yVAzRci59E6h8CUhcqgnEh4HQGn1Y2oK10et4gKA6FgTQ5I3x7lBjBtW-Ytm2NoxHIIpDcnT2OormyLq0VA/s320/tahoe+both.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725566882894977634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">These things would then transpire as he'd predicted them but the band could be</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">prepared with a new guitar string or drum skin or consolation bourbon. He then went on to describe how </span><span style="font-family:arial;">he'd once foreseen that he was going to win a massive slot machine jackpot if one of his friends was standing next to him in a certain coloured shirt – but because the friend wouldn't accompany him to the casino it never came to pass. Spooky eh? </span><span style="font-family:arial;">He also predicted the death of his own doctor and the location </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkAK-TxO1gl24POUVI7e0AMgL_I5SbmvvGB-B5lDE8CHnfcPLAWpWaxMzB7RoXNmj32twpkz-4cdMirBUhpBcphw5AT3hGav_FG23XvpG0Imu2FvO8B7l0aoZnITLTcQ914SRuACiK7I76/s1600/tahoe+me.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 58px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkAK-TxO1gl24POUVI7e0AMgL_I5SbmvvGB-B5lDE8CHnfcPLAWpWaxMzB7RoXNmj32twpkz-4cdMirBUhpBcphw5AT3hGav_FG23XvpG0Imu2FvO8B7l0aoZnITLTcQ914SRuACiK7I76/s320/tahoe+me.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725566442723637922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">of a massive untapped gold seam somewhere in California. In the meantime he had to make do with furnishing us with snowboards and boots. We left the shop about an hour after we'd entered, frowning at each other with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. We went on to have a lovely day snowboarding, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">with amazing views of Lake Tahoe </span><span style="font-family:arial;">itself, and later that </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhikAtba1h3QeEteb8C_CzGoOZiQ8tIlh1QCGcv93YFh501O_FO2T0VTMJhHzF9l1qGMoGMo-zJCNfD7bmH72Y1QKNAyfnyKMWKeJ629V2hHtyCy5pTVUESM188xgbBterfkkPNe6LG4W6D/s1600/tahoe+claire.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhikAtba1h3QeEteb8C_CzGoOZiQ8tIlh1QCGcv93YFh501O_FO2T0VTMJhHzF9l1qGMoGMo-zJCNfD7bmH72Y1QKNAyfnyKMWKeJ629V2hHtyCy5pTVUESM188xgbBterfkkPNe6LG4W6D/s320/tahoe+claire.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725561524708238402" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">afternoon we headed back to the hire shop to return our equipment. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Are you guys finished already?" he asked. It was weird that hadn't been expecting us… </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Just a quick health and safety update: we spotted this helpful warning label</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3HMAtLL8KdkHwuLAnabvoMP-o_0IQAI16mwkwJSok3JasxGcQcLhfnSBZ7eanoWQve8zzbLbiiKYvyn4_-XAbp5YjngaTP25OuifR8xtTofAexkNHZzxbkiiLajy2JgZIlthJb7JMphH-/s1600/fizz.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 47px; height: 50px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3HMAtLL8KdkHwuLAnabvoMP-o_0IQAI16mwkwJSok3JasxGcQcLhfnSBZ7eanoWQve8zzbLbiiKYvyn4_-XAbp5YjngaTP25OuifR8xtTofAexkNHZzxbkiiLajy2JgZIlthJb7JMphH-/s320/fizz.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725561043889801634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> attached to a</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> bottle of sparkling wine this week. Thank goodness we were warned.</span><br /><br /><span style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >BURGER OF THE WEEK</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZD3WCoK_RqMf337-2_rXMi3MaPNXnJ569JTjo7pVDvPImIkXzOPvsnhLC-tFvXdan_8-M_Fr4xwamZ2M0JWei7tDs6TxYZ64arXg2kIfmpZC6xbEgH2CsTQeOWXnrUEEHjnXisFRFxxb/s1600/09+capitol%252C+sacramento+1.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 63px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZD3WCoK_RqMf337-2_rXMi3MaPNXnJ569JTjo7pVDvPImIkXzOPvsnhLC-tFvXdan_8-M_Fr4xwamZ2M0JWei7tDs6TxYZ64arXg2kIfmpZC6xbEgH2CsTQeOWXnrUEEHjnXisFRFxxb/s320/09+capitol%252C+sacramento+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725558531128938018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">As we were in the Californian state capital, it was only appropriate that I tried the <span style="font-style: italic;">Capitol Burger</span>. A half pound of ground <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">filet</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">mignon</span> and sirloin, topped with lots of avocado, grilled red onions, lettuce, tomato, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Monterey</span> Jack cheese and an "espresso <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">chipotle</span>" sauce. Weirdly nice. </span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-59628542911974260422012-03-21T22:22:00.037-07:002012-03-21T23:34:40.381-07:00Wines, whales and woods...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjX2mamonDPgSQQqvXxtehLa-qmWK1elmpOj2MTkv3h4IrkfcC4KZCovblkBfEIhC1SQ5g3eH0F5kaQNcu_1M7VjFjLbvl6RSLCVRXhZXf2QKcne8oPXYmNWjTP2vYbP1xOMMTivgcz74x/s1600/vineyard2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjX2mamonDPgSQQqvXxtehLa-qmWK1elmpOj2MTkv3h4IrkfcC4KZCovblkBfEIhC1SQ5g3eH0F5kaQNcu_1M7VjFjLbvl6RSLCVRXhZXf2QKcne8oPXYmNWjTP2vYbP1xOMMTivgcz74x/s320/vineyard2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722605787574539634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Just north of San Francisco are the famous vineyards and wineries of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Napa</span> Valley. I very generously let Claire drive the van for a day so that I was free to do the arduous chore of tasting wine. Purely for research you understand. There are hundreds of wineries along the valley and if, like us, you don't know the area, choosing which ones to visit can be a bit of a lottery. From </span><span style="font-family:arial;">experience, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">we have learnt to avoid the big posh-looking wineries with long driveways and </span><span style="font-family:arial;">immaculate </span><span style="font-family:arial;">topiary. They tend to be a bit snobby. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Not the sort of place to </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNt3a4w_6aV_2hykVjGKGuVtFFlfsPwYp2V24AL88TLUcRglYks3SHW-acj-AUNCZPHvCoeBCnMQcg_5P74wxcxzjHeGu641Wz-dZNs6YxPBCGgCa-v2mcuTdJdnq596vGKP0cJElwp0IJ/s1600/green+wine.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 61px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNt3a4w_6aV_2hykVjGKGuVtFFlfsPwYp2V24AL88TLUcRglYks3SHW-acj-AUNCZPHvCoeBCnMQcg_5P74wxcxzjHeGu641Wz-dZNs6YxPBCGgCa-v2mcuTdJdnq596vGKP0cJElwp0IJ/s320/green+wine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722605416020291202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">welcome </span><span style="font-family:arial;">some idiot in a newly </span><span style="font-family:arial;">acquired <span style="font-style: italic;">Golden State Warriors</span> T-shirt. Instead, we found that the smaller, slightly </span><span style="font-family:arial;">more rustic-looking</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> ones tended to be a bit more friendly. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">First stop was a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">great little winery which had taken the novel step of dying their <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Sauvignon</span> </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Blanc</span> green as it </span><span style="font-family:arial;">was St Patrick's </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Day. It's a bit odd drinking green wine because </span><span style="font-family:arial;">your mind is telling you it should be </span><span style="font-family:arial;">minty or </span><span style="font-family:arial;">something. Once over that initial shock, however, I </span><span style="font-family:arial;">was able to sample about four of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">their other wines before deciding that the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Pinot</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Noir</span> was </span><span style="font-family:arial;">definitely </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosX500xMcPVR88fov5pljjbKiKC3aQ3GC68nXogT45b_5fGOI8BJZlJz3Fm8VOl6Ldz8g8PrgszR-xPkKMjWSuP3j90sV9cbCZXoTaz806Uy1irghyvPig3yMGcsCbIYN0t5ip6A-mNhR/s1600/vineyard.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosX500xMcPVR88fov5pljjbKiKC3aQ3GC68nXogT45b_5fGOI8BJZlJz3Fm8VOl6Ldz8g8PrgszR-xPkKMjWSuP3j90sV9cbCZXoTaz806Uy1irghyvPig3yMGcsCbIYN0t5ip6A-mNhR/s320/vineyard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722604673567704642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">the nicest. But I couldn't be sure there weren't better wines elsewhere in the valley – so </span><span style="font-family:arial;">we drove to the next winery to check. This one had a list of five wines that were available for tasting that day but, having first tried all those, I casually mentioned to our "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">pourer</span>" that I'd seen they did a couple of wines that weren't on that list. Happy that I was taking an interest in their full repertoire, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">she promptly fetched me a couple of those to try too. What a nice girl. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">At the next </span><span style="font-family:arial;">winery the woman pouring the tastings was amused to find that I'd arrived with a 2-for-1 voucher that </span><span style="font-family:arial;">enabled</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> me to sample their full range of whites as well as their lovely reds. That hadn't </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbwuyxAtW1WlTgfMXXw6DKTCRKx75argrzycapMqIjzJ3-CpXUJT73SFG022_9B1l5Eq-S42YBOpx_BMcGEzp8MYZc0KuCvNawwfp6Wzw2muaUFLaUwr-MyY7byiXIOS6r65kcnJrohnGU/s1600/red+wine.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 58px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbwuyxAtW1WlTgfMXXw6DKTCRKx75argrzycapMqIjzJ3-CpXUJT73SFG022_9B1l5Eq-S42YBOpx_BMcGEzp8MYZc0KuCvNawwfp6Wzw2muaUFLaUwr-MyY7byiXIOS6r65kcnJrohnGU/s320/red+wine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722602982422793154" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">happened </span><span style="font-family:arial;">before, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">she said, and so spent a couple of minutes deciding which order to pour them so </span><span style="font-family:arial;">as not to "overload" my palate. I had a lovely afternoon tasting those and was especially </span><span style="font-family:arial;">enamoured</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">with </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the one she'd chosen to "finish me off" with. An appropriate choice of words it </span><span style="font-family:arial;">turned out, as I </span><span style="font-family:arial;">soon found </span><span style="font-family:arial;">myself craving a nap.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpXuTS-2EDH7RDIUEMmPHSRfHOFDc6inBdTt38PgtipM3qbaDWng9vSUEZZGrvK4O4NHvJDvy9kSLG-Lhh3S5jpexjnwKh8VH8Cb7Fks621HsyAUSZGKxjeE5Yz8rK6xiujUi8_WKmtnfD/s1600/geyser2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpXuTS-2EDH7RDIUEMmPHSRfHOFDc6inBdTt38PgtipM3qbaDWng9vSUEZZGrvK4O4NHvJDvy9kSLG-Lhh3S5jpexjnwKh8VH8Cb7Fks621HsyAUSZGKxjeE5Yz8rK6xiujUi8_WKmtnfD/s320/geyser2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722601593433423058" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">The next day, feeling slightly groggy, I was a little concerned when Claire announced that there was a "geezer up the road" she wanted to see. It was soon made clear that she was referring to a hot water geyser and that there was indeed one just a couple of miles away. It was called "Old Faithful" but I feel I must stress that it wasn't the famous "Old Faithful" which resides in </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Yellowstone </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Park, Wyoming. No, this was a much smaller chap that lived just outside <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Calistago</span>, California. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">But, to be fair, he was very regular. Every seven minutes as it turned out. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9VnoW09HgBC9I0U8vIkT8fqKzW9lwEYDc_0rz7MXWuNWXDX-WUeTMQFbtUMz0c8onirF6w0UfYM7I93AHARY3-Wl8IZ_kYpFFAqeWo19YWHPK40fy5lnurjCnm7EbTyGP6NuHHmLWwCHK/s1600/geyser1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9VnoW09HgBC9I0U8vIkT8fqKzW9lwEYDc_0rz7MXWuNWXDX-WUeTMQFbtUMz0c8onirF6w0UfYM7I93AHARY3-Wl8IZ_kYpFFAqeWo19YWHPK40fy5lnurjCnm7EbTyGP6NuHHmLWwCHK/s320/geyser1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722601241037819042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">In fact, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">with such regularity </span><span style="font-family:arial;">did the gush of hot water spurt </span><span style="font-family:arial;">out of the ground that, as a natural cynic, I </span><span style="font-family:arial;">couldn't help </span><span style="font-family:arial;">wondering whether it wasn't being 'assisted' in some way. I'm assured it wasn't…</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKaLUq_nE_7O17SVe7vFMiEn5fJF0a-iVDecW3TS27LyEE-cazx4FFW0-adE68PnHCk-bDovoroLqQQ-hM9HKiojdYjj0XjjGiG-ScsDOe2cOeKu-nYaGk2gKvpn25Wa-Yf1sSS1PX4Nn/s1600/mendocino.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKaLUq_nE_7O17SVe7vFMiEn5fJF0a-iVDecW3TS27LyEE-cazx4FFW0-adE68PnHCk-bDovoroLqQQ-hM9HKiojdYjj0XjjGiG-ScsDOe2cOeKu-nYaGk2gKvpn25Wa-Yf1sSS1PX4Nn/s320/mendocino.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722600784478639074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Next, we drove </span><span style="font-family:arial;">up the coast to the quaint little cliff-top town of Mendocino to go whale watching. Each year, from February to April, Grey Whales migrate north along the coast and there is a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">great opportunity to spot them doing so from the cliffs. I was very excited by this, though that's probably because in my head I had images of whales leaping out of the sea in slow motion or, at the very least, a big flash of tail fin like you used to see in those <span style="font-style: italic;">Athena</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEislRwQq7xa6k2dDZ-0aNjKpstdPtaoTFFQkpSCDTrv6z7BvjVnUYvWQyKW3WTlvbVE4MmUNHsCPMLnCtjG_fsqISgrKqTkHrL3W2SkBV0_CwRG0M7kZMMcA_gIJFbvYC6BcOUUy7RXo6zc/s1600/cliff.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEislRwQq7xa6k2dDZ-0aNjKpstdPtaoTFFQkpSCDTrv6z7BvjVnUYvWQyKW3WTlvbVE4MmUNHsCPMLnCtjG_fsqISgrKqTkHrL3W2SkBV0_CwRG0M7kZMMcA_gIJFbvYC6BcOUUy7RXo6zc/s320/cliff.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722599653191408434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> posters of the 1980s. After staring at a lifeless ocean for an hour or so, however, you find yourself desperate to see anything that is </span><span style="font-family:arial;">remotely different to crashing waves. "Look at those seals!" Claire shouted at one point. "Oh wow!" I cried as I excitedly fired off about a hundred photographs of what would </span><span style="font-family:arial;">turn out to </span><span style="font-family:arial;">be some large clumps of floating </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvl9wHSofzmTdlmpE6Hn1RCTQzuubHRy9WcdNGLP0bTkoqU1JoIC99egcc7qrfL9QRgN-ONRY52ae_sdRMInnUuphstjuOtFLAuvn4OI3DL1gKSY1zm-rHyfwrU33wu-X5vHHe0bPBBf7P/s1600/whale+watch.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 50px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvl9wHSofzmTdlmpE6Hn1RCTQzuubHRy9WcdNGLP0bTkoqU1JoIC99egcc7qrfL9QRgN-ONRY52ae_sdRMInnUuphstjuOtFLAuvn4OI3DL1gKSY1zm-rHyfwrU33wu-X5vHHe0bPBBf7P/s320/whale+watch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722599334126421410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">seaweed. A little while later we found ourselves mesmerised by a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">seagull. But, eventually, our patience paid off – we </span><span style="font-family:arial;">saw </span><span style="font-family:arial;">some <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> seals, Claire spotted a couple </span><span style="font-family:arial;">of dolphins and, in the </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtZFH8eZ6_egnnQ68IDtbM7hllHZKGHpmrYVEj1MbyCL8tRt4-byxMk4TmJC4ivqABa8bkzdwz1L5FIB6f0emq4IJhd2dgWZQ_QkpJHeCh97sA-Y2XoAnJpBZk-vyhyphenhyphenkJK1X_bgNnAAGi/s1600/seals.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 52px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtZFH8eZ6_egnnQ68IDtbM7hllHZKGHpmrYVEj1MbyCL8tRt4-byxMk4TmJC4ivqABa8bkzdwz1L5FIB6f0emq4IJhd2dgWZQ_QkpJHeCh97sA-Y2XoAnJpBZk-vyhyphenhyphenkJK1X_bgNnAAGi/s320/seals.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722598990409995202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">middle distance, we saw the distinctive plumes of water being ejected from the blowholes of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">about four or five Grey </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Whales as they made their way to Alaska. Not quite </span><span style="font-family:arial;">glossy poster-worthy </span><span style="font-family:arial;">scenes but absolutely amazing nonetheless. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LYqH8owkRLtY8ZHky_hzH_ZS3EB7PycW59SDPTsCl6jSFI1wa0JbJf93HcfERxBDXmP2IRsKPm9WeuiDSSpuxmmXZ18fvtr_d_yWN3D5dKupkKEeo3Q6TKlsXxwMIQLjVDKilOcRCGjP/s1600/glass+beach+1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LYqH8owkRLtY8ZHky_hzH_ZS3EB7PycW59SDPTsCl6jSFI1wa0JbJf93HcfERxBDXmP2IRsKPm9WeuiDSSpuxmmXZ18fvtr_d_yWN3D5dKupkKEeo3Q6TKlsXxwMIQLjVDKilOcRCGjP/s320/glass+beach+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722598511391599778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">One of my favourite places this week was Glass Beach at Fort Bragg. Unbelievably, during the 1940s and 50s, this area's local residents used to dump all their rubbish straight into the sea. Everything from cans to cookers to cars were just flung off the cliff. Then in the 60s, they came to their </span><span style="font-family:arial;">senses and started trying to clean up the area. The legacy of this mindlessness</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ZtUI7J0e2o81FnMcf-yZ61F6XamsBkBfrZmb4AdL1acZRtEk86T15-ZNHwNjf2Vn4DUwMq0XGZEDDrsL0dkreacsOW2-_S5JEHCFMm05j_gV1PuIL2dyCkfXhRWU5ErljPZJ7xJ9EjU_/s1600/glass+beach+2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ZtUI7J0e2o81FnMcf-yZ61F6XamsBkBfrZmb4AdL1acZRtEk86T15-ZNHwNjf2Vn4DUwMq0XGZEDDrsL0dkreacsOW2-_S5JEHCFMm05j_gV1PuIL2dyCkfXhRWU5ErljPZJ7xJ9EjU_/s320/glass+beach+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722598118207447682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> is now, strangely, a place of surreal beauty. Over the years all the glass that was dumped here (jars, bottles, windows) </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih7p02KOrGnSHaTeSbWLArVCqJNTrL2PHoD9Y2Ac67aQ0D_79pj6q7ZgPMdJn2NylsWQ8p1W_Fod5GK6F88Wl_r3vdpoydZBg5ZIksueCsOKJ51Ls5vNpwZaBFIGgpp4TW_yedft4yyzbD/s1600/glass+cooker.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih7p02KOrGnSHaTeSbWLArVCqJNTrL2PHoD9Y2Ac67aQ0D_79pj6q7ZgPMdJn2NylsWQ8p1W_Fod5GK6F88Wl_r3vdpoydZBg5ZIksueCsOKJ51Ls5vNpwZaBFIGgpp4TW_yedft4yyzbD/s320/glass+cooker.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722597707193344562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">has been broken down and then smoothed off by the motion of the waves to create </span><span style="font-family:arial;">a</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> whole beach of clear glass 'pebbles' that give the place its name. Jewels of green, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">brown and clear glass glisten in the tide and it's actually very pretty. Not so pretty, but weirdly</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6rnp7reda32rbREMVpCpJx47lIA8fayA3jTKim7sWzEXgSLkpfpKuZT1HZFilvw6_J3F-Q4VWRExRoF75kuFqojp4WvHuNuNKCAuZfNEmZ9gRKM-_WrTtUGn9Guy1XipJEuM3MhhDyhnc/s1600/glass+axle.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6rnp7reda32rbREMVpCpJx47lIA8fayA3jTKim7sWzEXgSLkpfpKuZT1HZFilvw6_J3F-Q4VWRExRoF75kuFqojp4WvHuNuNKCAuZfNEmZ9gRKM-_WrTtUGn9Guy1XipJEuM3MhhDyhnc/s320/glass+axle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722597261583552994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">fascinating, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">is the random assortment of old rubbish and scrap metal that has become </span><span style="font-family:arial;">encased in the </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ_VJAsoVrbfbPj57SOC8f54bGl1MXWUF9OyXVkuZdc0i75tLCvxdJEQXuweC96Ia9utYGJ0venvhX1ZD0ululpbfSbEe_lXHrqr6hUDBysz67toQb2SnAYBaXXjT5NacmVhaRO-Z59pCt/s1600/glass+shoe.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ_VJAsoVrbfbPj57SOC8f54bGl1MXWUF9OyXVkuZdc0i75tLCvxdJEQXuweC96Ia9utYGJ0venvhX1ZD0ululpbfSbEe_lXHrqr6hUDBysz67toQb2SnAYBaXXjT5NacmVhaRO-Z59pCt/s320/glass+shoe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722596839681724386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">rocks here. We spotted spark plugs, engine cogs, the rear axle of a truck, a rifle </span><span style="font-family:arial;">bullet and even the odd shoe poking out of the rock pools and cliff walls. The irony is that these days the authorities are trying to stop souvenir hunters <span style="font-style: italic;">removing</span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"> stuff from the beach! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There are a lot of Giant Redwoods in this coastal area of northern California, and </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQy9Ckjh_a6RqoVWoxq62czn_7myeXyws7AAiUJ_9ZjvlTQ3jDEt5xPiuZiu3ivRayV1ElkQ_b-GVA9JVAdEahnH8iTB6D9WB3dTAoZasIWTK-3PFiJM4pKGAudJQAY6z91lp1DMkLdheD/s1600/log+house.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 47px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQy9Ckjh_a6RqoVWoxq62czn_7myeXyws7AAiUJ_9ZjvlTQ3jDEt5xPiuZiu3ivRayV1ElkQ_b-GVA9JVAdEahnH8iTB6D9WB3dTAoZasIWTK-3PFiJM4pKGAudJQAY6z91lp1DMkLdheD/s320/log+house.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722595576642910850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">there seems to be a sort of local tradition of seeing how many <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">wacky</span> ways you can make these majestic trees into a tacky tourist attraction. We saw one tree that actually had a little gift shop built into the trunk </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and another felled trunk that had been hollowed out and turned into a house. At a town called </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJyNA2bEGGm_RS0cEKbQkIny_wZ3bsgc6NPc3N7ppS3IO1Li27EAs_SiOcTOtmQwiWN6UtipNshF4NxXf1iRPA8UaRdHEAGBL3V8OjjGHKr6TfmKF4ImG-Zm1cLOyVts-e6mYss_EuVFny/s1600/injun.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 45px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJyNA2bEGGm_RS0cEKbQkIny_wZ3bsgc6NPc3N7ppS3IO1Li27EAs_SiOcTOtmQwiWN6UtipNshF4NxXf1iRPA8UaRdHEAGBL3V8OjjGHKr6TfmKF4ImG-Zm1cLOyVts-e6mYss_EuVFny/s320/injun.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722594541079874866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Leggett</span> we found a "drive-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">thru</span> tree" – I actually liked this one but sadly the hole </span><span style="font-family:arial;">wasn't big enough to allow our RV through. And we were appalled by "Confusion Hill" a sort of theme</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO8V0GjpXw8QO3xxJdVszk_FcdsPuxZqR__CscxO9G-dpxZSigXM-lYN8pECDw8stGx-PLPfBO9d-dT5FvyEXgLi6xikg7-K7Q5t8kiKScfJzsy3EqgmiZ7EAUIA-RRVBvg7aSMSjW0Ugi/s1600/drive+thru.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO8V0GjpXw8QO3xxJdVszk_FcdsPuxZqR__CscxO9G-dpxZSigXM-lYN8pECDw8stGx-PLPfBO9d-dT5FvyEXgLi6xikg7-K7Q5t8kiKScfJzsy3EqgmiZ7EAUIA-RRVBvg7aSMSjW0Ugi/s320/drive+thru.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722594036542438546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">park where lots</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">of trees have been carved into all sorts of nonsense. The "confusion" for me was why these people thought it was OK to whittle a 2,000-year-old tree into a gaudy totem pole featuring juggling </span><span style="font-family:arial;">clown-bears </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmBxknDcnxPNPXsaLXF0x_BQbHLIqwYxGd8bIXaFPjYpWXACLU3ca7ffhdWdTwweRqMThjdt0yU2-exJEcNku5ihE9P3cBnTT7CIEFCGtIRf2pzLgdjXtVZhl2QjB-23KO-Y_g-p-4RYUA/s1600/confusion.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 69px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmBxknDcnxPNPXsaLXF0x_BQbHLIqwYxGd8bIXaFPjYpWXACLU3ca7ffhdWdTwweRqMThjdt0yU2-exJEcNku5ihE9P3cBnTT7CIEFCGtIRf2pzLgdjXtVZhl2QjB-23KO-Y_g-p-4RYUA/s320/confusion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722593572566245634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">and the like. Sometimes, simply naming a tree seems to draw people in. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">We visited a tree which was named "The Grandfather", I think due to it being exceptionally wide</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZk1eLnWxESSZFIfR_cjzyb5QNQ3fWs9z2SkxYEYrEgeiCr1Zy9vMaCbioUqKw4Q-SkcONEGIU39YSYAsDrUKasIqujbcWW3ssbt6V3NwcCLgjg13jwl1E-k9YVID1HTeTrUlIAddUR5E/s1600/grandfather.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZk1eLnWxESSZFIfR_cjzyb5QNQ3fWs9z2SkxYEYrEgeiCr1Zy9vMaCbioUqKw4Q-SkcONEGIU39YSYAsDrUKasIqujbcWW3ssbt6V3NwcCLgjg13jwl1E-k9YVID1HTeTrUlIAddUR5E/s320/grandfather.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722593017652228866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> – a comparison that I'm sure a lot of grandfathers might take umbrage at. To really appreciate </span><span style="font-family:arial;">these mammoth trees, however, I</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> recommend driving along "Avenue Of The Giants", a wonderful 30-mile twisting road through the beautiful</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAIHIJR8cH8igdLK8J_w0G6rydQgt4lbmnoOBGuTYt-Lln1EpkMv7MSYeU2rN9GRcBI3UfgGBCsd2Xulu_b9KDT_EYA_nQvuG5QKiHE3_v3-eSqm2BADhgOKZu_AdkwSJC3-HU7D4kX2dN/s1600/giants2.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 60px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAIHIJR8cH8igdLK8J_w0G6rydQgt4lbmnoOBGuTYt-Lln1EpkMv7MSYeU2rN9GRcBI3UfgGBCsd2Xulu_b9KDT_EYA_nQvuG5QKiHE3_v3-eSqm2BADhgOKZu_AdkwSJC3-HU7D4kX2dN/s320/giants2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722592480504729842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikRfnL_JMrpF5sgSItxEHvR8YKQ-XGjl4h7ePZL16pnvStpjGHsDz-YMNL3ZC1zdOVwANh_KYa83rY6u0XmFkRHVbIqf9RQxIHCHa5rRbqsE9QWXwyeI3XfpY4g9Rg7XB3AuLgne__ca-s/s1600/giants1.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 60px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikRfnL_JMrpF5sgSItxEHvR8YKQ-XGjl4h7ePZL16pnvStpjGHsDz-YMNL3ZC1zdOVwANh_KYa83rY6u0XmFkRHVbIqf9RQxIHCHa5rRbqsE9QWXwyeI3XfpY4g9Rg7XB3AuLgne__ca-s/s320/giants1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722592060489889698" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">redwood groves. We got out half way along and went for a short trek through the </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm2ChQo3cKkuBvf4sPvEwbI3b0WokAPvKz8urlTzO7LbTV8Z9coAmpoLksx0TMRcRdAM4pPvPWDWlzt89PGqtxqjJl8v6BDRKYNtHEywDgz84ageEQG1c5uGHAmBUvDTQqCXLV4zAYnZpG/s1600/giants3.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm2ChQo3cKkuBvf4sPvEwbI3b0WokAPvKz8urlTzO7LbTV8Z9coAmpoLksx0TMRcRdAM4pPvPWDWlzt89PGqtxqjJl8v6BDRKYNtHEywDgz84ageEQG1c5uGHAmBUvDTQqCXLV4zAYnZpG/s320/giants3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722591611766927954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">prehistoric forest and it was genuinely awe-inspiring. You really feel like you've been shrunk. So, America, put down the chainsaw and go for a walk. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >BURGER OF THE WEEK</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvFAY1OuXbgLgyF3JZlh76NNRp9uPcoN0T6IFXmY6_0vn1M65-DwN1avZ-E6LVajqy6FOeAtmslOavDQe9rcvB6PhYOfKuZUAyNXDVOcyBhSA5RISmBCZaMNQHN_HmTswV0etAA0mR-1Co/s1600/05+JD%252Bcoke+bbq1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 76px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvFAY1OuXbgLgyF3JZlh76NNRp9uPcoN0T6IFXmY6_0vn1M65-DwN1avZ-E6LVajqy6FOeAtmslOavDQe9rcvB6PhYOfKuZUAyNXDVOcyBhSA5RISmBCZaMNQHN_HmTswV0etAA0mR-1Co/s320/05+JD%252Bcoke+bbq1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722590938715305650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Jack And Coke BBQ Burger</span> – this one is all about the sauce. A half pound burger, bacon, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Cheddar cheese and "tobacco onions" </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvsy7EI-tcAWZ96IkMFoGH3p_zaGFay-XxTTJO70nAjrwfx7dXiYKLp8eygerH1cJmQOnZ8LgYCYn98VVJZrZx-uM20AQdamtFaF3BwNvCDwwJBO7okDItDMcoxEdcrh7FL5WJWNEPvl_d/s1600/05+JD%252Bcoke+bbq2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 101px; height: 26px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvsy7EI-tcAWZ96IkMFoGH3p_zaGFay-XxTTJO70nAjrwfx7dXiYKLp8eygerH1cJmQOnZ8LgYCYn98VVJZrZx-uM20AQdamtFaF3BwNvCDwwJBO7okDItDMcoxEdcrh7FL5WJWNEPvl_d/s320/05+JD%252Bcoke+bbq2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722590418653621490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">with a Jack </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Daniels and Coca Cola barbecue sauce. Superb.</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-56892814382876411002012-03-18T00:55:00.031-07:002012-03-18T01:48:35.709-07:00Basket cases<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk_8Ym0Ww72DMUcqtfvOuG0psikBqmowWQaBg7ifWwkC9QkZmKiGNvvqdqbiWL256v4vqVSK9ZQUD_qxZDGf6RJu1a9qUEoBT7jCd_RdfNp4zv2By0Khtt55IAubXLN-GOlCBVUi8eNmHI/s1600/yosemite.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 82px; height: 61px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk_8Ym0Ww72DMUcqtfvOuG0psikBqmowWQaBg7ifWwkC9QkZmKiGNvvqdqbiWL256v4vqVSK9ZQUD_qxZDGf6RJu1a9qUEoBT7jCd_RdfNp4zv2By0Khtt55IAubXLN-GOlCBVUi8eNmHI/s320/yosemite.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721153086989360066" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">For me, Yosemite is a bit like <span style="font-style: italic;">The Beatles</span>. Because so many people insist that <span style="font-style: italic;">The Beatles</span> were the best band ever, eventually everyone just accepts that as fact. People are worried to point out that, actually, while <span style="font-style: italic;">The Beatles</span> were a competent four-piece beat combo with some pleasant </span><span style="font-family:arial;">songs, the title of "best band ever" is a purely subjective one. Some people might think the same of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Rolling Stones</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">Queen</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">Brotherhood </span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Of Man</span>. Possibly. So it is with </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Yosemite </span><span style="font-family:arial;">National Park. So many people told us we "just had to go there", "it's an </span><span style="font-family:arial;">amazing </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3OvjypSZzX7xv2yT8moYr5Z7QY0j8F331T-JH2FW5MxCCsHmbRxK5-gmrsOThdcm-vrObTwzSA0SwDWeMZnS1xF4QNUcEOM7otDIjR4IGxwiQx9aQ7YRa2RmWg4uZiSi53IXaEc4YtIvu/s1600/stream.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3OvjypSZzX7xv2yT8moYr5Z7QY0j8F331T-JH2FW5MxCCsHmbRxK5-gmrsOThdcm-vrObTwzSA0SwDWeMZnS1xF4QNUcEOM7otDIjR4IGxwiQx9aQ7YRa2RmWg4uZiSi53IXaEc4YtIvu/s320/stream.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721152825670428370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">place" or "it'll blow your socks off" that the pressure was on to actually get there and see </span><span style="font-family:arial;">what all the fuss </span><span style="font-family:arial;">was about. And while it is a lovely and </span><span style="font-family:arial;">beautiful place, I'm afraid my socks remained </span><span style="font-family:arial;">firmly on </span><span style="font-family:arial;">for my whole time there. Perhaps my expectations were just </span><span style="font-family:arial;">built up too </span><span style="font-family:arial;">much </span><span style="font-family:arial;">– </span><span style="font-family:arial;">maybe I was expecting rivers of gold and grazing unicorns or </span><span style="font-family:arial;">something. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Instead I </span><span style="font-family:arial;">got the equivalent of "Octopus's Garden" and "Yellow Submarine". I'm </span><span style="font-family:arial;">sure that </span><span style="font-family:arial;">it was once an amazing wilderness, awash with unexplored natural beauty, </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUj6C2fziPsTlXx-Jn7bzSqpthPpgQA1iwdmqad6Jt1CpBbE4c9wbZtxnnB5CjNd1SPOLZdMNwrf-kgTP00lA2g5WLZrEun8wFwTbqNu_q5vp2d2ZraNxIlZEOWruucnJOUZLhGFvMWQir/s1600/bird.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUj6C2fziPsTlXx-Jn7bzSqpthPpgQA1iwdmqad6Jt1CpBbE4c9wbZtxnnB5CjNd1SPOLZdMNwrf-kgTP00lA2g5WLZrEun8wFwTbqNu_q5vp2d2ZraNxIlZEOWruucnJOUZLhGFvMWQir/s320/bird.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721152579269887570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">but now it just seems a bit too manicured. You can walk through the forest on neat </span><span style="font-family:arial;">tarmac pathways with a little wooden barrier each side. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTkBQcUCLqcLTUecy_rTyqm5ONd8J8J-_Qr0HNAkUHZgvpO6FJCzcc7wk7ouaGec06VQiftzUVutMxcPVZDImyMNOCEYCrMwdH4K8ByK8Z4N3DxVDfkSFmzn7drNPuzgoOdJTbzAliexLy/s1600/rocks.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTkBQcUCLqcLTUecy_rTyqm5ONd8J8J-_Qr0HNAkUHZgvpO6FJCzcc7wk7ouaGec06VQiftzUVutMxcPVZDImyMNOCEYCrMwdH4K8ByK8Z4N3DxVDfkSFmzn7drNPuzgoOdJTbzAliexLy/s320/rocks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721152379592870002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">You can drive along immaculate </span><span style="font-family:arial;">roads to designated view points to look at designated views. It's a bit too neat and tidy and over-managed. There are even rocks with signs nailed to them saying "Keep off the rocks."</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nDRhWO0m4hweBeNn4rSGhWwpngJ32LA8v4Dltl4QmhBUFrtYWR_xGCmUZL6o20tW7SGL1x1DICUtC0-SGw6GeAFr2eAubXBDSliha48Ah7yDeCZjNVxzkd5d6pRp9wQJVYbhtpfYEK9m/s1600/danger.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 35px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nDRhWO0m4hweBeNn4rSGhWwpngJ32LA8v4Dltl4QmhBUFrtYWR_xGCmUZL6o20tW7SGL1x1DICUtC0-SGw6GeAFr2eAubXBDSliha48Ah7yDeCZjNVxzkd5d6pRp9wQJVYbhtpfYEK9m/s320/danger.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721152103543949986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Which </span><span style="font-family:arial;">brings me to the subject of America's obsession with health and safety. The </span><span style="font-family:arial;">over-protective </span><span style="font-family:arial;">mollycoddling that goes on here is mind-blowing. I think "Nanny" should be </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the 51st state. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">There are warning signs everywhere. There are nearly 40 just on the van we've </span><span style="font-family:arial;">hired (see attached picture for just a few of them). And sometimes it just makes no sense. For </span><span style="font-family:arial;">example, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">you could be hurtling along a road at a quite legitimate 60mph when suddenly you get to a bend </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and are ordered by a sign to drop your speed to 20 or even 15mph. I can walk faster </span><span style="font-family:arial;">than that. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">It must be more dangerous to suddenly </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihn5RcJNi3J7efJ5RQxW6rJKH0b7lxm_JtdpsavMYi2dLFOvlxPgJEHbV7IDwD0uUTtImlqB8BJKvrefp1JE-FzolvTJ4FsLgj3BSEUl8NGd3Dtq1NcMS-L1AEqvfXsJljlNoHUwrgP-9f/s1600/slow.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihn5RcJNi3J7efJ5RQxW6rJKH0b7lxm_JtdpsavMYi2dLFOvlxPgJEHbV7IDwD0uUTtImlqB8BJKvrefp1JE-FzolvTJ4FsLgj3BSEUl8NGd3Dtq1NcMS-L1AEqvfXsJljlNoHUwrgP-9f/s320/slow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721151791920226226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">have to slam your brakes on – it's like doing</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> an emergency stop every few miles. And yet, weirdly, this is in a country where you don't have to wear a motorcycle helmet in over half the states. Like I said, it makes no sense.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_vypkcwbmOxdAHpf_XHDxZ57ffNpOtWgt7sI6Czt-iFDwXCDg7HuJabjcCknlx6MGflhkm66p_k4_x6-ia3a-pC4na8k1bDWwo2GnB4EojiYxH2kojTzyR9UHPjYrPVH-U8JMiF8o3Zdu/s1600/beach.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_vypkcwbmOxdAHpf_XHDxZ57ffNpOtWgt7sI6Czt-iFDwXCDg7HuJabjcCknlx6MGflhkm66p_k4_x6-ia3a-pC4na8k1bDWwo2GnB4EojiYxH2kojTzyR9UHPjYrPVH-U8JMiF8o3Zdu/s320/beach.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721151523437301378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">When one thinks of California, "The Golden State", one thinks of sunshine and surfing and </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Beach Boys</span>. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">And yet the California we seem to have been driving through this week could</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> be twinned </span><span style="font-family:arial;">with </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Manchester. It's been grey, wet and miserable. We got to the Pacific coast and it was difficult to know</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> whether it was wetter on land or in the ocean itself. We'd come to Año Nuevo State </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Park, just north of Santa Cruz, to see Elephant Seals, a creature that has no </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5fLY8ixpFVKrli0-Xh-wzFZqn8HZR2gdgbehS-8A_yvzye6LNOOC2R0DmRs9wXnQZnMC1eiv1_o2cMHEM0G-ybDPlOlHGajY4LwP72qSGhzHMY2_pqA9sON5u6bVjgVSt9RXnTNruoDud/s1600/seal+pup.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 52px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5fLY8ixpFVKrli0-Xh-wzFZqn8HZR2gdgbehS-8A_yvzye6LNOOC2R0DmRs9wXnQZnMC1eiv1_o2cMHEM0G-ybDPlOlHGajY4LwP72qSGhzHMY2_pqA9sON5u6bVjgVSt9RXnTNruoDud/s320/seal+pup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721151252288260834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">concerns </span><span style="font-family:arial;">about wetness whatsoever. As with a lot of these nature spotting expeditions, I was expecting </span><span style="font-family:arial;">there to be a disappointing "no show" from our mammalian friends – but I was very</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">wrong. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">At first it looked like the beach we'd walked down to was just covered in big boulders. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">But then some </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgce6XT9yn2XoYTIeXy_59mW1KO3BcQafdXbs__C1qGQUc5EpyRe0RC11QgD_2TwVdSS46OjLs_LTmlh-uXr_qBVkH9jjQ8sMYd9_mKaR4jSwWUvISWJPsrD9pqE7DYwVXYP6uUxr-pn_Ub/s1600/cute+pup.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 71px; height: 53px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgce6XT9yn2XoYTIeXy_59mW1KO3BcQafdXbs__C1qGQUc5EpyRe0RC11QgD_2TwVdSS46OjLs_LTmlh-uXr_qBVkH9jjQ8sMYd9_mKaR4jSwWUvISWJPsrD9pqE7DYwVXYP6uUxr-pn_Ub/s320/cute+pup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721151003808763250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">of those boulders started wriggling up the dunes towards us! There were hundreds of them. After giving birth, the female seals all head off out to </span><span style="font-family:arial;">sea leaving their young pups to fend for themselves and that was what we were seeing – hundreds of bleating pups trying to learn</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjljY8Bb29DNqLLyEvfkIwpB-GEjSDzeLV0LmwEY5ieF9txPaxhEpV7aWU8L31p3w_GIrcwp8ZZn22CRRip1SM-wYGPsdW5xjt7-P-4bTungysT4uTimfP5cGFypt5AnRtAhfNNTW0i3fD_/s1600/point.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjljY8Bb29DNqLLyEvfkIwpB-GEjSDzeLV0LmwEY5ieF9txPaxhEpV7aWU8L31p3w_GIrcwp8ZZn22CRRip1SM-wYGPsdW5xjt7-P-4bTungysT4uTimfP5cGFypt5AnRtAhfNNTW0i3fD_/s320/point.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721150716299434242" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> the ways of the world with no parental guidance at all. In amongst these confused little blubber balls were a few big, ugly </span><span style="font-family:arial;">(and I mean UGLY) bull seals. These randy, lumbering behemoths were hanging around in the vain hope that there </span><span style="font-family:arial;">might be a </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNXfmh5TvVTJ170j5FKsQCDsqO-dA1qNwDYqV98PlvW0LqI-y7D8TZ532_NSkZfPvdZGKG_lGmHBlr5XmeUTJDJMQBSyVQRDPou_skuWD7s8mcArDB9-F9aK0dbcQEjJe2OWWh7DjhEXfA/s1600/yawn.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 70px; height: 46px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNXfmh5TvVTJ170j5FKsQCDsqO-dA1qNwDYqV98PlvW0LqI-y7D8TZ532_NSkZfPvdZGKG_lGmHBlr5XmeUTJDJMQBSyVQRDPou_skuWD7s8mcArDB9-F9aK0dbcQEjJe2OWWh7DjhEXfA/s320/yawn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721150457807408370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">few females left to cop off with – a bit like closing time at a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">nightclub in Swindon. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">This led to the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">distressing sight of three ton monsters, not too dissimilar to <span style="font-style: italic;">Jabba The Hutt</span>, trying to mount anything </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQWdRly44T9kTxVb6N-Rigd4WY3gxMxGFmNzHO3HhhZ3uunrnIXiBK6RAjZ13FOWMw0OTH0NMV04vn_d95CQdbmOrY4PW3Ep0g9oVxJKubnTPu4ZrEYbf4Dum06jehFoFRCCT4C8zCOpi/s1600/puprape.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 52px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQWdRly44T9kTxVb6N-Rigd4WY3gxMxGFmNzHO3HhhZ3uunrnIXiBK6RAjZ13FOWMw0OTH0NMV04vn_d95CQdbmOrY4PW3Ep0g9oVxJKubnTPu4ZrEYbf4Dum06jehFoFRCCT4C8zCOpi/s320/puprape.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721150126387567954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">that wriggled past – which was mostly screaming pup seals. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">It was horrific. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">We even saw a couple of big males fighting over a pup. There needs to be a social </span><span style="font-family:arial;">services department set up for Elephant Seal abuse. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLLM-PR722DdfGNJKu5bd38Q5jP8IXNyI2_WupenjhIji3zFtJ_ononoyMM-955Dql_36aoPdiCIvH8kw-T-oLaPDVOeB6sujxTkWudY9X-U0Rg9IZVTpsJSKb8MyPHUsywgK5PixHt1y/s1600/sanfran.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 70px; height: 52px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLLM-PR722DdfGNJKu5bd38Q5jP8IXNyI2_WupenjhIji3zFtJ_ononoyMM-955Dql_36aoPdiCIvH8kw-T-oLaPDVOeB6sujxTkWudY9X-U0Rg9IZVTpsJSKb8MyPHUsywgK5PixHt1y/s320/sanfran.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721149787714025170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">We </span><span style="font-family:arial;">continued up the coast to San Francisco and I instantly fell in love with it. Even in the </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja0bxtrzPBzpyavsWXBPynCa24Ba2zSVeeEt-OezwNZVKwkO2VZyzGDnzmh7Lbq8TF4dbrOdnzPcFMOerlzA1q9R5jbHq8qEeZkpWGOjwhUcBwECxtB2FMvmj49Waru0xNq68B5QRq_F83/s1600/bridge.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja0bxtrzPBzpyavsWXBPynCa24Ba2zSVeeEt-OezwNZVKwkO2VZyzGDnzmh7Lbq8TF4dbrOdnzPcFMOerlzA1q9R5jbHq8qEeZkpWGOjwhUcBwECxtB2FMvmj49Waru0xNq68B5QRq_F83/s320/bridge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721149491899683938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">rain it </span><span style="font-family:arial;">was everything I'd imagined from seeing films like <span style="font-style: italic;">Bullitt</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Dirty Harry</span>. I loved the steep hills </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and the old trams. I loved driving over the Golden Gate bridge and getting the ferry past Alcatraz Island. I loved walking along Fisherman's Wharf </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8VIXD_SPG7qYzbtZAMBKPICESavZXqjxnMyxtpPcQjoTcIC2nIOWovBzQCU_UAecw_Un7f9u0tmWrRS2_hCEXcoP44X5NQTNAzOu-8Sr8By6E089Ug286PcfDatY8vbw0tT5YyOl6gMk9/s1600/tram.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 70px; height: 92px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8VIXD_SPG7qYzbtZAMBKPICESavZXqjxnMyxtpPcQjoTcIC2nIOWovBzQCU_UAecw_Un7f9u0tmWrRS2_hCEXcoP44X5NQTNAzOu-8Sr8By6E089Ug286PcfDatY8vbw0tT5YyOl6gMk9/s320/tram.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721148528243185762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">(even though it was bit like a cheesy Blackpool seafront) and I loved Lombard Street with its grammatically incorrect claim to be "the crookedest street in the world". I even </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh448GH7v29mda0o8lW3zY03-Ywzw-Dt6fe5GyzJsr2602OkRHoG35GbCKM9y18IXU9WOLeh1HOrEDUEiGORmuMsHpe0wsOhk16GTv6t77WPkbbkI97CS5O2UJPC3qn4mlnSfDxjyuF-0x5/s1600/crooked.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 70px; height: 76px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh448GH7v29mda0o8lW3zY03-Ywzw-Dt6fe5GyzJsr2602OkRHoG35GbCKM9y18IXU9WOLeh1HOrEDUEiGORmuMsHpe0wsOhk16GTv6t77WPkbbkI97CS5O2UJPC3qn4mlnSfDxjyuF-0x5/s320/crooked.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721148192645866210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">loved that we couldn't find Chinatown for a while, despite it </span><span style="font-family:arial;">apparently being the biggest one outside of Asia. It was all brilliant. And then I met some sports fans...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Claire and </span><span style="font-family:arial;">I have been wanting to see some sort of big game while we are out here and it just so happened that there was a basketball game on while we were in San Francisco – we </span><span style="font-family:arial;">managed </span><span style="font-family:arial;">to get tickets to see The Golden State Warriors take on the Milwaukee Bucks. It turned </span><span style="font-family:arial;">out to be one of the most confusing nights of my life. We</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiGP5WavkaVvBsRdASHrronNKPwf-ICUr8E4YJG1BcY17TjbWVX1I9rwrUwxKzeeGYvwQyIc1MlTMbUxVyrdBQssqOi50zw6j7b3punWKjRs84Mfv4MOkZ-odetNe91gXbzW23QGeUbWu/s1600/lenny.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 66px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiGP5WavkaVvBsRdASHrronNKPwf-ICUr8E4YJG1BcY17TjbWVX1I9rwrUwxKzeeGYvwQyIc1MlTMbUxVyrdBQssqOi50zw6j7b3punWKjRs84Mfv4MOkZ-odetNe91gXbzW23QGeUbWu/s320/lenny.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721147796744152578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> entered the Oracle Arena and almost immediately found ourselves meeting, and getting an autograph from, NBA legend Lenny Wilkens. No, we didn't know who he was either. Then we found our seats. When we bought our tickets there were only a few left, so we ended up in the cheap seats at quite a high altitude</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> within the arena. So, given that it was a sellout, it was a surprise to see just how little the fans </span><span style="font-family:arial;">actually seemed to care about seeing the game itself. A lot of seats remained empty for </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIjtFu-RUs8aiNHr02KeQRGFC2QY5j1KViUoiiIJneY8YMVs3kKEjeTpJ1WctHp15kBjQCHrW3ghyEM7O069OppVtsMguif8IPRw8gIHF3B7J9P_p8GVF3SIs-NstdEPnlubMNZF2tEtDg/s1600/knitting.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIjtFu-RUs8aiNHr02KeQRGFC2QY5j1KViUoiiIJneY8YMVs3kKEjeTpJ1WctHp15kBjQCHrW3ghyEM7O069OppVtsMguif8IPRw8gIHF3B7J9P_p8GVF3SIs-NstdEPnlubMNZF2tEtDg/s320/knitting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721147512913598770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">a lot of the match – some people didn't turn up until the 3rd quarter, some left early, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">some didn't come at all. Of those who did turn up, about 90</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> per cent of them spent the whole match either eating large quantities of food or going to buy large </span><span style="font-family:arial;">quantities of food. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Nobody </span><span style="font-family:arial;">seemed able to sit still for longer than five minutes or stop eating for longer than </span><span style="font-family:arial;">three. Some people in the crowd didn't seem to realise there was even a game on, they spent the whole evening texting or talking in groups or playing video games. We even saw one woman knitting! </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI79GO7QT8V8dyUfKk3hcRel2TU2Btft89BIT1QHY2OchpmvThi6zyxvpSeKpS9-GQiHQOVrb6tl_eL-LLqtdSb90NTeNJxz8EazwlCx18QU0geS85-Ucb-6AO4iWbPskpSHyvQdijZIMg/s1600/cheerleaders.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 50px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI79GO7QT8V8dyUfKk3hcRel2TU2Btft89BIT1QHY2OchpmvThi6zyxvpSeKpS9-GQiHQOVrb6tl_eL-LLqtdSb90NTeNJxz8EazwlCx18QU0geS85-Ucb-6AO4iWbPskpSHyvQdijZIMg/s320/cheerleaders.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721146927990888786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Then there was the game itself. The match is broken into four 12-minute quarters so by my reckoning, game time should be 48 minutes. And yet the match somehow took two and a half hours. That's not an exaggeration. In between the fleeting moments of basketball, there are all sorts of things happening on on the court.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfL5JUA7pegedNvBylaNg4ivSjONiyf6dZs_jdDJmiA617-iShX5BPaIiVZM-L0YlHJPISOpWVgR2xnHdaKg6eKVg4GIT3T5Ur_aMt1565A0y4YD63bo3I0SBomCdlw_920gUhyphenhyphen54C74s/s1600/trampoline.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 57px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfL5JUA7pegedNvBylaNg4ivSjONiyf6dZs_jdDJmiA617-iShX5BPaIiVZM-L0YlHJPISOpWVgR2xnHdaKg6eKVg4GIT3T5Ur_aMt1565A0y4YD63bo3I0SBomCdlw_920gUhyphenhyphen54C74s/s320/trampoline.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721146580585925602" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> There are cheerleaders jumping around in hotpants</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> (not a bad thing), there was a display of "Filipino martial arts" (kids in pyjamas waving sticks at </span><span style="font-family:arial;">each other in </span><span style="font-family:arial;">slow motion), there were acrobats scoring baskets from a trampoline and there</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">was a midget giving away T-shirts. For the the food-obsessed crowd there were </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIyaHLSv9OqMIQTgiAbRl1xj9HOBEF3plYc2WLLGyyKVDvqhi7zUIk3Bb0lscinrCb_KrlAqbDdQhM1LK6g-Ld1InYRW3p3vwm4k94cVB6Rh_HRi2J0UVzkeqxIyLFATDEUwzieSOGUJew/s1600/midget.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 59px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIyaHLSv9OqMIQTgiAbRl1xj9HOBEF3plYc2WLLGyyKVDvqhi7zUIk3Bb0lscinrCb_KrlAqbDdQhM1LK6g-Ld1InYRW3p3vwm4k94cVB6Rh_HRi2J0UVzkeqxIyLFATDEUwzieSOGUJew/s320/midget.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721146174315856258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">some girls</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> randomly </span><span style="font-family:arial;">distributing pizzas and one whole seating section "won" <span style="font-style: italic;">Jack In The Box</span> vouchers. There was </span><span style="font-family:arial;">even a marriage proposal at half time. Another confusing element to the</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAWz1SUA1yTd9X3UbcjtEHJYVm86TwKr3lDVfgH2bQ3213guYVScGzZLQ6kzeu5-NCRNHrpdGE2yaiRCFHkiwl_WE7SQttEi-yp4OdDpCuuXS-wqtaxKNJ8cabz-ZNoRSBw6_wv150s_cY/s1600/screen+moments.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 54px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAWz1SUA1yTd9X3UbcjtEHJYVm86TwKr3lDVfgH2bQ3213guYVScGzZLQ6kzeu5-NCRNHrpdGE2yaiRCFHkiwl_WE7SQttEi-yp4OdDpCuuXS-wqtaxKNJ8cabz-ZNoRSBw6_wv150s_cY/s320/screen+moments.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721145824844160530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> evening was fan loyalty. The Warriors had recently traded one of their </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcQGZUTZ7m4hmtYZW7mDh4-V7Ou5w9rpgUsqll-asI-KjNcGBpRu8WJleT8K6Qh8GsirhZ2rw2x_nksaQ_9sLklloY8WCTbr0tmOZckMNA0HhXDJMn_uMQT4WGopagKU4vNDQbQWmZtal/s1600/ellis.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 64px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcQGZUTZ7m4hmtYZW7mDh4-V7Ou5w9rpgUsqll-asI-KjNcGBpRu8WJleT8K6Qh8GsirhZ2rw2x_nksaQ_9sLklloY8WCTbr0tmOZckMNA0HhXDJMn_uMQT4WGopagKU4vNDQbQWmZtal/s320/ellis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721145397078684082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">best players, Monta Ellis, to The Bucks and this was the</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> first time he'd been back playing against his old team. Now, if this was football in England you'd expect that player to have been vilified at every given opportunity, and yet </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQei1DLLSyfI2iGeHYuMNQAsTVui0MQYaluXct61dZPuTnjcAQQgJ7FTFoGUJnRNQ2W6Y74EIcDorD3ginqCH95BRr5KgG_FIzzR-HA08ghSaGua1O2QM_s1xrMAra_1D91OEa6OYFwDF/s1600/end+score.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQei1DLLSyfI2iGeHYuMNQAsTVui0MQYaluXct61dZPuTnjcAQQgJ7FTFoGUJnRNQ2W6Y74EIcDorD3ginqCH95BRr5KgG_FIzzR-HA08ghSaGua1O2QM_s1xrMAra_1D91OEa6OYFwDF/s320/end+score.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721144966546649474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Ellis was getting the biggest cheers of the night – from </span><span style="font-family:arial;">The Warriors fans. Even when he was scoring against The Warriors!</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> It was weird. In the </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLAYA15_7wr-jStNFZlcDF1NQcdYFTqLmVqeS9EaV89UpTtTnKpTtZWjjmJAJq46Q0PYtSc9GYtQSxM6hUoxRXN9hRg4ca2MnWx3GC5BsOOC5g5aetJqIxgPrpd9td4kSy4GEQide-zDnF/s1600/the+end.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLAYA15_7wr-jStNFZlcDF1NQcdYFTqLmVqeS9EaV89UpTtTnKpTtZWjjmJAJq46Q0PYtSc9GYtQSxM6hUoxRXN9hRg4ca2MnWx3GC5BsOOC5g5aetJqIxgPrpd9td4kSy4GEQide-zDnF/s320/the+end.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721144535265217410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">end The Warriors were beaten 120 to 98 but nobody really seemed to care. In fact half of the crowd had already left before the final klaxon. They'd probably gone to get something to eat.</span><br /><br /><span style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >BURGER OF THE WEEK</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyMNUpO68Hl7QerkdxqQqISJS28qqhRBIxZvqsL7iz9RGpEkCtIi96IkYJzq0d3kqdRS0N43UOUv_bOGTxD24Qzf769rtlrx5d95_fDbOFO9ju-JQ4V5Btd-vvxXy7wNKHc7wusM37Ofj/s1600/07+cheese+sandwich+burger+2.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 62px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyMNUpO68Hl7QerkdxqQqISJS28qqhRBIxZvqsL7iz9RGpEkCtIi96IkYJzq0d3kqdRS0N43UOUv_bOGTxD24Qzf769rtlrx5d95_fDbOFO9ju-JQ4V5Btd-vvxXy7wNKHc7wusM37Ofj/s320/07+cheese+sandwich+burger+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721143923915265106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">This one was nearly as hard to get my head around mentally as it was to get my mouth around physically. I give you the <span style="font-style: italic;">Grilled Cheddar Cheese Sandwich Burger</span>. Nice juicy burger, bacon, grilled onions and a "secret sauce" served between two grilled cheese sandwiches. That's right, instead of a bun, it came between TWO GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICHES! I could feel the wrong it was doing me with every mouthful.</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-70269055161666276422012-03-10T10:57:00.023-08:002012-03-10T11:40:11.678-08:00Life after Death (Valley)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYUi78YSZCxpLDuysvaMq-mEzQZTRfLEjKofjI24GPJD5beLTo22zxAYPv-DTyJWK_zHy2zHjUV3dL8k4dw0TJEk0VZgbGWNghTD7pBrX9306f26JBH0GggcKW4VvWcRGynWwPMK0Sovbc/s1600/stealth.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 64px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYUi78YSZCxpLDuysvaMq-mEzQZTRfLEjKofjI24GPJD5beLTo22zxAYPv-DTyJWK_zHy2zHjUV3dL8k4dw0TJEk0VZgbGWNghTD7pBrX9306f26JBH0GggcKW4VvWcRGynWwPMK0Sovbc/s320/stealth.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718354551693554802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">We were escorted out of Vegas by two B-2 "Stealth" Bombers. It's like they </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREbxGB48GaQrmL26mg3hwPKh4uaVdS-_EaNraF3H1hzqf7QdEiyRAPX73d0cZUU3qOb8J5JMJklKWuSCLi8mAe8TiWt2oSmy-KDntcRrUDcIAfFWAO5sBdWHratYEwt8DV0Kp2L4Do33S/s1600/P1110363.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREbxGB48GaQrmL26mg3hwPKh4uaVdS-_EaNraF3H1hzqf7QdEiyRAPX73d0cZUU3qOb8J5JMJklKWuSCLi8mAe8TiWt2oSmy-KDntcRrUDcIAfFWAO5sBdWHratYEwt8DV0Kp2L4Do33S/s320/P1110363.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718354363985829506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> wanted</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> us to leave. We took the hint. We wanted an antidote to the plastic flashiness of the gambling capital of the world, somewhere more naturally beautiful. And what could be more diametrically opposite than </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Death Valley? Death Valley is another world. It is literally like being on another </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglZC9nBe-Dpq2NOiuPUTKCRxmu6MvC2UVMnAw6qi5nCauQh20A_SD3fIhEJsgW4yf-oeNuw83Q-erh0u0WvRfs9SOcafxAM2HY4_jyp-QbRHKd0wknhn3-oACoAjCTBKP8UX1Z4tE8W2zF/s1600/P1110310.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglZC9nBe-Dpq2NOiuPUTKCRxmu6MvC2UVMnAw6qi5nCauQh20A_SD3fIhEJsgW4yf-oeNuw83Q-erh0u0WvRfs9SOcafxAM2HY4_jyp-QbRHKd0wknhn3-oACoAjCTBKP8UX1Z4tE8W2zF/s320/P1110310.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718353542931127490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">planet, </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG0oXnuLXoEI4hSPS6qZYH06AntFD5zZiBuy7UWZ5BZLkxoIoDe0VbSxRH-gHJIoxJ0EAiH5KOjVOMHeVr3XX_2fnHVbPaeZh8PTjY3W9-ob2FONoTX5TQB8K5Hz3ABIJC-rf9I3vSP6f8/s1600/P1110369.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG0oXnuLXoEI4hSPS6qZYH06AntFD5zZiBuy7UWZ5BZLkxoIoDe0VbSxRH-gHJIoxJ0EAiH5KOjVOMHeVr3XX_2fnHVbPaeZh8PTjY3W9-ob2FONoTX5TQB8K5Hz3ABIJC-rf9I3vSP6f8/s320/P1110369.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718353814861425394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">or at least those planets depicted in old <span style="font-style: italic;">Star Trek</span> episodes. One moment you can be</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> staring at surreal rock formations, the next you could be stood on an endless salt plain 300ft </span><span style="font-family:arial;">below sea</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> level. Or, like me, you can spend a lot of time worried that you've just been tricked into visiting </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpEUAeedPaInO6a2btHbqILOXgb4JY8WjTNPdWyW-d2lJ2JPI7Ik_uVWVI1cDlIMmjQB4gxWA82nheWiiB00jAsDLHIw90hkfCBUuWJ73kqsl4Fypr_Eok6mnJ3SIZozm9VYUs2b5tSRck/s1600/P1110378.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 51px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpEUAeedPaInO6a2btHbqILOXgb4JY8WjTNPdWyW-d2lJ2JPI7Ik_uVWVI1cDlIMmjQB4gxWA82nheWiiB00jAsDLHIw90hkfCBUuWJ73kqsl4Fypr_Eok6mnJ3SIZozm9VYUs2b5tSRck/s320/P1110378.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718353204263041986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">an enormous quarry. Of course there were </span><span style="font-family:arial;">stand out </span><span style="font-family:arial;">features: "Artist's </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdIcFU8UHryAuLtguIR_HkhGTBFQgRsP9XLtYIBtaIDAeGRTJyTXL8q2xgbjIBaiv_B0Ypy4k8sJgIpWs284Nd-DVkZg0Vq2q_niZQ5EB5rBm0vqdhstCuQEpWEXOcqlMs6BgwqbO3KzHo/s1600/P1110328.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdIcFU8UHryAuLtguIR_HkhGTBFQgRsP9XLtYIBtaIDAeGRTJyTXL8q2xgbjIBaiv_B0Ypy4k8sJgIpWs284Nd-DVkZg0Vq2q_niZQ5EB5rBm0vqdhstCuQEpWEXOcqlMs6BgwqbO3KzHo/s320/P1110328.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718352862386374434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Palette Canyon" where the rocks are an amazi</span><span style="font-family:arial;">ng variety of colours; </span><span style="font-family:arial;">"Mosaic Canyon" </span><span style="font-family:arial;">where small rock fragments have been crushed into the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">cliffs and polished by</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> centuries of flash floods to look, you know, a bit like mosaic tiles; and "Natural </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnOkSDKtAIDN4D12DvM-l_WcaSL-es4daCMeZhhD_1ggA5PPrFV3A32WFYyaogpVhgmYqIl1gxLXSzQ1mAoTNph02L6OHHBGJ7k-0Y6WaMpJw6t6atrP2zoyiayhgQ8cHQg529_kiUvCcd/s1600/P1110586.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnOkSDKtAIDN4D12DvM-l_WcaSL-es4daCMeZhhD_1ggA5PPrFV3A32WFYyaogpVhgmYqIl1gxLXSzQ1mAoTNph02L6OHHBGJ7k-0Y6WaMpJw6t6atrP2zoyiayhgQ8cHQg529_kiUvCcd/s320/P1110586.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718352516755881122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Bridge" which is like, er, a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">natural bridge of rock. There was basically a lot of rock. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKP_KTpAzg7CNtsniNMA35KmhDKfeefE40VC_QhE8zjQFMRaczLTwcTiCYWFQEl-8Y8p2d5HUEaTEyWZvyubdfCuBQkZauavtHLMEhuzniNhrrS1s21zqnVVEji4O6rTFLewaPBVHRkj-/s1600/death1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 57px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKP_KTpAzg7CNtsniNMA35KmhDKfeefE40VC_QhE8zjQFMRaczLTwcTiCYWFQEl-8Y8p2d5HUEaTEyWZvyubdfCuBQkZauavtHLMEhuzniNhrrS1s21zqnVVEji4O6rTFLewaPBVHRkj-/s320/death1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718352177577017154" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Too much rock. I was seeing a lot more rock than I needed to see. Are you <span style="font-style: italic;">sure</span> this isn't a quarry?</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhColg1nbfJIS8LKwfSxViRdqYSgFWUjeacotPE9Kh_W-vT7YoyJuWuSfnoYHXkvbmMeul-NlGBhp7K7kD2wPspb0SPkqGHlVlY6eGxXo1h2w5aSBjUw_c8r6WSVvI5jRqaAK_-V3fvoRE-/s1600/tree1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhColg1nbfJIS8LKwfSxViRdqYSgFWUjeacotPE9Kh_W-vT7YoyJuWuSfnoYHXkvbmMeul-NlGBhp7K7kD2wPspb0SPkqGHlVlY6eGxXo1h2w5aSBjUw_c8r6WSVvI5jRqaAK_-V3fvoRE-/s320/tree1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718351776179473426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">While we were in Death Quarry we met a very friendly German couple who seemed to be quite excited by the fact that we weren't American. They also told us, with some degree of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">enthusiasm, about a couple of places they'd been to and that we absolutely shouldn't miss. So, following their advice, we headed to Bristlecone Pine Forest, home to "the oldest trees on </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Earth!" There </span><span style="font-family:arial;">were two problems with this: firstly, there is some dispute over whether that cl</span><span style="font-family:arial;">aim is true; secondly, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the forest was closed for winter. It turns out </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhILVMQgAcZXbEuqJEQRMkCZwOg4dAjkT-xAbBE4xWEp_U_VjtTieo-v1eHCz-7OENs6XGcYNc74K_lULB1m2JHqTM5t4wOa4ddp2ehmZp9FUAaxmok9kGwSLFdeDjnJ1iI-4h_HQgUWql7/s1600/tree2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhILVMQgAcZXbEuqJEQRMkCZwOg4dAjkT-xAbBE4xWEp_U_VjtTieo-v1eHCz-7OENs6XGcYNc74K_lULB1m2JHqTM5t4wOa4ddp2ehmZp9FUAaxmok9kGwSLFdeDjnJ1iI-4h_HQgUWql7/s320/tree2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718351526150278514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">that the Bristlecone is the oldest</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">species</span> on </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Earth – meaning that these particular trees might not actually be the oldest, they're just related to them. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">All of which was academic for us anyway, of course, as we couldn't get in to see the buggers. And didn't we just see prehistoric trees a week or so ago? You can't get older than that surely.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA40PDRRJQQlB_CzoLHQIJOr2d5cAILzoPiaDq4DeAl-RSfqTw4gh463xStHoTJw-s09QWOzTPPlD6IVAGxNmuzp6F_fWFS4sKbUY2Airy3osHgDFbj6trr4NeKFZPGSNOSfAbTr8fceFp/s1600/mono1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA40PDRRJQQlB_CzoLHQIJOr2d5cAILzoPiaDq4DeAl-RSfqTw4gh463xStHoTJw-s09QWOzTPPlD6IVAGxNmuzp6F_fWFS4sKbUY2Airy3osHgDFbj6trr4NeKFZPGSNOSfAbTr8fceFp/s320/mono1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718351103321966338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">The second place recommended by our new German friends was Mono Lake which, they had told us, had "incredible spires of limestone" rising out from the water. This sounded lovely, so off we went. When we got there, it took us a while to believe we were actually were we were </span><span style="font-family:arial;">supposed to be. There was a beautiful blue lake and I guess if you looked closely, and maybe squinted a bit, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">you could just about make out some white rocks sticking out from it but in no </span><span style="font-family:arial;">way did they measure up to the dramatic stalagmites we had been promised. It would seem that </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Germans are just too excitable. By this time we were not far from Yosemite</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> National Park, and everyone has told us that is just an astonishing place to visit (one </span><span style="font-family:arial;">woman even told me it would </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifAQVhkGZiVNYqPe23yRTik1GnM8S22Nev7Gktym3pfo1TwCSQs-3EX5aF9E1N-ZXnCPHPwKDezl4N0aqAV7SU2ehwM4hfjPFVoteGT-Owd5r5iji6OtT91frQXQD9OfFzdkATsti1ukpE/s1600/mono2.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifAQVhkGZiVNYqPe23yRTik1GnM8S22Nev7Gktym3pfo1TwCSQs-3EX5aF9E1N-ZXnCPHPwKDezl4N0aqAV7SU2ehwM4hfjPFVoteGT-Owd5r5iji6OtT91frQXQD9OfFzdkATsti1ukpE/s320/mono2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718350871720207138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">blow my socks off!), so we thought we should probably go there. Only we</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> couldn't. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">We were on the east side and the road in from the east side was closed for winter! What was going on?! My birthday was fast approaching and I had wanted to be somewhere nice. Or if not nice then at least slightly fun. A quick look at the map showed that the other entrance to Yosemite was about a million miles away, maybe a bit less, but that Reno wasn't far at all…</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaojuxwa0tBLeqrd_TfYbKvvifRT213Q0n10RjfumEFRiBqwgZ6jyVdXNEuZO9wJAopginv-dUIBw6jp8dsAbO6dKOoXyMDwGg6nE5QNTYCT1_8m16pZ0r1Jz3ZGYLEF6PsDyTtdVe_xCj/s1600/reno.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaojuxwa0tBLeqrd_TfYbKvvifRT213Q0n10RjfumEFRiBqwgZ6jyVdXNEuZO9wJAopginv-dUIBw6jp8dsAbO6dKOoXyMDwGg6nE5QNTYCT1_8m16pZ0r1Jz3ZGYLEF6PsDyTtdVe_xCj/s320/reno.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718350211928784754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Reno is just like Las Vegas only a bit smaller, a bit seedier and a bit shabbier. In fact they </span><span style="font-family:arial;">should probably </span><span style="font-family:arial;">consider putting that on the sign as you drive into town. It would certainly make more </span><span style="font-family:arial;">sense than what they've got now – "The biggest little city in the world" – that's just nonsense. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Again, like Vegas, it was cheaper for us to stay in one of the casino hotels than it was to stay in a campsite, plus if we booked two nights</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs_ruMO8Y3i3Y9DIQ1VpSYOVTzYE6rMrSIqt8UD-HdFw5ubs0w_xaoBIgEJVgZr6S0-ZpFhN4hsKW9b_I8WIOf-VPUwhtqdHcREeqJam24t0IDnN-6FUuO7xAS6wpLe-_T1Z3sc52xg_iD/s1600/clown.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 67px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs_ruMO8Y3i3Y9DIQ1VpSYOVTzYE6rMrSIqt8UD-HdFw5ubs0w_xaoBIgEJVgZr6S0-ZpFhN4hsKW9b_I8WIOf-VPUwhtqdHcREeqJam24t0IDnN-6FUuO7xAS6wpLe-_T1Z3sc52xg_iD/s320/clown.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718349904854497650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> we got a third night free – what a bonus! We were staying at <span style="font-style: italic;">Circus Circus</span> which had a 200ft</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> high neon </span><span style="font-family:arial;">clown stood outside it and a stripy </span><span style="font-family:arial;">tent-style roof. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Classy. Where the clientele in Vegas might wear glittery dresses and sharp suits, here they mostly wore "sweatpants" and had tattooed necks. One couple even got into our elevator with a Rottweiler. It was a little bit more scary than Vegas. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEvZ0zdfCC2PynQ6_lOf8Tx4T_aS_nFbAG11bKz375ORzeMowYG_-AW4EFnwMAjzbxzgr5OGq80Z2vujfCcCLyGqcatRNqGkt6nFrUXAINJGw771p8B8kWqQD60qijEzp50u9RpegwSAyd/s1600/chips.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 65px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEvZ0zdfCC2PynQ6_lOf8Tx4T_aS_nFbAG11bKz375ORzeMowYG_-AW4EFnwMAjzbxzgr5OGq80Z2vujfCcCLyGqcatRNqGkt6nFrUXAINJGw771p8B8kWqQD60qijEzp50u9RpegwSAyd/s320/chips.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718349550839582002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">As it was my birthday we spent most of the next three days enjoying all the free alcohol that casinos throw at you while you gamble. This time we abandoned roulette and entered the confusing world of "craps". This seemingly impenetrable game involves throwing a couple of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">dice down a big table (sometimes off the table if you've had a few too many gins) and betting on which numbers come up. It sounds simple but there are several complicated rules involved. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBHJgSsPFHlTXveYypbWnECwPlIOXeGjjYup_OK-zocuJoprLyeIpNc_gZ7w0qTIXo15mifAJTZ8zsL2DkDsK0kmJmR6N-Icr5xhUCQ42S2a_FBaPLoLz-dzs7g2JWolS8muhgrqldff8s/s1600/nugget.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 71px; height: 94px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBHJgSsPFHlTXveYypbWnECwPlIOXeGjjYup_OK-zocuJoprLyeIpNc_gZ7w0qTIXo15mifAJTZ8zsL2DkDsK0kmJmR6N-Icr5xhUCQ42S2a_FBaPLoLz-dzs7g2JWolS8muhgrqldff8s/s320/nugget.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718349125787630914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes everybody wants you to throw a seven, and they all cheer when you do,</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> but then there are times when you apparently shouldn't throw a seven and everyone groans and loses their money. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes if you throw a double six everyone cheers and you get high-fived and slapped on the</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> back by complete strangers, but then the next time you do it everyone swears and orders more drinks. After a while we kind of </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhoGiKbJMVMx544OtSwbRxJiBNZQe06sY62YMsfyz_W4ctdHNc3IW3tTlmhVgEeobFMXKcyWXKzKa_7U950-o89jrFv0Yijnm4HeHZD3DyOCHqTVSlgEal-PqmkxLVpy5ntocqXExXCMH/s1600/money.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 76px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhoGiKbJMVMx544OtSwbRxJiBNZQe06sY62YMsfyz_W4ctdHNc3IW3tTlmhVgEeobFMXKcyWXKzKa_7U950-o89jrFv0Yijnm4HeHZD3DyOCHqTVSlgEal-PqmkxLVpy5ntocqXExXCMH/s320/money.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718348640982696962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">got the hang of it and we seemed to be quite lucky with the dice. In fact some people were placing extra bets when it came to be our turn to throw. We managed to leave the table with more than we arrived with which even in my drunken state I knew to be a good thing.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />We spent the night of my actual birthday at a fabulous Japanese restaurant where we sat around a large griddle while an exuberant chef would juggle ingredients, slice them in </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhynLkaPF6JvFkRtxnH8B8q1ue8ROjxwVHMQVee4lM05D_N00BpWrHh_yLG9Vcl8zY_rACEHlgcaDTidJ6T_9M8_3ji7gxIAAZPOHXPGV429yQ6uSsp7BDMPsFki4SDUR_Z1YXwnpv_DtEt/s1600/birthday.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 90px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhynLkaPF6JvFkRtxnH8B8q1ue8ROjxwVHMQVee4lM05D_N00BpWrHh_yLG9Vcl8zY_rACEHlgcaDTidJ6T_9M8_3ji7gxIAAZPOHXPGV429yQ6uSsp7BDMPsFki4SDUR_Z1YXwnpv_DtEt/s320/birthday.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718347636835564690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">mid air and then cook them where they landed on the hot plate. It was great fun and the food </span><span style="font-family:arial;">was </span><span style="font-family:arial;">unbelievable – I had spiced shrimp to start and then a simply extraordinary fillet steak of melt-in-your-mouth Wagyu beef served with two lobster tails. It was amazing. And as it was my birthday I even got a dessert with a candle in it and a tiny waitress to play with. Who could want for more? </span><br /><span style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" ><br />BURGER OF THE WEEK</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfXR1y7KYdnCllppzgLf8PfYfyxrUeftvjnZoeFHIARyq5ersgi8bVuVtUDvhioGNXugjZHhz76UssHQPCTBJFxLNFp-6yXCDqlSFzx5zlgMMXDR4jh_WpVY5d2ytsccLqqigmy1xWcNIu/s1600/06+awful+awful+2.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 78px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfXR1y7KYdnCllppzgLf8PfYfyxrUeftvjnZoeFHIARyq5ersgi8bVuVtUDvhioGNXugjZHhz76UssHQPCTBJFxLNFp-6yXCDqlSFzx5zlgMMXDR4jh_WpVY5d2ytsccLqqigmy1xWcNIu/s320/06+awful+awful+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718347110527838706" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Whilst in Reno I tried the Nugget Casino's apparently famous "Awful Awful Burger" with the grammatically incorrect qualifier "It's awful big and awful good". It consists of a very big burger</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ubTS4sGvZsvpZrjSreRzaRJuk63wCWIblw2djA9qkmtMv-ofdTa1gl7UBq6rX7OqFJg62QtNUneIsZ2RJ68vUyF0TVETI5y-ilfjXK5EUX86FfYlqMiXerB0U6Dht0W9dhW7KmTBcE6j/s1600/06+awful+awful+3.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 75px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ubTS4sGvZsvpZrjSreRzaRJuk63wCWIblw2djA9qkmtMv-ofdTa1gl7UBq6rX7OqFJg62QtNUneIsZ2RJ68vUyF0TVETI5y-ilfjXK5EUX86FfYlqMiXerB0U6Dht0W9dhW7KmTBcE6j/s320/06+awful+awful+3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718346443205894738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> with cheese, bacon, tomato, onions, lettuce, gherkin etc, an unspecified sauce, all served </span><span style="font-family:arial;">in an onion bun – and it comes with A POUND OF FRIES! It was <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> big and <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> nice. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">I couldn't finish the fries.</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-12947324552364088172012-03-04T17:38:00.020-08:002012-03-04T18:22:24.281-08:00Loving Las Vegas<span style="font-family:arial;">One of the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">delights of doing a road trip like this is stumbling across things that I didn't expect to see or that I simply never knew existed. One such place was the Petrified Forest, a remarkable area full of prehistoric trees that have turned to </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjayyNwHCx9qVFj4maICiTCZVLWN6pvk9jZ_9nAuLc1440wNO5DCCRV40eIZFSao3bc2mw9jWLCtNYM89dlcy3Y3JZl439JMZk5a7Iwr2q0S0Ba-uvvobWbkiSdN9zJxaAMagjayTvA1HlB/s1600/petrified.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 75px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjayyNwHCx9qVFj4maICiTCZVLWN6pvk9jZ_9nAuLc1440wNO5DCCRV40eIZFSao3bc2mw9jWLCtNYM89dlcy3Y3JZl439JMZk5a7Iwr2q0S0Ba-uvvobWbkiSdN9zJxaAMagjayTvA1HlB/s320/petrified.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716232295404827554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">stone over zillions of years. It's an absolutely mind-curdling concept for me to get my poor little brain around but they are amazing and the colours of the crystallised rock are just beautiful. It's probably best to just observe and </span><span style="font-family:arial;">appreciate </span><span style="font-family:arial;">what you're </span><span style="font-family:arial;">seeing but not to think about it too hard – a bit like some of the dancing </span><span style="font-family:arial;">"girls" we saw in Asia.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZeI7oQF96FdYsxVkUabKUshtOBVUzKIvG7mrTi5OquDrfG_zXzHHj1vLcipwAyRqwJsNq9ia9PSECDZOmwUR9pBroIlGMHLaA8LN3a5UQhRN_qlGVFPVUORLiS-byWeby5ESuMIzoNdb6/s1600/R66+1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 65px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZeI7oQF96FdYsxVkUabKUshtOBVUzKIvG7mrTi5OquDrfG_zXzHHj1vLcipwAyRqwJsNq9ia9PSECDZOmwUR9pBroIlGMHLaA8LN3a5UQhRN_qlGVFPVUORLiS-byWeby5ESuMIzoNdb6/s320/R66+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716231742256895218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">From there we travelled along a bit of old Route 66. Some of the original old buildings next to what is now </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Interstate 40 are abandoned and run down but on the smaller roads and in</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> some of the little</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> towns we've been through, like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Holbrook</span> and Win</span><span style="font-family:arial;">slow, they really play up the whole </span><span style="font-family:arial;">nostalgia thing. It's great to see the old motels and diners – some still in use – with vintage cars parked up outside for added effect. One of my favourites was the</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitZPdbcVJk1zsJrkwBWsQy-yejbyPam5fXV3V7xtw4i1mPbDYlXTe4VlHeLp50Wt2h-37dAJRjjTu_D4aJeLkclnCJWyJTdOckTI7wEI7JJKvhCkr190B7LKoWr852NywCJcUKUPVFCT5g/s1600/WIGWAM1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 75px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitZPdbcVJk1zsJrkwBWsQy-yejbyPam5fXV3V7xtw4i1mPbDYlXTe4VlHeLp50Wt2h-37dAJRjjTu_D4aJeLkclnCJWyJTdOckTI7wEI7JJKvhCkr190B7LKoWr852NywCJcUKUPVFCT5g/s320/WIGWAM1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716231259078216978" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> Wigwam Motel which must have been the inspiration for the "Cosy Cones Motel" in the movie <span style="font-style: italic;">Cars</span>. It suddenly feels like a "proper" road trip when you can say you've driven down Route 66.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We ended up</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> in </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Flagstaff for a couple of nights so decided to see what we could find in the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">way of nightlife. We were a bit bemused to be asked for ID before being allowed in any of the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">bars. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Apparently it's a</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> state law and while it was a bit flattering at first, it soon became quite</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> irksome – especially when the doormen asking to see our ID were about half our age. When I pointed </span><span style="font-family:arial;">out to one </span><span style="font-family:arial;">that </span><span style="font-family:arial;">mathematically I could be his father, a look of worried confusion spread over his face as if he thought </span><span style="font-family:arial;">I was trying to insinuate that I might actually be his father. Unfortunately this </span><span style="font-family:arial;">doorstep version of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Jerry Springer Show</span> still didn't garner us </span><span style="font-family:arial;">entry to his establishment. One place that would let us in was a sort of log cabin affair with a lot of stuffed animals hanging from the walls. It turned </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaBiIPEqwn1nD1IO0ZjP5VSZMNGavnITpgjS8ikTsTY73FVlpoMancKdTiYahrEiAxD_SrHpF0eUqxZe9LnJhZ8HYuqQ8e0VxuB3PLecKXnaWDSg7mPZ8mNtKMpZ0yYRK350FnuRBaoeGY/s1600/museum.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaBiIPEqwn1nD1IO0ZjP5VSZMNGavnITpgjS8ikTsTY73FVlpoMancKdTiYahrEiAxD_SrHpF0eUqxZe9LnJhZ8HYuqQ8e0VxuB3PLecKXnaWDSg7mPZ8mNtKMpZ0yYRK350FnuRBaoeGY/s320/museum.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716230798297330466" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">out to be a country music bar and we had to endure a lot of identical-sounding songs that all seemed to be about broken hearts, dead dogs or the merits of driving a pick-up truck. On the plus side, the waitresses </span><span style="font-family:arial;">all wore little "Daisy </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Duke" denim shorts with calf-high cowboy boots. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Half way through the evening a band took to the stage and seemed to play the exact same songs that we'd just been listening to. Seemingly oblivious to this, a few couples chose to grace the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">dancefloor</span> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and we were treated to some fairly flamboyant (and in some cases slightly</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> camp) dance moves</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> punctuated by the the occasional </span><span style="font-family:arial;">high-pitched whoop of excitement. At least </span><span style="font-family:arial;">I was able to drink through it.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBZYC0A00r1tgIGWuCzvzCUK3CX805sseUUWLWqurLeQeWRUud3-4EIzTTubwgygTPU_5bqrmA2Zvpglo74TRGKZVbO_zxTRoWOgZzZNuiJIG-O7xNZS2l0YzPYiFsxX6pkKBXnWEPofXN/s1600/gran+can+1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 78px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBZYC0A00r1tgIGWuCzvzCUK3CX805sseUUWLWqurLeQeWRUud3-4EIzTTubwgygTPU_5bqrmA2Zvpglo74TRGKZVbO_zxTRoWOgZzZNuiJIG-O7xNZS2l0YzPYiFsxX6pkKBXnWEPofXN/s320/gran+can+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716229803466789122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">The</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Americans seem to like giving their natural wonders some of the most literal and</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> obvious names possible – as examples I offer you The Rocky Mountains or, my personal favourite, The Great Sandy Desert. Into this category of places with </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJIjxQcskdwMP0gK6A0N6478sypBGG1EKzUJqQ5Ch39FGDJLmmP4IEkatwdGJHcxMWT90mY54l9K9df2hJVfWphyzEl8V_24XFxFLY-0eSe-55PT-2zn2axDd3UIh-eOOUW_q-C6ITFSg/s1600/gran+can+3.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 75px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJIjxQcskdwMP0gK6A0N6478sypBGG1EKzUJqQ5Ch39FGDJLmmP4IEkatwdGJHcxMWT90mY54l9K9df2hJVfWphyzEl8V_24XFxFLY-0eSe-55PT-2zn2axDd3UIh-eOOUW_q-C6ITFSg/s320/gran+can+3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716229321409734738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">'say-what-you-see' titles, falls </span><span style="font-family:arial;">The Grand Canyon. There's no denying it, it's a canyon and it is grand. We went to see just how grand for ourselves this week, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and the answer is 'very'. It's difficult to describe the sheer scale and magnificence </span><span style="font-family:arial;">of the thing (it's big) and the rock formations and colours are endlessly breathtaking. And if you think the views are breathtaking then you should try hiking down into the thing – I had no breath left at all! It was OK going into the canyon but the climb back up seemed to be a lot steeper than it had on the way down. We even saw a sweaty mule-train</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrfbM38vekbvKMKXlAoFYArAQtqL1ulLmiLWZlfa9GqzgBHzoluCsjlE7Ix3b_K78MReDrRVZioLmGM8GAv4UhtoZGZUUUP2BE4k8TI_8Mpf4AkN62wyQXOzQ680BAqLScluwqQWtDybj/s1600/gran+can+2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 78px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrfbM38vekbvKMKXlAoFYArAQtqL1ulLmiLWZlfa9GqzgBHzoluCsjlE7Ix3b_K78MReDrRVZioLmGM8GAv4UhtoZGZUUUP2BE4k8TI_8Mpf4AkN62wyQXOzQ680BAqLScluwqQWtDybj/s320/gran+can+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716229008820243442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> that seemed to </span><span style="font-family:arial;">be struggling. The sun had been shining all day so we were fairly hot ourselves</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> when we reached </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the top and we decided that the next day we should treat </span><span style="font-family:arial;">ourselves to a scenic flight over the canyon. What we hadn't expected was</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZicwxi5U6aCajr0bBMrB0Nu8KBaY-Tqy3xTTHGianEIqWJqCoxp38Tm8Xm4k0R2KV9dyf1E-GJQpuOclsFQui3NlmmjVFEyPVWE2PF7OMZ2JgI2kIomP_f7WD6hfCxuNQ8mFW7Mj83I1/s1600/gran+can+snow.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 74px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZicwxi5U6aCajr0bBMrB0Nu8KBaY-Tqy3xTTHGianEIqWJqCoxp38Tm8Xm4k0R2KV9dyf1E-GJQpuOclsFQui3NlmmjVFEyPVWE2PF7OMZ2JgI2kIomP_f7WD6hfCxuNQ8mFW7Mj83I1/s320/gran+can+snow.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716228535243322370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> to wake up the next </span><span style="font-family:arial;">morning to four inches of snow and visibility down to about 10 feet. It was unreasonably cold and the driving conditions were slippery and treacherous – not </span><span style="font-family:arial;">something you really want next to the world's biggest ditch. So, with our flight cancelled, we decided to head for somewhere warmer.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDuY6Yx59OQSLymIniwkeIsXdS1uqELhTTES2HTUW1goO7yq95M_WsLTxqm8V35RR2ny07TwC7oV2mpvdIe9Dze8n9KuDl7G7J1oonwq5_fjAXmIqOF8TWj7Xnt6m9iuvNa9n0na6sseW/s1600/vegas+day.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDuY6Yx59OQSLymIniwkeIsXdS1uqELhTTES2HTUW1goO7yq95M_WsLTxqm8V35RR2ny07TwC7oV2mpvdIe9Dze8n9KuDl7G7J1oonwq5_fjAXmIqOF8TWj7Xnt6m9iuvNa9n0na6sseW/s320/vegas+day.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716227658900160946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">So </span><span style="font-family:arial;">where could we go that was fairly </span><span style="font-family:arial;">nearby, warm and fun? Hello <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Las</span> Vegas. As you will no doubt have read a million times before, Vegas is a carnival of extravagance and expense, glitz and glamour, chintz and cheese – a 24-hour-a-day fun fest designed to separate you from your money. We walked through the streets of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">faux</span> Paris, along the canals of a fake Venice and past the skyscrapers of a not-really-New York. But what was just as entertaining were the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">people who </span><span style="font-family:arial;">inhabit "The Strip" itself. There are people dressed as Elvis or Marilyn, there are a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">weirdly high number of cartoon characters pretending to be drunk, there are robots, </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjldPzDuQotKi4XEMjo_izL0FtuP54Lx5-M5mbUpJRQCUB57L9MNXj3o0c9AFsMvWwLfKS5XTDXKBDAoaaDfOY7VJucLj5zRuDiEQCiaMkK3oblVOetPtMc8qLMY6hLZibSvsrhYN7GUA7D/s1600/vegas+characters.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 101px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjldPzDuQotKi4XEMjo_izL0FtuP54Lx5-M5mbUpJRQCUB57L9MNXj3o0c9AFsMvWwLfKS5XTDXKBDAoaaDfOY7VJucLj5zRuDiEQCiaMkK3oblVOetPtMc8qLMY6hLZibSvsrhYN7GUA7D/s320/vegas+characters.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716227070902161810" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">dancing girls and midgets. There are people handing you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">flyers</span> for meal offers, vouchers for </span><span style="font-family:arial;">free show tickets or </span><span style="font-family:arial;">cards for call girls who can be in your room within 20 minutes. Even the tramps are entertaining. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwfF5bFiVB-DT8LHJxMsEUdcUqBQ7UaZlXBiWjY70p0mSQFCbwB2t4Bcv-1dh0PtUvAH0u296uaObbG6Vq6sos75NP42_ngKlG3EZvumfa8emP7csCe9XRfaSZZ62SaOKSwHHlXjVdKMj/s1600/vegas+nite.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 101px; height: 63px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwfF5bFiVB-DT8LHJxMsEUdcUqBQ7UaZlXBiWjY70p0mSQFCbwB2t4Bcv-1dh0PtUvAH0u296uaObbG6Vq6sos75NP42_ngKlG3EZvumfa8emP7csCe9XRfaSZZ62SaOKSwHHlXjVdKMj/s320/vegas+nite.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716226540186366514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">And there </span><span style="font-family:arial;">is a lot you can do if you're on a tight budget like us. We stayed in a large room at The Flamingo, right in the middle of The Strip, because we'd found a deal that meant it was </span><span style="font-family:arial;">cheaper than staying in a campground. If you sit in the casinos playing (or even pretending to play) at the minimum bet tables, they bring you free drinks all day and all night. And the town is awash with money-off vouchers for meals so dining out is cheap. I really wanted to see comedy magicians Penn & Teller who had a show on at the Rio so we went to enquire as to how much the tickets</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpmJc5QNwLamVGE_jhVnbXC7tZI05lUODfvgs6RkFO7p9G8UcGMZ_H67m7YvPTRc3nr0jyFj79gKjcBAX4G33U_-I3Ah-AGQUNuAztprZt5uSjHYW0699mefxor2FDRdGlCXToyuMh9I5/s1600/penn+teller.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpmJc5QNwLamVGE_jhVnbXC7tZI05lUODfvgs6RkFO7p9G8UcGMZ_H67m7YvPTRc3nr0jyFj79gKjcBAX4G33U_-I3Ah-AGQUNuAztprZt5uSjHYW0699mefxor2FDRdGlCXToyuMh9I5/s320/penn+teller.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716225559757210562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> were, got given a 30% off voucher to use against them and then, when we said that it might</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> still be a bit expensive for us, the girl at the box office gave us half off again because we </span><span style="font-family:arial;">were "so excited about seeing them!" We then got upgraded to better seats for no good reason and </span><span style="font-family:arial;">even got to meet Penn & Teller after the show! The next day we agreed to sit through a time-share presentation by a guy who patently knew we wouldn't be signing up and were just there to receive a free lunch and complimentary tickets to a show at Caesar's Palace. The show was called <span style="font-style: italic;">Absinthe</span>, the tickets would have cost us $90 each </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFjTQSLSalfWsOzvoK8aSSxjle9tzMjvPD43pRTVdXYBAV6sFs-_kHmlROn5DQtcx9XXWQFj6hj4LESdJipisR8jCdn0AJoht7_4YTJX_1Q55c_G39y30TXE9GxBMXno9iIdcxdO88G-zO/s1600/absinthe.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 71px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFjTQSLSalfWsOzvoK8aSSxjle9tzMjvPD43pRTVdXYBAV6sFs-_kHmlROn5DQtcx9XXWQFj6hj4LESdJipisR8jCdn0AJoht7_4YTJX_1Q55c_G39y30TXE9GxBMXno9iIdcxdO88G-zO/s320/absinthe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716225138576674354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">and it was brilliant – lots of amazing acrobatic acts by sexy girls in burlesque-style lingerie, punctuated by one of the funniest </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and rudest comperes we've ever seen. And all for free. We had a great couple of days, managed to not go bankrupt and didn't hate it nearly as much as we thought we would.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">The only </span><span style="font-family:arial;">unhappy part for me was when we decided to go to Fremont Street </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqi24IWgutUupM27rRR7uHgHU_mj7oq_am9CppC4EMwTg-9777oiME0D1LFLqhxejFPVF-Me0L07mIEwvIvBQgJzdku-leGjm672Z8fROHnRFVA4IHWfmu20KiZ6Ltxkx2MrDzAoQeLdGE/s1600/FREMONT1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 75px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqi24IWgutUupM27rRR7uHgHU_mj7oq_am9CppC4EMwTg-9777oiME0D1LFLqhxejFPVF-Me0L07mIEwvIvBQgJzdku-leGjm672Z8fROHnRFVA4IHWfmu20KiZ6Ltxkx2MrDzAoQeLdGE/s320/FREMONT1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716223660411392754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">to see the legendary original casinos – The Golden Nugget, The Pioneer with its famous giant neon cowboy and The Fremont itself. Sadly the whole street has now had a roof put over it and been turned into The Fremont Street Experience, a sort of cheap and tawdry pedestrianised theme park. The Pioneer is now a gift shop, the Golden Nugget has a Starbucks </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEda8xpRijSmtS74FBMBVLuThKouny6Fp0L9XGC0hsdtEX1F0NZBCe0Yr8v1R1UbofsnF21t7OuYCHXvhUhQSAv0pQ819-bXQtfskTYEiwmkaHA4SJrNPAydVO246s8y1K6p6O0vIg914n/s1600/FREMONT2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 75px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEda8xpRijSmtS74FBMBVLuThKouny6Fp0L9XGC0hsdtEX1F0NZBCe0Yr8v1R1UbofsnF21t7OuYCHXvhUhQSAv0pQ819-bXQtfskTYEiwmkaHA4SJrNPAydVO246s8y1K6p6O0vIg914n/s320/FREMONT2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716223114166058498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">in it and you can now travel the whole street on an overhead zip-wire. It was heart-breaking </span><span style="font-family:arial;">to see and a world away from the high-gloss and glamour of the new mega-casinos. I would have loved to have seen Fremont Street in its heyday. It was time for us to leave <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Las</span> Vegas and head back to reality. </span> <span style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" ><br /><br />BURGER OF THE WEEK</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIkGNDvCqscAfFcpp-yC4iMK6qIz5lkR-NoPgGr3hxjTfv24rd98Iai4BAqwgtQn0YhKJdPvq1bP4qVW_DC1kT09BideqIPGnl3C9DWkQGxc0bGOsv6YLl7pjxY_Oz1cyjcS3lsgyELD2/s1600/04+Le+Paris1.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 74px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIkGNDvCqscAfFcpp-yC4iMK6qIz5lkR-NoPgGr3hxjTfv24rd98Iai4BAqwgtQn0YhKJdPvq1bP4qVW_DC1kT09BideqIPGnl3C9DWkQGxc0bGOsv6YLl7pjxY_Oz1cyjcS3lsgyELD2/s320/04+Le+Paris1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716222160581356066" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">This was from the Paris Casino in Vegas and was inventively called "Le Paris". Prime beef burger, brie, caramelised onion, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">applewood</span> smoked bacon, salad and half a gherkin on a sun-dried tomato bun. Could have done without the plum-sized olive nailed to the top of it though…</span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4631936550137105972.post-65777815876079716072012-02-24T12:46:00.024-08:002012-02-25T08:24:54.101-08:00A hole lotta love<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie9odsAf4VLuumLqR_Xd9TZBcYHvRZ0oTfVqAvr_NnS7VbEYBuDK7rCc9DvtNOxNWy9ukqYcV5-F1NPpnwERVAfgGxU25mrt6O3qea0TVswwXu5NX_WTTie5JFpQMVdC2VisciP8dTnZjw/s1600/P1080701.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 63px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie9odsAf4VLuumLqR_Xd9TZBcYHvRZ0oTfVqAvr_NnS7VbEYBuDK7rCc9DvtNOxNWy9ukqYcV5-F1NPpnwERVAfgGxU25mrt6O3qea0TVswwXu5NX_WTTie5JFpQMVdC2VisciP8dTnZjw/s320/P1080701.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712815610997513410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">After the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">very cowboy orientated Tombstone, we drove north to Indian country where we came across places with names like Geronimo, Fort Apache and even Tonto National Forest! </span><span style="font-family:arial;">They don't seem to</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> use the more PC title of Native Americans here – they </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmv6XJe9esu-S-w6xF1UTjI3JWE3Fno74AJoFHUfCzAxJDXD251m0kNcc9MYCVZKy6E5zhVZECkq0XtptMo84-fVpJs1bwHhoCY1TWkuAvlo96uEn67LYuLQcLLTEMxa_EDfCXU-5VpN7/s1600/P1080867.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 52px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmv6XJe9esu-S-w6xF1UTjI3JWE3Fno74AJoFHUfCzAxJDXD251m0kNcc9MYCVZKy6E5zhVZECkq0XtptMo84-fVpJs1bwHhoCY1TWkuAvlo96uEn67LYuLQcLLTEMxa_EDfCXU-5VpN7/s320/P1080867.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712815419876648338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">very definitely call themselves </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Indians. Anyway, it was in Tonto Forest that we discovered the Tonto Natural Bridge, a massive open-ended </span><span style="font-family:arial;">cavern that is one of those places that just make you say "wow!" They let you </span><span style="font-family:arial;">clamber through it, over the rocks and along the river that runs inside it and so we leapt at the chance. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">On </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the way through the cave we came across a few large Americans who </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE_ovPZZ8BAYr_lYXziku6SFTWZft99-AknS6o-KjWEzJLyWg5h6dv2NqWJiT7yJzVk40uSO4wD1Ecal_hLuVUlbq7nzAlvHqu0lWZn6WUPoNUharuy02CjpuRcBZimGFzo7oKkPKtvS3O/s1600/P1080915.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 52px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE_ovPZZ8BAYr_lYXziku6SFTWZft99-AknS6o-KjWEzJLyWg5h6dv2NqWJiT7yJzVk40uSO4wD1Ecal_hLuVUlbq7nzAlvHqu0lWZn6WUPoNUharuy02CjpuRcBZimGFzo7oKkPKtvS3O/s320/P1080915.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712815043975174034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">seemed</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrJN34wH6aBqdyk2WFkYnkFEXLht8GE0plkr9PPIqtmauy7vH1Ord2tJ_dhlrDJu-rfPWvjgGQ4yOmhMYnoNnOsR4kD-8TxsA0hd-KYwSlg_VLlXMfI4-Xfmbmc94rwfUcOue-7U8bMs5/s1600/P1080905.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 52px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrJN34wH6aBqdyk2WFkYnkFEXLht8GE0plkr9PPIqtmauy7vH1Ord2tJ_dhlrDJu-rfPWvjgGQ4yOmhMYnoNnOsR4kD-8TxsA0hd-KYwSlg_VLlXMfI4-Xfmbmc94rwfUcOue-7U8bMs5/s320/P1080905.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712814795464065266" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">to have </span><span style="font-family:arial;">bitten off more than they could chew. I tried to assist</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> one ample girl who </span><span style="font-family:arial;">had </span><span style="font-family:arial;">chosen </span><span style="font-family:arial;">to do the route in <span style="font-style: italic;">Ugg</span> boots but the combination of slippery</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> rocks and her natural momentum meant she nearly knocked me into the icy water below. We left </span><span style="font-family:arial;">her whimpering with a nearby Park Ranger.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8jh2Fgn-s569tMb0T4dX6p2Cap_GI3WBLRHJ2GB-KnlEsgLwAfoTScKK-kiI3flrrUPQxLbtOgyQBezsHVlCsNnss89TG8X0Ag_vurWoZ4hAdILg69u3TxahkK2SLNnjmBF4zTYB1l17B/s1600/P1080805.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 90px; height: 42px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8jh2Fgn-s569tMb0T4dX6p2Cap_GI3WBLRHJ2GB-KnlEsgLwAfoTScKK-kiI3flrrUPQxLbtOgyQBezsHVlCsNnss89TG8X0Ag_vurWoZ4hAdILg69u3TxahkK2SLNnjmBF4zTYB1l17B/s320/P1080805.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712813974938714738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Fort </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Apache</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> was not so beautiful and certainly not the traditional Indian enclave I'd</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> envisioned. There seemed to be a lot of knackered old pick-up trucks and a lot of Government-built</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> prefabs, now looking a little dilapidated. We stopped at a pretty little wooden church to ask one of the locals where we might be able to camp for the night and the man we spoke to very kindly said we could park </span><span style="font-family:arial;">right there by the church and that he'd clear it with the pastor. It was a lovely little spot. Unfortunately</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> we hadn't quite realised that the town was at an altitude of over 5000 feet</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3emtE9AFdl_rjEcSh8QO_yFUd4a2F1P3TDPAWWL0NThfMJB38Ef2OHBgeWTkmjlGeXK9NTEJXhO5RKnZoRwpjg6dBrTVz8APdZqdol_DO3x7_nGKVAKl4_oK8bXd3go5pxwgtIpZ-rIa/s1600/P1080821.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 94px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3emtE9AFdl_rjEcSh8QO_yFUd4a2F1P3TDPAWWL0NThfMJB38Ef2OHBgeWTkmjlGeXK9NTEJXhO5RKnZoRwpjg6dBrTVz8APdZqdol_DO3x7_nGKVAKl4_oK8bXd3go5pxwgtIpZ-rIa/s320/P1080821.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712813737869573986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and that our night's sleep would be quite so cold. Everything froze – us, the pipes, some water we'd </span><span style="font-family:arial;">left in a pan </span><span style="font-family:arial;">on the hob, even the condensation on the windows! It was with some haste that we drove down the mountain the next morning with the heater on full.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihKl1EpL3hrbGRZ77O7USlEohEoQdwWrBvXtFHhIAC2zReTKUtTM5aSqFohQpTBYKQoeJDAiA2HdVJDDhPy5s9E1QCiPBR3J-gHrPLPh2fHmKswNMnv_7dJCxK1jc5yKC1NmCNC8w8WKdY/s1600/P1080838.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 60px; height: 69px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihKl1EpL3hrbGRZ77O7USlEohEoQdwWrBvXtFHhIAC2zReTKUtTM5aSqFohQpTBYKQoeJDAiA2HdVJDDhPy5s9E1QCiPBR3J-gHrPLPh2fHmKswNMnv_7dJCxK1jc5yKC1NmCNC8w8WKdY/s320/P1080838.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712813363047428322" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">We then seemed to drive through a lot of twee little towns with twee little names like </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFpLRDjjIDnkBiqePlsOUZmiBKDpKaSgKyMfOn8y9_uzDUoxAMsgfH9lpi4RpAXRqoltuW6x81ZZ0IhL5IPnOd902_JywTM8Q-IRoNlu8EELdZe2apM0SZDUQ-DhZ2bdDNLgFuYIQi3PC/s1600/P1080996.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 91px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFpLRDjjIDnkBiqePlsOUZmiBKDpKaSgKyMfOn8y9_uzDUoxAMsgfH9lpi4RpAXRqoltuW6x81ZZ0IhL5IPnOd902_JywTM8Q-IRoNlu8EELdZe2apM0SZDUQ-DhZ2bdDNLgFuYIQi3PC/s320/P1080996.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712813042779398482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Strawberry, Star Valley </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and Snowflake (which is apparently named after its founders, the improbable </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Erastus Snow and William Flake) before ending up in a town called Camp Verde. We were here to visit Montezuma's Castle, some old 13th Century dwellings built into a cliff, but as an added boon we stumbled upon </span><span style="font-family:arial;">our first little American festival – and we do love a festival! This one was the </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Pecan, </span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Wine and Antique Festival</span> which appeared to be a celebration of three very random</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> things. The key word for me though was 'wine'. Upon entering, we were issued with </span><span style="font-family:arial;">a commemorative wine glass and some tokens to 'spend' at the various stalls representing local wineries. A very </span><span style="font-family:arial;">pleasant afternoon of drinking </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSzZrd2P7BdCW7GyjZFH3YpmAODzdqC1dF1ee5j0f44eIv6jic-mMczX2764r8pjuRZf1JBiM9rN7_eD9JYggklqpV1kZ7PBj6-diL06GFUBBMBO6MTlNMIzRPTP-7CeXAE01_nq_PsPTu/s1600/P1090100.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 68px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSzZrd2P7BdCW7GyjZFH3YpmAODzdqC1dF1ee5j0f44eIv6jic-mMczX2764r8pjuRZf1JBiM9rN7_eD9JYggklqpV1kZ7PBj6-diL06GFUBBMBO6MTlNMIzRPTP-7CeXAE01_nq_PsPTu/s320/P1090100.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712812659821890818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Merlot, Syrah and Zinfandel, followed. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6dVcW5poVCohe5Ohmas93sGMy0dBPe9WOzJzk-M9G2o6ezsx4XgzA9_-ygLg7XqOEusrTYKtGqScnqT07L0XJgMMz5DmtL20cLw7GdgBNVNfwDy_P1j2ChNNjRRF-wWDMeQq6cS3kDatM/s1600/P1090019.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 102px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6dVcW5poVCohe5Ohmas93sGMy0dBPe9WOzJzk-M9G2o6ezsx4XgzA9_-ygLg7XqOEusrTYKtGqScnqT07L0XJgMMz5DmtL20cLw7GdgBNVNfwDy_P1j2ChNNjRRF-wWDMeQq6cS3kDatM/s320/P1090019.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712812217415176098" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">There was live music – we saw a country music </span><span style="font-family:arial;">combo doing Proclaimers covers on the back of a flatbed truck, a jazz trio led by what appeared to be a portly sailor and a man who could </span><span style="font-family:arial;">simultaneously play the guitar and flute. We met some</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> civil war re-enactors (if that's the word) and what I </span><span style="font-family:arial;">took to be an old prospector </span><span style="font-family:arial;">who'd just wandered out of the hills. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9NCnS0WKd5K51j8iRR3iHpyTBq62oL41mFpvrPZK3Xeep2aN8pLDbRCtelza8hYZw2Bf8BP6wmu8fZawKRuu7EDm0C9XD-_kBAMylgYd3m7HcvRalTwecScl5vTrPgZ5OCzdiZuh1B1c9/s1600/P1090034.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 113px; height: 50px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9NCnS0WKd5K51j8iRR3iHpyTBq62oL41mFpvrPZK3Xeep2aN8pLDbRCtelza8hYZw2Bf8BP6wmu8fZawKRuu7EDm0C9XD-_kBAMylgYd3m7HcvRalTwecScl5vTrPgZ5OCzdiZuh1B1c9/s320/P1090034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712811889219373842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Then some local Indians, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">complete with wooden head-dresses, performed a mesmerising Crown Dance. It was a great afternoon – though we saw very little in the way of pecans or antiques!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Next stop </span><span style="font-family:arial;">was Sedona and its famous Red Rocks. We hiked through the most</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTeJsCJjGgAeWyqeWK6ArMXn2wyTsmm2Sr6kRhs87UV0mOTv8nlUCvd-tQfEA5K1Ws1bQmR0t7zf8_AbHXq-U6QPaBoLSAJxDM7lU6kEunb4TvLApOdmpZZoGqacPma1bukRLYVxQ3ACwk/s1600/P1090199.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 84px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTeJsCJjGgAeWyqeWK6ArMXn2wyTsmm2Sr6kRhs87UV0mOTv8nlUCvd-tQfEA5K1Ws1bQmR0t7zf8_AbHXq-U6QPaBoLSAJxDM7lU6kEunb4TvLApOdmpZZoGqacPma1bukRLYVxQ3ACwk/s320/P1090199.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712811555928907858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> amazing </span><span style="font-family:arial;">landscape of canyons and rock formations of unbelievably vivid colour. It was just like being in a Wild West movie. Which may have been what inspired us to go to nearby Cottonwood and try our </span><span style="font-family:arial;">hand at being</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> actual cowboys. At Dead Horse Ranch State Park we found a place where actual cowboys would take us out horse riding. They even furnished me with a cowboy </span><span style="font-family:arial;">hat for the day. While we were waiting for our ride to begin, Jared, an actual bona fide cowboy</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> with a rodeo title and </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6F1rR2EjHkE_8HfESjP_Wxl4U0Vv1ZcuxpbF1lRSEX-BuSPFafsH0HzEJDljDMYBHE1sC3vKqbeHHvyEsD69nM0f5BiZXlHbNsW4e18-Ph_7gkGlzC4g_n3Pq38L2OdgCK-eaG94g5-MB/s1600/P1090334.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 124px; height: 60px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6F1rR2EjHkE_8HfESjP_Wxl4U0Vv1ZcuxpbF1lRSEX-BuSPFafsH0HzEJDljDMYBHE1sC3vKqbeHHvyEsD69nM0f5BiZXlHbNsW4e18-Ph_7gkGlzC4g_n3Pq38L2OdgCK-eaG94g5-MB/s320/P1090334.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712811081993691794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">everything, showed me how to lasso a calf. Well, I don't know if it was the hat or whether I'm just a natural but I was soon "ropin' that doggie" like a pro. It was, of course, not a real cow and subsequently </span><span style="font-family:arial;">stood very still but, even so, I was fairly chuffed with my effort. Then we got issued with a horse each. Mine was called Flash, a name that didn't seem to suit the mangy beast but did instill an </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnyuwws8uTL9u0KY4j9zqg7MV3zs-Fz5bj0XbNhyphenhyphenPQN90Yc2Xj0hzqjQ0hyFSmJbkTWqynvuxbW9O3KraqBSHuUto-M4SRFU1jckX1fMPNOlr_mcFSUmoLO5xd3grdYi9MO9PD7XGDPph/s1600/P1090382.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 71px; height: 72px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnyuwws8uTL9u0KY4j9zqg7MV3zs-Fz5bj0XbNhyphenhyphenPQN90Yc2Xj0hzqjQ0hyFSmJbkTWqynvuxbW9O3KraqBSHuUto-M4SRFU1jckX1fMPNOlr_mcFSUmoLO5xd3grdYi9MO9PD7XGDPph/s320/P1090382.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712810629527310706" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">enigmatic air of uncertainty about it. In fact, while all the other horses would gingerly step over the first ditch we came across Flash decided, without telling me, that it would be better to jump it. I'm not as good at riding as I am at lassoing, it turns out, but I did just about manage to stay aboard. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Flash and I had a very tense relationship for the next hour or so. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZO85rMaYlZVeQ1K6hbw98VVa6HOsZTScbLLhkHzxYfllDTMcYf9xxi8yMfHpdryScuFDuMAO0FTJPXtl5GHzqgTR2Jg6nppVfTqbPbJu9KJE839vlZGbWKzBVEDfQfZGj0MOkVlfNT5SP/s1600/P1090603.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 94px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZO85rMaYlZVeQ1K6hbw98VVa6HOsZTScbLLhkHzxYfllDTMcYf9xxi8yMfHpdryScuFDuMAO0FTJPXtl5GHzqgTR2Jg6nppVfTqbPbJu9KJE839vlZGbWKzBVEDfQfZGj0MOkVlfNT5SP/s320/P1090603.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712809950498659954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">There are a few things that have always fascinated me since I was a young boy and places I always hoped I'd one day be able to see for myself. One of these is the giant meteor crater in </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the desert between Winslow and Flagstaff, just off of old Route 66, and this week I finally got to visit it. When I was a lad I seem to remember it being called the <span style="font-style: italic;">Barringer Crater</span> but now, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">according to all the signs, it seems to be called simply <span style="font-style: italic;">Meteor Crater</span> – perhaps people were confused by what a Barringer was. Claire </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-XWF3cTCEaVZJytUUqeAlBgZDqG3cFESVWfAt_IHu8aMV043idVbHoartn6eO-yXq76zelK9wuVqPQH_AzYr38nW101YWHj9FOFRupxJHZxFqL5_U7PEM-OGj_KrPTqJbTyv8nGzohdE/s1600/P1090556.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 85px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-XWF3cTCEaVZJytUUqeAlBgZDqG3cFESVWfAt_IHu8aMV043idVbHoartn6eO-yXq76zelK9wuVqPQH_AzYr38nW101YWHj9FOFRupxJHZxFqL5_U7PEM-OGj_KrPTqJbTyv8nGzohdE/s320/P1090556.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712809619031965138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">was just confused as to why I'd want to visit "a big hole" but I think even she was slightly impressed when we walked out onto the crater's edge. It is huge. It's about a mile across and as deep as a 60 storey building and was created by something that had flown through space for millions of years beforehand – I still get a bit dizzy thinking about it. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdIz5fcjk3-mDDd8ncAJ5H50PadWfLGT3QBhCQxhGpfVTieaFjLK-J5whMcxNhgZFSImke44lV8RyAjtLW0ZlulNT7JE3QNe4OEth_pfdrKXzRnGYZImYB4tsUM-iVLsY0ssa35VBsCQy_/s1600/P1090587.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 136px; height: 50px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdIz5fcjk3-mDDd8ncAJ5H50PadWfLGT3QBhCQxhGpfVTieaFjLK-J5whMcxNhgZFSImke44lV8RyAjtLW0ZlulNT7JE3QNe4OEth_pfdrKXzRnGYZImYB4tsUM-iVLsY0ssa35VBsCQy_/s320/P1090587.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712809243629138050" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">We even got to touch a piece of the actual meteorite that created this enormous dent. I know it might sound weird, and feel free to laugh, but I feel </span><span style="font-family:arial;">like a very lucky boy!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There's one last story I simply <span style="font-style: italic;">have</span> to share with you. After yet another very cold night in the van, Claire ran into a nearby Wal-Mart to try to buy a hot water bottle. Unfortunately </span><span style="font-family:arial;">they didn't seem to have any – except as part of some medical kit which Claire, excited by the prospect of any semblance of warmth, promptly bought. She came running back to the van, brandishing her prize and grinning excitedly – </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihIAUeATakVcQE-V2aSmHjvKZkgOWsgXS7A3gzI_64_AyYu0wxnpmctZM0yi1aluHlARHn0aGj7-cMCa_mlQmXeRi9vmmpjuqXc46Oqgcu6he2GEUn4T48KRUxy6qEfepwQ_AwLmoy829H/s1600/P1090307.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 123px; height: 50px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihIAUeATakVcQE-V2aSmHjvKZkgOWsgXS7A3gzI_64_AyYu0wxnpmctZM0yi1aluHlARHn0aGj7-cMCa_mlQmXeRi9vmmpjuqXc46Oqgcu6he2GEUn4T48KRUxy6qEfepwQ_AwLmoy829H/s320/P1090307.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712808823760402962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">but she was a little confused by all the attachments and tubing that came with it. It was then that I had to point out that what she'd actually purchased was a home enema kit! </span><br /><br /><span style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >BURGER OF THE WEEK</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBDrs9h7pLqFDMAA5Bm4ScuvJhUp4OkQC8BcWNF4JjkvmwK7Ve9r3wErtQdvnd_X1WWULgKFgBxLF_ddKOFKf6cDZv3F5pjopA2EtJFJVt2bhyphenhyphen1ZdLCw_ftVOkQxDkIc88qP2_SYCo9trn/s1600/03+pear+burger.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 77px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBDrs9h7pLqFDMAA5Bm4ScuvJhUp4OkQC8BcWNF4JjkvmwK7Ve9r3wErtQdvnd_X1WWULgKFgBxLF_ddKOFKf6cDZv3F5pjopA2EtJFJVt2bhyphenhyphen1ZdLCw_ftVOkQxDkIc88qP2_SYCo9trn/s320/03+pear+burger.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712808259407758306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">The Pear Burger: hand-made prime beef burger smothered in blue cheese, grilled pears and lots of balsamic glaze!</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">This was definitely the messiest so far... </span>Foxy Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02995003523339368412noreply@blogger.com1