As I'm half the way through my road trip log, I thought some of you might be interested in seeing our route through the Southest United States. It's the black line (obviously, starting in Denver, then heading south, then west across to Santa Barbara (the little sticky-out line in the far west) before heading north then east on our way back to Denver.

There's also a little mistake round about the Sequoia National Park. Please pretend you didn't notice.

A lovely day, this. Our first holiday lie-in, a smashing brunch and a gentle trip up the Californian coast to Solvang. It's a little bit of Denmark! Really. Windmills everywhere, pastries, cutesy little houses and bizarrely accented Danish-Americans.

Also, it's in the middle of southern Californian wine country. Yum. So after a quick danish (a Danish what? Hoho) and a decidedly American coffee, we repair across the road to a local winery for a bit of tasting. A matronly blonde with a faintly discernible whiff (both literal and metaphorical) of the noble grape welcomes us, and introduces us to her list. We decide to try 5 wines, 3 reds, 1 white and a sweet red for afters. And they were delicious, particularly the (I think) 2000 Pinot Noir from their very own vineyards.

Slightly tipsified, we decided to head into wine-growin' country proper for tasting no. 2. Another drunken wench provided us with a less interesting and not as tasty list, but on the plus side there was the most gorgeous pair of olive tapenades sitting on the bar just waiting to be gobbled, gratis.

Unfortunately, we had so enjoyed savouring the fruits of the Los Olivos valley that we missed the chance to complete our winery hat-trick. 5.30 is NOT a civilised time to close anywhere that sells booze. On the other hand, Sarah in particular had imbibed plenty, a beautiful rosy glow complementing her already porcelain-perfect features (she'll slap me for this). So we drove back to Solvang, bought the distinguished Pinot Noir (at a suitably distinguished price), and drank it with a simply delicious mushroom risotto made by yours truly.

Nice day, all in all.

I'd like to draw your attention to the possibility of leaving comments on this blog. At the end of each entry, please click on the "nigga please" link and tell me your thoughts. Otherwise I may well lose the will to live, yo.

I'm sorry, but does this ad copy for the Chrysler Voyager turn anyone else's stomach? It just seemed really icky to me. Ew!

Today is a very happy day. After leaving Kingman, we head off towards the "ghost" town of Oatman, in the middle of the most cowboy-esque mountains ever! Now this is what I wanted to see in the Southwest - a perfect combination of mountains, desert, plant life, abandoned mines, car wrecks and, most importantly, fauna.

It's not really a ghost town at all - its main street is certainly more bustling than most of the anonymous towns along our trail. But it does still have all the authentic wooden houses, slatted, covered sidewalks and, um, feral donkeys you could want from the Wild West. Sarah and I both went ultra-tourist, waving our cameras around willy-nilly, although neither of us bought any of the sumptuous range of wolfshirts on sale.

We also came face to face with the world's biggest insect. This is a picture of it actual size. Fear it! As well as that, we saw what we both have chosen to believe was a gila monster, a snake (that sadly lasted slightly under 2 seconds before it veered under the wheels of the Subaru. That sucked.) and a saguaro cactus! Sarah kept warning me that we weren't really going far enough south to find them, but lo and behold, next to a broken-down homestead with scary "keep out" notices, there was a 20-foot cactus, looking for all the world like cactuses are meant to, and it even had a little hole in its trunk with wee birds flying in and out!

Sarah: We're surrounded by buttes!
Mark: Yes, it's a butte-fest!!

Apart from my inimitable sense of hilarity, today was a good day for roadside ephemera. Pylons shaped like saguaros, Joshua trees, ham-fisted anti-smoking billboards (a young black kid puffing away under the words "It's like I'm cool - AS COOL AS A FOOL!"). A wonderful sign instructs boat-owners how to behave considerately, featuring a stick man falling off a boat shouting "yikes!". We are, I should remind you, in the middle of the desert at this point.

There are also a large number of crude wooden crosses by the side of the road. It's something we see all over the southwest, but more on the little barren stretches of Route 66 than anywhere else. It's strange and not a little poignant.

We are welcomed to California via the city of Needles, which would make a better name for a 1930s Bronx gangster, but hey. We could tell it was California because of all the palm trees. I'm not 100% sure what the appeal of palm trees is - a long, featureless trunk with a bushy bit on top which does little other than drop coconuts on one's head, cartoon style (NB, this didn't happen to either of us. BUT IT COULD HAVE).

The remainder of southern California was split into two halves. The first was the let's-hope-we-make-it-across-the-desert trip over the Mojave, where I experienced the hottest temperature of my young life. 108 degrees fahrenheit! Now that's just silly. But it was pretty special, in a harsh, flat, majesty of nature kinda way, surrounded by joshua trees, red red sand and heat haze. Marvellous.

And then, reality bites back. We decided to bypass the city of angels by going north of those mountains above LA, the name of which I've forgotten. It's traffic-ridden, irritating, narrow, smoggy - everything we've so enjoyed escaping for the last three days. Sarah gets tense and nervy by our proximity to huge blocks of concrete whizzing by at 70 mph, and things aren't made any happier by our getting lost in the nothingness of Santa Clarita.

But we make it, eventually, to Santa Barbara, the fulcrum of our trip. We're greeted with joy, beer and Sexy Hair products by ex-pat Ben and his lovely missus Rachel. Our hostess, Jess, arrives after an hour or so and is immediately lovely and funny and welcoming. Hurrah for people! Tomorrow is our first rest day; we're staying here two nights and enjoying a rather slower, less hectic, tiring experience. Wine tasting to look forward to. Num...

Fuck, I love the smell of Barnes Common as I ride through it at night in the early summer, just after a drop or two of rain. Mark Bolan's ghost must be confused by the mini-roundabout that's arrived, 26 years too late, to slow down traffice before the anonymous but lethal humpback bridge.

Living near greenery is one of the joys of the roundly-ignored Southwest London. It's not in the least bit fashionable around here (Putney is considered by the hipsterati as acceptable but hardly cool, and everywhere else is just laughed off as bourgeois country, not incorrectly), but it's easily the greenest quarter of London, and not just the stockbroker belt. I've got Barnes Common, Putney Common, Putney Heath, Richmond Park and Wimbledon Common within a mile or so of me. Stick that up your arse, Clerkenwell/Islington/Shoreditch...

Today was the day I saw the Grand Canyon. The Grand Canyon is spectacular, unique, breathtaking, awe-inspiring, and dangerous. Sarah's grandmother gave us repeated warnings - "now don't you fall in!" - and they're not entirely unjustifed, as there are few barriers to prevent the majesty of nature getting up too close and personal for 5,000 vertical feet. In fact, as the warnings said, of the people who fall into the jagged, gaping maw of the bottomless canyon, some DIE. Oh no!

Throughout the day, as we penetrated further and west-er into Arizona, my childlike enthusiasm at our ever-deeper immersion into the ambience of the true south-west got greater and greater. So the Canyon had to compete not only with that, but with our previous stopover, Monument Valley. And, to be honest, I've yet to come across anything (inanimate) that nature has up its sleeve which competes with Monument Valley.

It does strike me as amazing, though, that Sarah and I are at this astonishing place and we have it almost to ourselves, at least when we're more than 200 yards from the visitors centre. Just like the empty roads, I envy this completely. Europe rocks, obviously, but it seems like a bank holiday weekend at Disneyworld compared the the openness and peace of the American west.

Other cool things at the Grand Canyon - we see our first CONDOR, which totally rocks. It keeps circling overhead, looking majestic and endangered, but never stays still enough to get a photo of. Perhaps it was all a dream. Better still, we get our first WOLFSHIRT, on a young man holidaying with his folks, called Spencer. I'm going to name my first child Spencer.

On the road on the way to Kingman, our resting place for the night, we saw a series of signs by the side of the road, each line separated by 200 or so yards:

"Train approaching
whistle squealing
pause - avoid that
rundown feeling"

Now I can't remember seeing any train tracks, but hell, it's gotta be good advice. Apart from "pause" - surely "get the fuck out of the way, dude!" I still can't get the image of the kids in Stand By Me walking along the railway tracks out of my mind. In Britain they'd have been hawled off by the local bobby and cuffed firmly about the ear, mark my words.

Other than the canyon and a nice, relaxed drive, the only other incident of note was pulling into our hotel in Kingman and seeing a big truck with the words "American Kidney Stone Management" on the side. A truck, not a car, ambulance, coach or anything. Heaven only knows the pain some Americans must be in...

After a pretty straightforward driving day, we finally begin to see some serious stuff. Near Cortez is the relatively small and straighforward Mesa Verde National Park. I say relatively small; this the the States, though, and with a demanding day of sightseeing and tourist-being ahead of us, the (entirely beautiful) drive through Mesa Verde narrows our already tight schedule still further.

Enough moaning, though, especially as the day worked out pretty well after all. And I'm glad we didn't miss the park; while it may not compare in terms of flabbergastworthiness to some of our later stopovers, it was a fantastic first experience of the amazing nature of the American wilderness. And the view from its highest point, amid the strong breeze and the clacking of the cicadas, was as amazing as you'd imagine.

Selected conversation gems from day 2:

Sarah: Look, our first butte!
Mark: And isn't it a butte-y!
Mark: [wets himself with uncontrollable hysterics, etc.]

Sarah: Ooh, it's a turkey!
Sarah: A turkey vulture!
(pause)
Sarah (slightly less certain): Um, it's a buzzard...

It was a good day too for stereotypical americana: I saw my first tumbleweed (which didn't have the grace to do any tumbling), my second tumbleweed (watch it tumble! Tumble, motherfucker, tumble!), windblown sands, dust storms, dust devils (which rock, repeatedly, throughout the trip - but is the southwest always so windy?), wigwams, buffalo, a biker belle in chaps called Jolene, and the WWF logo picked out in rocks on a mountainside.

There was also a moment when Marv's Let's Get It On appeared on one of my specially-prepared mix CDs, and Sarah burst out laughing. I was non-plussed.

Hmm - somehow I've written all the above without mentioning one of the highlights of the entire holiday, Monument Valley. One of my smarter moves is persuading Sarah that we need to OFF-ROAD (spoken like Otto from The Simpsons, natch) around the familar but spectacular mesas and buttes that make up one of the most astonishing natural sights I've ever seen. Have no fear, once I've finished sorting, processing, tweaking and naming my hundreds of holiday snaps, I'll be putting some up here for your viewing pleasure. My mum had told me Monument Valley was her favourite sight of all in the States; she's not far off, fo sho.

Our other touristy stop-off was at the Four Corners monument in Utah-New Mexico-Colorado-Arizona. It's a neat idea, I suppose, and it is set in the most bare, benighted landscape we come across the entire road trip (Bonneville Salt Flats excepted), but it's really little more than an excuse to charge visitors $3 for the privilege of taking an "amusing" photo and eating Navajo tacos, a native delicacy involving the rather delicious frybread.

So we got to Flagstaff after an extremely fulfilling day on the road, and despite being welcomed to town by a bunch of topless, beer-swilling rednecks in the back of a pickup, we went to bed tired and entirely satisfied. And the hotel was good, too.

Why do I look like Lisa Simpson in my blogchalk doodle (on the right, there, down a bit)? They didn't have any shiny-headed icons, I guess. I've now got to the point where I have names for every hardy little follicle that has remained active on the top of my head. There's Dave - hi Dave! - and there's Phil, that's John, Emma's the one just near the mole. Unfortunately, most of their erstwhile siblings have decided they prefer the top of my motorbike helmet, and certainly they seem to have a lot of company there.

A regular sight in Denver and the Southwest was the fundamentalist Christian bumber sticker. It got to the point where *all* the stickers I saw were violently bigoted dogma-espousing rubbish, but the one that really got my goat was something I saw in Denver just before I came home.

Now, I'm no big fan of the Christian fish symbol stuck to the back of cars, but, you know, it's a fairly understated way of showing which gang you belong to. So I was mildly tickled by Darwinian version, which I know most people will have seen already:

(let's ignore for now the fact that the darwinian fish has already made it to land and is safe from the Jesus fish, floundering (hoho) in both water and an existence justified entirely by a fundamental lack of proof. Actually, let's not get me started on why religion angers me so the fuck much)

Unfortunately, the witty chap with the above image on his bumper also seemed to think the slogan "Truth not Tolerance" is one he'd like to espouse. And Christians have a hard time understanding why I find some of their number so hateful?

I don't have a lot to add to that - I think the title speaks for itself. It comes from a TV programme I'm currently watching on the bastion of quality entertainment, Channel 5. It's a live (I think), interactive test of Great Britain's telepathic abilities. Just think, if this programme proves telepathy *does* exist, the world will be changed overnight! Hurray!

We decided to start off with a long drive, made longer by the presence of a sinkhole (Oh no! Sinkhole! Oh no!) in the I-70 near Vail. It was a good idea, I think - we were in enthusiastic spirits, we had 5 (FIVE) new mix CDs made specially for the road trip.

While we were drivin', we decided to note down things of interest along the way, which gives me most of the material for this account. In particular, I am a fan of WILDLIFE and got hyperbolically excited whenever a previously unseen (by me, I mean - a chipmunk may not be exciting to all of you, but I almost wet myself on first seeing one) example of north American fauna leapt out into the road in front of us. First day sightings: bighorn sheep (I got less excited about sheep than Sarah did, funnily enough), hawks, deer (one alive, one very dead), a wild cat! A groundhog! Whoot!

Colorado rocks because it has pretty much everything. Starting off on the plains (sorta), winding into the mountains, hitting almost 15,000 feet, and ending up in shrubbish, deserty, rocky country. It also has Telluride, a posh yet hippyish winter resort which is kind of nice in summer too. We stopped here for dinner, and wandered around its picturesque backroads after having a tasty but pricey Mexican. Then we undertook the 100-mile mountain road to Cortez, taking it in turns to try not to fall asleep at the wheel.

Cortez itself, however, sucks. The Best Western chain does itself no favours by making our first hotel experience our most unpleasant, with our first attempt at speech resulting on a vicious bang on the wall from the room next door - a room to which there was a connecting door which you could see through. Ugh. It was a pleasure to leave.

Throughout the journey the high schools we pass congratulate their graduating students via the (it occurs to me I have NO IDEA what the proper name for these things is) signs outside buildings where you write messages in those individual letters you only see in England on old-fashioned cinemas and nowhere else. The cheery folk at Montrose High went one better with their sound advice - "The heat is a bummer, but have a great summer!" Are they allowed to say "bummer"?

Also, Sarah nearly rear-ends a police car. After 4 hours of our trip. But she didn't! Whoot again!

On the last day of our road trip*, Sarah and I stayed at a rather well-appointed Best Western hotel in Moab, Utah. It was accordingly dear(ish), but for our $80-odd dollars we found a COMPLIMENTARY PAPER TOWEL! waiting for us on the towel rack.

"GUEST TOWEL With our compliments... Use this towel to clean your shoes, luggage, windshield, razor or just about anything."

Well! I couldn't possibly use such a generous gift, so I have brought it home with me to put on my wall. Possibly in an over-gaudy gilded frame. Maybe a purpose-built one, like the display cases you can get for collectors plates, objets d'art etc.

*I'm hoping to have a series of road-trip stories up on this blog within the next few days. Patience.

Chatting with Sarah about the fact that the writer of the Star Spangled Banner came from where she used to live, I thought I'd use the wonder of Google to see which famous people were born in my current and past homestead of Putney.

The answer is... not a lot. The author of the renowned historical work, The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, Edward Gibbon, is perhaps the most distinguished. Heroic endeavour is represented by Captain Lawrence Oates, a member of Scott's ill-fated attempt to discover the South Pole. 'I am just going outside, and I may be some time' is the legendary (and possibly paraphrased) quote attributed to him on the occasion of his noble self-sacrifice.

Pop fans of a (slightly) more recent generation may be delighted to learn that Anthony "Ant" Philips, guitarist in Genesis's original line-up, is also a Putneyista.

More interesting, maybe (though primarily to Britishers, I'll admit), are the names of people buried in the cemetery at Putney Vale. Sculptor Sir Jacob Esptein, newsreader Reginald Bosanquet, actors Donald Pleasance, Nyree Dawn Porter and Jon Pertwee, folkie Sandy Denny, racing drivers James Hunt and Dick Seaman, cricketers James Laker, Alf Gover and Len Hutton, archaeologist Howard Carter, comedians Joan Sims and Arthur Askey, author Enid Blyton, spy and homosexual Anthony Blunt, and film director David Lean. Almost worth a pilgrimage...

In the course of the last fortnight:

Number of fl. oz. of Dr Pepper consumed: 400
Number of days entirely without vegetables: 8
Number of decent restaurants visited: 4
Pints of beer drunk: 11
Glasses of sake drunk: 5
Number of different fast food joints patronised: 7
(Arby's, Burger King, McDonalds, Taco Bell, Sonic, Subway, Dairy Queen)

This was the sign outside a Denver church enticing people to attend its services. It baffled me entirely (I mean, comfy, springy cork would seem to be a good thing to have in hard, austere pews), and Sarah was none the wiser either. But Laura would have understood it immediately; it apparently relates to the discovery of cork in baseball slugger Sammy Sosa's bat. This is, it seems, a shocking scandal. Can anyone explain to me why?

Right - I'm back from my ten-day road trip around the southwestern states of the union. I'll be blogging good and proper within the next few days, so keep watching this space. Please.

One last entry before we head off into the computer-free wilderness at roughly 8am tomorrow morning. Now, I'm no Llew, so don't expect an amusing, unpredictable, moving travelogue of any sort. All I am going to say is that tomorrow's probably the longest drive of the entire trip, and it won't even take us out of Colorado!

Cortez is the final destination (and gateway to Monument Valley, which should provide the highlight of day 2), though god knows how we're going to get there seeing as there's a massive great SINKHOLE in the middle of the I70, thanks to a broken culvert after recent flooding.

Apparently, according to the Denver Post, it's "big enough to swallow a Volkswagen Bug (sic)". I reckon this must be because any bigger cars will manage to broach the missing tarmac, while anything slighter than a Beetle will simply aquaplane over the top.

Yo. So today I discover that Marc Bolan has joined my Friendster network. Another nail in its coffin, I fear. Suddenly, all these people who are barely know are asking me to confirm their friendship. Like, forever? Will I have to send their children presents? Do I have to invite them to soirees?

I'm not at all sure about Friendster. Surely it's just an online version of speed dating? I mean, Bubba who's a friend of George who's buddies with Amphetamina who once copped off with Jodrell who once spilled a drink over Lucy who's a chum of mine - it may sound negative, but I can't *quite* confirm that hey, yeah, Bubba is *just* the kind of single guy I'd recommend to my lady friends.

Friendster is therefore this year's blogging. It's informative to discover that there are many, many people on my list who I'd really be quite unlikely to get chummy with, which kind of puts a tick in the "Friendster's a bit wanky" box. But who am I to judge. It's probably helped millions find activity partners, and that's got to be a good thing, right?

Back in Colorado! I went for a walk early this morning - Sarah was up late last night working on her final essay of the year (whoot!) while I went to bed early to eliminate the last traces of jetlag. As a result, I was wide awake at 7.30 am, and decided to go for a bit of an explore.

I took possibly the least interesting route towards the city centre, heading up big, wide, tawdry Broadway, past the banks of Cherry Creek where a trampette serenaded my with "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band", and stopped at the intersection with 11th Avenue where the massive snowfalls of mid March had caused two buildings to collapse. In Java Moon I had *the* best chocalate chip muffin of my life - South Denverites, go and eat one yourselves.

I walked back along Cherry Creek itself, avoiding the cyclists, rollerbladers and extremely occasional pedestrians. It's not the most picturesque river, but being next to water is always claming and stimulates my mind in nostalgic, pensive ways.

So we're supposed to be going to a softball picnic today. It's raining. Will we end up in a bar? Or will it just fizzle out limply? My guess is the latter. I hope not, though.