thelongmosey

Leaving Toronto, our hearts were heavy, but we looked forward to the sights and sounds of Niagara on a bright and sunny autumn day. It was exactly what I expected (having been before) impressive water falls, warm with a spray of mist, lots of people paying zero mind to other folk and even a small chinese lady who farted in my general direction whilst she concentrated on her selfie. Conny was a little saddened that it was all in a town as she must have been confused with Africa’s Victoria Falls and thought that it was in the wilderness somewhere. Otherwise, a solid mini visit was had.

Now to the re-entry to the US. Of course, my past experience drew a cold sweat from my brow as we queued up to chat to the border guard. Clenched, I handed him our passports and answered his questions with some trepidation but he swiftly moved us on without any further thought of penetrating my person.

As a visitor to these shores, that lives in central Europe, it is quite odd to drive the sprawling US highways past London, Sussex, The Thames, Oxford, Cambridge, Manchester, Newcastle and on and on and on. Those peky pilgrims had plenty of bottle, commitment and an adventurous streak to be applauded. What their God neglected to gift them was however even the slightest shred of creativity. Either that or they got into a monumental stupour in England, stumbled upon a boat or two and upon awaking from their collective boozy fugues thought they were still in their hometowns and never realised otherwise.

It has long been a dream of mine to drive the roads of upstate New York, Vermont and New Hampshire in autumn. Even on the 8-bit wonder of Lotus Elise Turbo Challenge and Road Rash in my formative years these highways and byways held a superior appeal. Its the colours you see. Fire on the mountainside like no other. Aspen was astounding, but the scale and depth of this is just immense. Every corner rounded unveiled a patchwork more mesmerising than the last.

We settled in another Manchester at a trail head for the evening and set about the routine of watching the Bridge, then Conny checking upon the location of the knife before bed. This Manchester (could have been Vermont, equally could be New Hampshire) was a quaint little mountain town as you would expect only the local shops were the likes of Gucci and Louis Vuitton instead of Maud’s Gourds and the Spittle and Sawdust Saloon as one might expect.

The plan for the next morning was a simple one. Get up early, hike the 8 hour Franconia ridge trail in it’s entirety and then camp up before hitting the Kancamagus Scenic highway in the morning to spot a wallowing moose at the moosing hour.

Inevitably we overslept and awoke to a sea of fog/mist. Conny, ever the optimist proclaimed “I’m not hiking up a mountain to see fuck all but clouds” so we moseyed, as is our tendency to do, to the visitor centre. This may have been Vermont or New Hampshire, who knows but they are both pretty much the same in their awesomeness. These little gems line the highways and have coffee (free to the cheap but a donation appreciated) toilets, and the most helpful folk manning them that one could wish for. They know all the roads, all the trails, all the spots to creep up on a moose or two and all with a cheer and smile that really does what a welcome centre should, makes you feel welcome. One guy even provided 6 gallons of water to fill out tank in Black Beauty. Having discussed places to stay (plentiful trail heads), the fog (definitely going to burn off within the hour) and the Franconia ridge trail (quite large and tricky but doable in less than a day) we thought hey why not bust it out. We Swiss mountain folk (by-proxy) snort at such walks. Given our start time was a little later than our intended 9 am (1.30pm) we thought we should head up the shorter steeper side to make sure we took in the delight of the summit. This, perhaps, was not our smartest idea. That bitch was steeeeeep. And loooooooooong. It also involved some climbing and the near death of me and snapping under tension of every muscle and/or connective tissue in my legs. I think Conny was equally distressed, but we both managed it. The wind was a welcome relief at the top. We ate our sarnies, marvelled at the sea of untouched firey forest surrounding us and set out along the ridge. We stumbled upon Hunter and his other half (whose name, I have somewhat ashamedly forgotten, so if you read this please forgive me and let me know so that I may edit!)who had done basically the same as us. We thought no worries as we headed down the mountainside, we’ll be home as dusk approaches.

We four were officially a gaggle of idiots.

The night fell swiftly upon us and we were nowhere near home. We were however to bring a head torch for each pair so Hunter took one in the lead and Conny took one in the rear, so to speak.

It turns out that looking for faded blue trail markers on sctratchy grey-barked trees in the blueish hue of an LED torch is a particularly difficult feat. As were the 6 river crossings undertaken in the dark down the slippery water-smoothed slopes of the mountain. At one point I was in full stand up slide for quite the distance thinking at any moment I was going to come a cropper but my cat like balance kept me afoot. If only I had the presence of mind to bust out a COWABUNGA yell as I did it I would feel like a far superior human being than I in actual fact am.

We did make it, a good hour and a bit into the darkness, to the car park where we thanked our intrepid adventure colleagues for their company and bade them adieu.

The following morning’s drive could only have been more perfect had we encountered a moose, which sadly we didn’t. We did have the good fortune to encounter a hitchiker to make our trip more interesting. We discussed the mountains and our tour he is a great enjoyer of the wilderness lands and was full of tips and places to visit. It turns out he had locked his bike up in the woods as he had to give up on a several hundred km ride, due to a recurrence of a recently operated upon ACL injury. We were taking him back to his car at Mt Washington. Most of our discussion centred around the monumental clusterfuck that is the US election race and the potential skullfuck of the world that would occur should Trump actually triumph. Oh and this all happened in German for the most part as our traveller was in fact born in Munich (sadly, I didn’t write his name down again and for some reason today my name brain is royally fubar’d, again if you read, please tell me so I may edit and feel much better about myself as a human).

Our destination this evening was North Hampton, New Hampshire. The beautiful home of our old neighbours in Switzerland, John and Beverly. They graciously provided us with a room and place to get clean (the bathroom was complete with wallpapered light switches which I say in all honesty, and with no overstatement might just be the best thing in the world. Ever.) and also provided us with some delicious dinner and Conny in particular with a New Hampshire staple that is a Lobster roll, suitably toasted in butter. Conny is most definitely a convert to the church of the lobster roll.

Moreover it was a real delight to spend some time and chat the chat with two genuinely lovely people. We are generations apart but that doesn’t matter, they live their lives with a twinkle in their eyes, a perfect humour and generosity that are a cut above most. I feel greatly blessed by the God in whom I don’t believe to have met them and to be able to visit them was a pleasure and a privilege.

The next day we headed towards Boston with the intention of staying a night, perhaps even boondocking a Walmart and abusing the free wifi to watch the next debacle, sorry, debate, in the great race to screw the world from the American throne.

Instead we found a rainy city half shut down for a run of some sort. The parking lot boondock looked positively deathly and we arrived just as rush hour served to push Conny beyond the point of no return. If you read this blog you may know, Conny and I on our best days are limited in our love for the hustle, bustle and all else that comes with the city, so Conny and I opted to head to the coast and see if the call of Boston drew us in the next morning. It didn’t. Instead, having slept in a park car park right by the harbour in a sleepy coast town, we realised that the park was the local dog walking grounds. We spent all morning watching the dogs having a ball with each other. Big dogs, little dogs, beautiful dogs, ugly mutt-dogs all having a blast and getting along swimmingly. It was a great start to the day. One dog with small-man syndrome did pick a fight with a pack of what look like large Malinois meets Ridgeback kind of dogs and a Rottweiler. He ended up running away and yelping while his equally ridiculous handler chased and then carried him away all the while muttering about how a good dog owner acts responsibly. Idiot.

Toronto is my kind of city. Everything is relatively clean. People are relatively friendly. Nothing feels claustrophobic and although not perfect, that social disparity that I have mentioned previously does not seem quite as evident, I am likely wrong but I just get a much more pleasant and socialist vibe about the place which in my eyes is no bad thing.

The morning starts with a stroll to drop the kids at school, after which Conny and I head into town to get my booster shot for Hepatitis A and B.

The overland train system is a true wonder. Not the system itself, but it’s wondrous passengers. I had left Conny for no more than 30 seconds and she struck up conversation with Arlette. Arlette is an odd ball as many of our favourite encounters are. In said thirty seconds, Conny had come to know that Arlette had recently lost her boyfriend, that she cared for the homeless by keeping them company and that she was a strong believer in the afterlife. These last two points particularlly important as the homeless man she has recently befriended has prophesied that Arlette will be given a sign. A sign that she is not alone and that he is with her. Not only this but the sign will come not in the apparition of an angel. Not in great revelation. Not even in a stroke of good fortune. But in the age old ghostly form of communication betwixt dimensional realms of existence, pizza. YES! PIZZA! Because you see he loved pizza, and she did not, well she did, because we all know that pizza is fucking tasty, moreover she ain’t no fan of what it did to her hips with all that melty cheesey wonder and doughey goodness. So it must only be right that he contacts her this way. Our conversation meanders through various oddballities as we head for our destination, as we arrive at our stop, I tell Arlette it was a pleasure to discuss such wonder with her and to meet nice folk in general, not a word of which was untrue. At this point a guy at the back proclaims “BRITISH ASSHOLE” and then pipes down.

We dismount.

The cross walk is on red. A man with an unfortunate limp starts telling the fellow cross walkers of how is day is shaping up to be a shit one and that he really does not want to be around those fuckers and the goddamn British Civil Servant Asshole (I assumed he meant me).

Conny, not too impressed as I enlighten him that although I am British, may indeed be an arsehole(correct terminology, thank you) I am in fact no servant civil or otherwise, tells me to shut the fuck up and ushers me to the clinic despite my protestation that it is indeed a true thing.

This is perhaps where Toronto falls short. The travel clinic was a ballache and then some. Despite my 10.15 appointment, I am shuffled into my “consultant” at some time after 11. The scent of Conny’s discontent in the air, I afford him the information that he can save time, both mine and his, by foregoing the “consult” as it is entirely unnecessary as I have done it in Austria, and just need my second booster shot.

Nope.

“Yes, that is perhaps true you want you’re booster but I have many many important questions about your trip” in his thick Russian accent, comes the reply, from I shit you not, Dr Boris. No judgement on his name or ethnicity regarding his ability or anything else for that matter, I just found it funny that I was being treated by an unlikely looking Russian physician called Dr Boris.

“But I have done all this before, and really I promise I am only taking the shot.”

“Yes OK but I really want you to have all this info and I give you prescription, you don’t have to take it, but I give you. It’s part of the consultation…”

An hour later I am asked to step out to await my shot. Conny is not only at this point peeved, but positively hangry to boot. A very dangerous combination. Add the extra 20 minutes and the failure of our cards to pay to boot. Conny was in full cantankerous mode when paying(she had to go and get cash from down the road) before finally my shot being delivered.

The vile temper was only exacerbated by the worst coffee we ever had being served to us, each 5 minutes apart by a guy who didn’t even know how to use a french press, joking about his ineptitude at his chosen profession as he did.

Now you would think, and be right in thinking so, how does this equate to a great city? Well it doesn’t. We obviously pulled the short straw that morning. The afternoon however was a different story.

The marvels of a vibrant city had opened up to us. Chinatown, photo exhibitions in random catherdralistic office buildings, root beers at the harbour and a wonderful produce market in St Lawrence, the gem had to be the Kensington Market neighbourhood. Toronto’s answer to Camden Town. Street food shops of many kinds, packed for their delights, thrift stores, street art, a car that was turned into a garden, music places and a book store where not only did I purchase a book but got witness a reading of a poet on “tour”.

I use the quote marks as I’m not really sure how successful his “tour” is in regard to advertising or indeed attendance.

“Hi folks I’d like to thank you all for coming, I am Tim Spence and I have been invited as part of my reading tour to read some pieces for you, so thanks for coming out and listening…” comes the proclamation from the steps of the shanty/secondhand bookstore at which Conny, myself and one other lady happen to be browsing.

A couple of odd, awkwardly read poems tumble from his lips. More simple observations, much like my own, with equally as little artistic prose or wit or merit. I wrote this one this morning for you he boasts as he mumbles about a man drinking coffee and shoppers walking by. I’m thinking this guy is shit.

But wait. He talks of how there is some mental illness in his family, and that he likens it to a famous dude who was also bonkers (I am allowed to use such dismissive terms as I am actually bonkers in the exact same vein) and that he would like to read from one of his previous books.

BOOM, he starts off on one like a mad preacher come horse race commentator, babbling on in Jesus tongues about the bonkers famous dude. He keeps going and going faster and faster, louder and louder. Face reddening, eyes bulging, leg shaking, hand tapping he howls his Hallelujah crescendo just at the moment I thought his head was about to explode a la Scanners (seminal mindfuck sci-fi movie with Michael Ironside. Look it up). The boy pulled it around.

He thanks us three, and the guy who came out of the shop who had been waiting patiently to pay for his violin book and alas the performance is done. To say it was a game of two halves is no understatement.

That evening, my host takes me to watch him and some old boys in an informal ice hockey game. He throws some skates my way (not having been on ice ice since 2003) that are 2 sizes too small and on I go. As you could imagine this was not an elegant picture. I shuffled awkwardly a couple of times across the rink, somewhat akin to a newborn foal stepping off the waltzers after a gin or five too many, pucks being pushed around left right and centre. I am handed a stick, cack-handed of course despite my distinct un-cack-handedness and I am told to shoot.

At this point in my head I am thinking a young Pacey in Mighty Ducks style awakening will spring forth or some Swayze/Lowe youngblood brilliance. I gingerly move toward the puck ready to unleash the full force of my spudguns and bust that net. SLAP! I go for it. Sadly the SLAP of which I spake is not the noise of wood hitting puck, but the sound of a fat thirtysomething going arse over tit in an attempt to do something he has no business doing and his flailing limbed torsoe hitting the pristine white ice. I am offered a hand up.

“You OK?”

“Yup, just pull me up”

“Did that hurt? That looked like it hurt”

I take my leave of the ice and watch as these dudes blast around, full pads and all like there’s nothing to it. I know they have been doing it all their lives. I know they have the muscle memory, but it is still massively impressive seeing dudes in their sixties, of all levels of fitness, playing against and alongside thirtysomething teachers and mechanics and IT guys with all over them moving with such grace and agility, performing complex skills with the stick while dancing with their legs. Truly astounding and a pleasure to watch.

Memories of the Canadian exchange have a fond place in my brain. Some good folk, a lot of fun and even a veggie hotdog from a street vendor. Awesome.

We were headed towards our destination a day early in the driving rain. The last night had been a stopover at a trailhead somewhere in some forest in some northern US state. Conny was panicky. Prior to going to bed in our isolated little spot miles from civilisation, we had binge watched a few episodes of The Bridge. A dark and occasionally violent TV show about the brutal murders and dismemberment of many people, often in an isolated little spot miles from civilisation. Also, bear in mind, this is a girl who made me switch off the Goonies as it was too scary. Sleep easy she did not. The country side makes noises. Conny is not keen on noises. She asked if I had the knife. I informed her that I don’t think our Swiss army knife is going to do much either way, but she was not happy that I had left it below. I however was tucked up warm and toasty and had to assure it would be my guns that saved her if anything were to happen. The knife was unnecessary.

Morning, came, as did the weather. We hit the road, and tried to call our host, but t’would appear my phone does not like Canadians. We ponder it then think to ourselves “Nah we’ll just wait til we hit the Canadian side of the border and pick up some wifi, drop a quick message or something.”

We pulled up to the border crossing and it’s policeman with some trepidation and a little extra pucker, given my previous experience. The policeman’s questions seemed to me to be overly pointed and somewhat angrily delivered, but Conny assures me they were fine and I was probably feeling the negative affects of my entry in to the US and the US’s near entry into me and it was clouding my judgement.

Interrogation over with we proceed to the nearest petrol station. WIFI all require codes and purchases from some less than savoury establishments. I think I’ll try my phone again, only to discover it really doesn’t like Canada, I am not even offered a carrier in my settings menu. Phoning is off the menu.

The night draws in and we are slowly progressing, but we don’t even know at this point if Matt, our host is aware we are gonna be early.

HALLELUJAH! A rest stop with WIFI, God (in whom I don’t even believe) bless you OnRoute.

…Twenty minutes, a Pumpkins Spiced Latte, an actual coffee and much shuffling around the service station, following the phone like a divining rod later…

FUCK YOU ONROUTE! DAMN YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL(in which I don’t believe) AND MAY YOU AND YOUR FALSE WIFI PROMISES ROT ETERNAL EVERMORE IN PAIN!

64 clicks down the highway, an entirely different OnRoute network connected to and 4 devices attempting to update our various messaging devices and still no phone service, my venom towards telecoms in the North American Continent is becoming decidedly audible and people are starting to look at me funny.

We proceed. And indeed arrive at our destination. I ring the bell, I hear nothing. I tap the door. Nothing. I figure they must be in bed.

Black Beauty it is then. Penthouse hoisted we post apologetic notes in finest upperclass English to the local residents on Beauty’s windows. Our Doublemint adhesed scribbles explaining that we are no threat and are indeed kindly folk not wishing to wake up the neighbourhood with banging and knocking and alarms and such and that we are indeed no threat to the kids and pets or indeed other valuables, we bunker down.

Morning comes. Another knock. Another bell ring. The note I placed strategically on their porch remained. I head to the park for a little stretch of the legs and head back to Conny.

“I’ve just seen him!” she beams

“What do you mean?” I enquire

“He just rode past on his bike…well I think he did”

“Did he come from that house?”

“Yes”

“Did he look Chinese”

“Yes”

“Well, I would hazard a guess that it was him…did you say hello?”

“Oh no”

“Come again?”

“Well he looked right at the tent.”

…

Tongue bitten, we head to Coffee Culture (more disposable culture I’m afraid…people love to throw things away on this great continent) we hook up to their wifi. Joy! It works. Matt had all my messages. Only he was waiting up til 11.30…we got thre at 10…then out the window Matt, in full cycle, blasts past. I inform Conny that she should refresh her email in 5 minutes. She does.

We are informed he has just been out cycling and got back in. We are welcome any time.

Moseying back, with newly acquired Boost bar (a surprising find along with some Vimto on the way back) we say hello to Matt. He informs me that the doorbell doesn’t work and that he waited in the basement, where one can hear no knocks.

At least tonight though, we would have a bed!

The good thing about being with friends is that you slip straight back into chatting the random and odd, much more than just updating on the ins and outs of life over the last age.

We are introduced to his young family who are suitably wonderful. Even his mum and dad come over to say hi, have a natter and watch the kids whilst we head out for dinner! Even knowing we are going out for dinner they bring food, and vegetarian especially for me, they know I am an eater, it clearly resonated in the Nip psyche that I love me some food. So pre dinner food demolished, we head out for deeeeeeeeelicious tacos at an awesome, vibrant and lively place. Their charred corn on the cob with chili and stuff simultaneously managed a trio of feats. Changed the very colour of my beard with all its adornments, the spice very nearly took my face off and the taste blew my mind. HolyChrist these things were tasty.

The tacos were a long way from the things I remember from the supermarket shelves all folded and crispy. They were fresh and soft and phenomenal. Boy did I dig me some tacos. Conny, too, despite that it gave her her customary chili lips (Conny is afflicted by a highly amusing condition that any time hot fat or chili spice is present, in any kind of even the most nominal quantity, she develops an extra set of lips around her already existing lips*, a bit Ronald McDonald, it does tickle me so) loved it. I plowed through as the sweat built on my forehead and even chucked down a couple of lovely churros to boot.

The night is young and we feel like pretending to be so we head to a brewery and I am designated as driver. To the right, Conny points out the veggie dog at the stall. It is a necessary addition to the evening. Goes down a treat. I don’t even know what the green stuff or the yellow stuff was that I smothered that thing in. But it was ace.

The brewery is in Oktoberfest swing as we enter, the ales look delicious and Conny, as any good germanic girl would, opts for the flight of all the germanic style beers on the menu. Our cohorts ordered their appropriate IPA’s and we looked set for a solid night. Then the band ended and those taco’s took their toll on one of our number, he shall remain nameless, but wasn’t me and those in the know will know of whom I speak. His first trip to the loo was a standard fair in our eyes as he popped off, no sign yet that anything was amiss, upon his third exit from the table we could see the build up of tension scrawled across his face, the purpose in his walk a tell tale sign. We collectively watched and felt for him as the queue for the stalls had become a long one and we turned around in giggles and utterances of empathy as he entered the final stretch and turned the corner.

A few moments passed however and our empathy turned to concern. There was some level of drama escalating in the line-up. One immaculately bearded man was becoming tense, shouting into the stalls, and banging. Empathy again swept over us as we only figured they were all waiting our boy’s exit, while he was looking after a torrid exit all of his own. We pondered the walk of shame having to walk past those vexed hipster folk and their scornful gaze as he walked back, past them and the waft of the murder scene in his wake hit their noses. Then out he pops, not a sausage of bother on him. The drama in his stall apparently paled in comparison to that in the stall next to him, despite his being intruded upon by an unfortunate hipsterette mid flow. No the boy next door in the stalls had managed to pick that spot for a nap. Tears were flowing and MacGuyver brains were at work upon how to enter the lavatory and rescue him, but judging by the time taken, MacGuyver was no Canuck.

We headed home at a reasonable hour upon which we were greeted by another friend from the exchange. It is odd how decades can pass and people are exactly the same. Odd but comforting. A cup of tea or two later and it was time for bed. A lovely, comfortable, warm bed. A delightful end to a delightful day. And for your info, I was happy that my very own Trump wall was doing it’s job, keeping the Mexican’s at bay.

*the lips on her face you filthy heathens. Keep your minds out of both the gutter and my girlfriends nickers.

Given the prices of RV parks, we opted for an Air BnB in the suburbs. A simple room affair in someone’s house. Perfect.

Now these people, who have for a modest fee allowed us use of their house, are lovely. Do not get me wrong. Absolutely lovely. But also scary as fuck. You wanna know why? Well, I’ll tell you.

They seem like rational human beings, even if you discount their love of the Christ (I will never understand the need in His followers to try and speak to me in terms of His revelation and spin every word into some exultation of His glory. 35 years in and fuck all has been revealed to me save from a deep appreciation of the scientific and a crushing doubt in just about all things touched by religious hand. Well that and a few boobs, they have also occasionally been revealed but anyway, I digress, I often do), but it is debate night…Yes THAT debate. The first between Clinton and Trump. Between the Arse and the Cancer Riddled Arse. But my host tries to tell of how reasonable, compassionate and smart C.R.A. is and that he had the foresight none of the others did along with the brains and decency that a president requires. I swear there are still pieces of my jaw in his carpet from when it dropped to the floor and smashed.

We watched the debate, avoided any further political talk with our hosts and the next morning headed out “Downtown”. The plan was excellent. Drive to the park and ride. Take the train then go in for an explore. We got to the park and ride. It was going well. Except to park there a permit was required. But nowhere to get permits. I wind the window down to ask a taxi driver how or where a non resident can park.

“’Scuse me Sir” I say “do you know if there is a pay parking we can leave our van to get the t

“You vant parrk overnight? Sleep right?” comes the reply in thick eastern euro tones.

“Noooooo, just to go into town”

“What you got in there?” He gestures to the top box and eyes the side of the van.

“Well it is a tent but we are going into town”

“You from London? I was in jail in London” he beams “long time ago…” you can see the maths in action behind his eyes “20 years! Yes 20 years ago” he puffs at the realisation.

“Oh” I say “That is nice…and a long time ago”

“Immigration jail you know, no crime, no crime”

“Ah”

“Parking, go to Hyatt hotel, park at back you take a right at lights, two blocks down take right at light then left. Park at back there. It’s safe.”

“Ok for sure, thanks, will do” window rolls up. Not going there then, we’ll find another park and ride. Now I know that might paint me as a judgemental prick. I might just even be a judgemental prick. But hey. What can I do.

I tap Park and Ride into Garmin. It says it’s half way in, so go for it. It dawns on me as we pull into the turning lane just before the destination road that there seem to be an awful lot of airport parking signs.

“This isn’t O’Hare airport neck of the woods is it?”

“No, Midpoint Airport.”

I sit in silence realising my catastrophe, happy that Conny has not yet noticed the two and the other two, so has definitely not put

them together. We drive along the street, and I pipe up,

“I am a little worried that there is all this airport sign and no rail tracks.”

I think you can figure the rest.

We enter downtown. Black Beauty is a tall horse. The stables are low. And if not low, very pricey.

We had planned on heading to the North on our last day on my pilgrimage to Mme Zuzu’s Tearoom.

However Conny throws this option up as the traffic has been nightmarish, the construction workers had been following our exact route and fucking us left, right and centre and we were starting to tire of said fucking.

Mme Zuzu’s was exactly called for.

I kindly young man offered us his advice upon tea selection, we dined on sandwiches and cake (choc chip pumpkin bread specifically), driking tea whilst playing scrabble. All in an off beat tea room cum vintage store full of Smashing Pumpkins memorabilia that was owned by one Mr William Patrick Corgan. The man that is the reason I play guitar like a do. A few hours in that place and the mornin’s tensions were a hazy memory.

On the return leg we did something quite rare, and stumbled upon a religion I knew nothing about. Baha’i.

It is apparently the newest of the recognised world religions, dating some 200 years. It incorporates many of the established religions much in the same way as the Qu’ran sees even Jesus as a messenger of God. All of the figures in these religions are seen as messengers of the same One God. Creator of all. From what I can tell there is very little hierarchical structure in the church. They believe in the oneness of all things, the dignity of all beings and that opression of people is bad. If it weren’t for that pesky spirit in the sky stuff, sounds like it could be my kind of religion. The temple however, was a thirty year labour of love and is one of only 8 in the world. It is quite magnificent.

Baha’i. Look it up. I’m going to.

We topped the evening with a Chicago style deep dish from Lou Manati’s and hit the hey.

Tomorrow was a new day.

Tomorrow became today and we headed for a different park and ride. Closer, free parking and a 4 buck bus ride into Downtown. Perfect. We stumbled off the bus under the Gotham rail tracks. Conny wanted to go on the open top bus so we did. It was raining. We sardined into the bottom deck and began our tour. As the weather perked up we got out at the pier, and did our general moseying thing.

Despite the weather, Chicago is a delightful city. Art everywhere. Tales of gangs and fabled grand gestures of love abound. There is a large Trump shaped erection and there are many parts where Chicago and Gotham are one. Much of this information was brought to us by Dan. One of the guides on the bus. I like Dan, he is an amusing sort. If I was staying longer, I would definitely follow Dan’s suggestions for a good time. He particularly like to point out the corrupt nature of Chicago. Their city jail is called the Governors Penthouse, due to the fact that 4 of the last 8 governors have served sentences there. 6 have been convicted of wrong doings. He highlights some of the key points of Al Capone’s involvement as a pillar of community, and entrepreneur, a job creator. All very tongue in cheek. He even ties the pizza house with a chapter of the freemasons and questions the coincidence of the name Lou Manati’s as a reference to the Illuminati.

We strolled Millenium park, which houses a been that has been buffed so much you can see your reflection in it and yes, I could not resist. I did indeed flick it. I flicked that bean.

The onward plan was to investigate the lakes area over the next few days as we mosey our way to the wonderful land that is Canada and a reunion with an old friend that was at least 16 years overdue. The elements however had an entirely different idea. The sheets of rain and visibility sapping clouds put pay to any enjoyable nature walks and sight seeing so we opted to drive with more haste to Toronto. That top part of the US though full orchards and green and lovely and nice…but also…Christian central. Never seen so many different flavours of the Christian fruit as I did on these roads. At one point we turned on to a highway and the first four buildings we passed were different denomination churches. Their really can not be this much requirement for the Christ child in these folks lives. Well apparently there is but I struggle to see how.

We awoke at our truckstop in Fort Collins to a familiar sight. Old Goat! It would appear that the vagabonds had followed us or at least come to the same conclusion that this was a good place to stop. However, given that we(I) had rudely awoken them from their slumber the previous mornings with my clumsy early morning fumblements (second morning I tried to make up for it with a cup of coffee that made Johnny shudder/jig with delight) we chose to leave them alone and head on.

This next stage was always going to be one of long driving through repetitive Nebraska plains. Which indeed it was. To start it was hot and windy. Bloody windy, we pulled up at our stop, the Country View RV park at Ogahlalla. Not much country to view but it was cheap and clean and the folk running it were lovely. The guy who ran it talked to me about the lake and the two englishmen he knew. His tree guy who had just left and his mate Kevin, who shat his pants in a deep lake and he had to go save him. However, I digress( I tend to do that) This place was hotter than Satan’s Arsehole after a curry buffet, and with exactly as much wind as that same arsehole. It was like being in a tumble drier. Conny showered and in the ten metres to the van her hair was bone dry.

We headed to the local chinese for dinner. Which was shit. But the dude was funny.

More of the same ahead we tried to sleep despite the fear that the near hurricane winds were going to fling us all the way to Oz, we tried to get some sleep. We plainly failed but as morning came we destroyed a few ‘wiches of the Egg Sand variety and hit the long straight road for round two. We stopped at the Pony Express post in Gothenburg, where we encountered a troupe of Amish on an excursion. The Pony Express was quite impressive. It was like a telegram service on horseback and speed. Riders would change horses every ten to fifteen miles and the riders would do legs of about ninety each and pass the mail shaped baton along the way.

We hit the road once more but the weather turned sour. The rain was a beast. Seldom have I seen such stuff shy of next to the shore of Lake Geneva. If you’re interested, it often rains ridiculously by Lausanne for some reason. It is like God himself decides to shift the lake North by a few hundred metres from time to time and he just elevates the water, shunts it along and drops it down…usually as I was driving past. Anyway, I digress, as I often do.

Then came the lightning. The sky lit up in huge streaks. Chain reactions like the ghost of Nicholas Tesla at play in the heavens. These then turned more to sheets, lighting the whole dark sky. We chose to sleep in the bed inside the van this night. A couple of days and nights of this and a few pancakes later we hit St Louis, and checked out the Cahokia mounds. Not that impressive to look at but one can’t help wonder at the history of a place like that. Transported in one’s imagination to when the plains people thrived there. It is odd, but I had never thought of the native Americans as dwelling in cities or communities outside of the nomadic tribes oft seen in the like of Last of the Mohicans and Dances with Wolves. This place was settled and thrive for several hundred years from around 700 AD. Pretty impressive really.

Next stop Chicago. More about that next time.

As previously mentioned Katee and Johnny are pretty fine folk. We met at the pub, bonded over fire, food and vans and thought “you know what, we’re all doing this, so whilst our paths are intertwined, let’s do this together”. Well although that was never actually said, I would like to think it was the general jist of things.

Johnny. A very spritely nearly 42 year old with a penchant for a good beard, a good hat, some strong coffee and the odd toot of a pipe. It’s ok for those of you frowning in disdain, he has a card. Years of him working at his moving company have left him with “chronic back pain” so he is more than entitled to his toots. He is also very knowledgeable about the various ways of application of his favoured medicinal herb.

Katee, an even spritelier twentysomething (one doesn’t reveal a lady’s age does one, but Johnny beams gleefully with the pride that can only be associated with the “he’s done well for himself there” trick of nabbing a younger lady) is very warm, interesting and certainly an individual. Part hippy, part ditzy (in the nicest possible way) blonde, entirely adorable. She is more ethereal than us gruff men, and that is no bad thing.

We decide to stick together as we head across the Colorado Rockies and onwards, separating as we head for Chicago and them for the plains of Minnesota.

They are living what was in fact my initial plan. They bought a cheapo (yet beautiful) old van, that they are improving with love and elbow grease along the way.

Their “Old Goat” (I just gave it that name, it’s not official, but I like it) is an early 90’s Dodge Ram with an unfathomably deep fuel tank and a ridiculously large fuel displacement figure, but it is a picture in bright blue, with that kind of leather/vinyl/carpet/wood awesome interior that the Germans would not dream of throwing in a van. Johnny works on bits here and there, he spent many an hour outside home depot patching this and that. Anyway, I digress.

The morning after the night before, we all wake to coffee. Proper coffee. French Press style. Conny and I have been longing for the french press but so far has eluded us. Boy does that go down a treat. Not only that, upon hearing our desires for the French Press, Katee throws a look and a whisper at Johnny, he mumbles…moments later they have given us their “spare” Bodum. RESULT! I fucking love these people. We get to making breakfast. Eggs with vegetables, a few bangers for the omnivores pancakes with maple. Jobs a good’un talk turns to the route. Really, we let the ladies look at giant old fashioned fold away maps and then tell us roughly where they think. Johnny and I glance at phones, a cursory nod and all is sorted. We head to Vail, then to the West side of the Rockies, camp, then head over said Rockies, camp again.

Vail. After traipsing around for an age trying to find a car park to fit our height and the length of Johnny’s trailer, we succeed. We head in for a coffee and a nose. What we find is an oddball Americain interpretation of a quaint Swiss mountain town. The dimensions are all too American. The paintings all too American. The idea quite pleasant but the execution a bit shoddy. It’s like a cross between the Alpina in Gstaad (which although being in the quintessentially Swiss mountain town is itself a piss poor appropriation of the classic mountainside chateau) and Disney.

It’s like the X5 BMW of the Alpine mountain town. The concept and idea were German, most of the design inspired by Germans, but essentially made for Americans to assemble and aimed at the American market.

Onwards we head into the night looking for our camp ground, but requiring supplies we follow the Old Goat as it turns into a Whole Foods supermaket. Something Conny and I had been looking forward to since our arrival. Johnny and Katee actually met working in such a store in California. Johnny in the bar and Katee a checkout girl. They did actually tell us how even the originally community centred supermarket is being corrupted by the need to put profit first, and that as they left the boss’s were revelling in pitting the staff against one another in their deathmatch for the ever dwindling number of positions. However, their food does come from a better place than many so they and we were happy to buy our goods. Johnny even slipped me a card to use at the checkout in one of those too late to tell what was happening just go with it moments. It was revealed to me upon payment, that he had slipped me a voucher for 20 bucks. During his service, his corporate overlords, whilst trying to fire him for downsizing purposes, were also patting him on the back and throwing gift vouchers at him. He chose to throw one my way. I am genuinely honoured!

Night drew in, I took the lead as we headed for the forests where free camping is quite abundant and…erm…free. We struggle a little as the forest however ain’t too wonderfully signposted. We wander up a rough track and at the fork in the road, we pick an even rougher one. A many pointed turn or two later we head back to the other road and follow it right to it’s conclusion. A staging point for excursions in to the wilds. Perfect. Johnny builds a fire we briefly natter, then head in.

The next morning, oblivious to the odd pick up and ATV bowling past, we relight the fire, breakfast to day is sausage, veggie sausage courtesy of Whole Foods for me, eggs and bacon. Even I love the smell of camp-bacon. Not sure anything could smell better. I’m sure that was what our little uninvited guest was thinking too. We four stood puzzled as a little rodent blighter cleaned home, popping in and out of his hole with mounds of dirt. And then to just have a gawp at us four weirdos gawping at him. Still not sure what he is but cute as a button.

We decide to tackle the mountains, do a short walk and perhaps a coffee. Which is what we do. Old Goat is not as nimble as he once was though, and I fear was of the paddock variety as opposed to the mountain variety. Crawled up, crept down but he got there. The roads were stunning. The light and the colours magnificent. We crested the peak, it was almost like if you lifted the Roaches from where I grew up in the Autumn and plonked them atop an already existing Alpine range. Quite bizarre. As we made our descent the weather rolled in. We crossed paths with the odd Elk and the storm clouds were fantastic. We headed for the forest to find camp, but all we found was a picnic place called Sleepy Hollow. We dined on a mismatch meal that went down a treat and decided from there we would part ways as they were slow and finding a spot for the two of us would prove tricky.

Our merry band was gone, but shall not be forgotten!

As much as we enjoy the journey so far, we are aware that cruising the highways means we might skip by the real life America and some of the more interesting sights. Obviously the pay off is getting from a to b in a much more efficient manner. The goal is to mix it up where we can and today we started to find some balance.

Taking the windy road into the Colorado Rockies through the Gunnison national forest is like a mine of colour for the Autumnal painter’s palette. Ruby red, deep rust, bright gold, double-yellows yellow, with greens from faded lime to emerald and that deep dark evergreen pine.

The towns we pass have names like Hotchkiss, Paonia, Somerset and Bowie, really just ramshackle collections of shacks and stores at the roadside. Every few metres is a different fruit and veg grower plugging their wares. A far cry from the arid desolation of the desert mere moments away. One thing I do notice is I let things pass by, I need to stop the car and get out to take a moment to marvel Like the old classic car lot in Delta, I gazed in awe at the rusty old beauties from the thirties through to the probably seventies or eighties, but I failed to stop and capture it. All rusted and ruined but probably still fully functional, lined up like the dad’s army of American motors on parade. It was a sight to behold for sure, hopefully we shall pass more obscura and take the time to document it accordingly.

For your info, this post is being written somewhat more in real time than previously. Somewhat in the vein of the post, we stop at the roadside to photograph what look to be giant beehives in a line. It transpires that these are not beehives but ovens for making the coke that powered US industry for so long. We notice a discreet sign saying turn left for one of America’s best kept secret small towns, but keep it quiet. How could we refuse. From the Redstone Inn at the start to the little lodges at the end and all in between it is exactly what it says on the tin. The first building is a shop of wonderful decorative things, closing down after thirty-three years as the owner fancies retirement. The items are delightful as is the owner and Conny cannot help but buy the only thing we can fit in our (probably my) bag. More people enquire about the wonder of Black Beauty, so I give them the tour and the full story, they wish us well on our journey. Even the lamp posts in Redstone are fantastic.

Next up is Carbondale, a little larger but still with a quaint historic high-street and more importantly Beat Cafe, and entirely vegetarian salad, toast and shakes cafe from where I am sat writing with my Avocado, sesame and seawead toast. A veritable delight!

Onwards towards Aspen. A little known fact, as a little David, I always wanted to live in Aspen. I wasn’t aware that it was a wealthy town. I wasn’t really aware of much other than that it was in the mountains, had snow in the winter and I thought I could live out my lumberjack dream.

Turns out Aspen is a great place, lovely folk, nice houses, some odd architecture and design (I saw a full medieval suit of armour in someone’s window, but most importantly a pub.

Pubs, as we know are places of wonder, where even a non-drinking odd ball like me can feel at home at the same time as enjoying a night out. They are where people go to be alone, they are where people go to meet friends, they are where people go to eat, drink and be merry they are a place for all occasions.

We happened upon Hops. You can probably guess it focuses on beer (hundred and something varieties) we sat outside. Hogging the long bench to ourselves, in fact myself, as conny had been sent back to the car for ID…at 29 years old this astounds me. It was at this point a giant black dog chose to sit himself in the mini river next to my bench. The couple attached to this beast studied our table and the cluster of stuff I had spread all over it. Of course, I bundled it together and gestured to them to take a pew, which they did to my left, thanking me for sharing, which I thought was nice!

To my right a couple got up and another couple who had witnessed the dog’s selection of the bar decided to follow suit. And there we were. Our new table of fast friends.

The dog was, and is, called Cain. The man and woman who claim him as theirs are called Chuck and Alison, two young and lovely early twentysomethings I guess. We tentatively throw single lines across the table about the menu items, not wanting to interrupt each others quiet time we keep the talk small.

Until it turns to what we are doing here. Turns out Chuck and Alison dream of doing what we are doing, they offer us a tip on a camp ground an hour or so from here…at this point from my right I hear “Hey, I think we need in on this. Not eavesdropping, but we are also in a van and need this information”

Meet Johnny, he is one of the couple that sat down after witnessing Cain in the drink, and finding it “too cute”.

Johnny is with Katee. Katee is awesome.

We six plus dog spend the afternoon and evening discussing the world at large, the small stuff and much in between, and as we decide to call it a night, we all decide to head to the campground.

We head off in convoy, Chuck leads the way, with Johnny and Katy in the middle and as ever, David and Conny take up the rear. The Aspen leaves that have made it to the ground dance in the headlights as our motorcade trickles through the mountains. I am somewhat glad the night is upon us as the roads are windy and one laned with no barriers, the only time I saw over the edge my bum went all a quiver at the sheer drop to my right.

Continental divide crossed, campground reached, we men headed into the woods headlamps on, with axe and my swiss army knife to gather wood. The ladies drove to the entrance and picked up a couple of the prepared bundles they spotted on the way in. Either way, between us we had wood and fire. When there is fire and campers, inevitably next up comes food. An all-pitched-in effort of starter of fried-ricey-thingy, followed by sausages and bread for the omniverous, and potatoes accompanied by merlot-cheese to finish…’twas a delight!

Chuck and Alison were, I am guessing the youngest of the New Bunch. A lovely pair of young folk too! Not long married I think the two of them would love to just jump in a van with their trusty hound and tear up the open road. Who knows, maybe our little band of gypsies has encouraged them, I do hope so!

Katee and Johnny are equally as lovely…but they became our companions for a few days following and get their own post!

Colorado, it transpires, is a weed legal state. Our cohorts knew plenty of this, and Conny and myself had said we should sample the delights once and once only in our trip. Our friends, the experts offered us a little toot on their pipe. How could we refuse?

About three minutes later, after the coughing subsided, I was at the point of only hearing incomprehensible snippets of conversation. I was fully aware that I could offer nothing in the way of intelligent speech and could hear the call of my bed loud and clear. Now I remember why I don’t smoke weed.

I gave up and headed off as the paranoia set in and I could half hear discussions of suitably random stuff that I can no longer even remember. I did however drift off nicely.

As Conny crawled into the bed what seemed like three hours later (apparently it was 10 minutes) and then the car pulled off (which seemed like ten minutes later but was hours later, it’s all very confusing!) I needed a pee, was wide awake and feeling the appropriate highness from my little toot. Sadly David missed the party. Fire out and all in bed. I think I’ll leave the sticky icky from here on out to the professionals!