Albuquerque, New Mexico. Home

So much has happened since I last wrote here that I barely know where to start. From my travels around the United States that finished over 12 months ago, we headed back to Poland and then moved to Albuquerque, which left me feeling like I'd been put through the metaphorical washing machine. I say metaphorical (even though it should be obvious to all but the most dense that I haven't in fact put myself in a washing machine) because it has become evident of late that far too many writers and commentators of sport, particularly football, have been using the word 'literally' far too liberally and I suspect, inaccurately. I say 'suspect' because I don't know for sure, but I think that if John Terry had literally put his foot through the back of a Napoli player, as Jamie Redknapp suggested, we might have heard a little more about it in the news. Anyway, I digress and should return to my original point. Life has been a little hectic what with moving between continents and it is only now that I find the time to write. Where to begin?

As this is America we shall begin in the only logical place: guns, or 'firearms' as I have been informed is the more accurate name. Here in New Mexico any person without a criminal record, who is a resident of the State and over 18 years of age may own a firearm, may carry a firearm, and if they hold a valid permit (which I suspect will be issued upon request to anyone with an IQ of over 60) may carry any such firearm in a concealed manner. Before I arrived in New Mexico the only place I had ever seen a gun in real life was in the British countryside when I went clay pigeon shooting for a friends stag (bachelor) party and had the chance to fire a shotgun. I don't want to say that a shotgun isn't a proper gun, but well, it just isn't is it? So when I arrived here after a two day drive in a packed U-Haul truck from Canada with my friend Jake, we grabbed a coffee so that we didn't fall asleep whilst wielding a weapon and headed on round to Caliber's Firing range. I have to admit to a little nervous excitement and apprehension because part of me wanted to fire a gun so badly and part of me hoped that Caliber's strict safety policy would mean that they would not let an Englishman with such limited experience and skill get his hands on a tool of death and so let me off the hook, which would probably have been a relief.

It turns out that my faith in rigid safety was presumptuous in the extreme. The extent of the staff questioning consisted of, "Have you fired a hand gun before?", Me: "No, but my friend here has". Caliber's: "Ok, just remember to wear mufflers and eye protection and always aim the gun at the target". I am really not used to this. I grew up in a country where teachers have to write a risk assessment for when the children enter the classroom in the morning, or where signs on doors warn you of the risk that said door might be opened at any time and so surprise the person about to open the door from the other side. I have had far more severe and serious safety briefings at Laser Quest, where the 'Marshall' screams at you about the dangers of waving a harmless plastic gun around in case you should inadvertently hit someone else with it. Here I was about to take two firearms (a Colt .45 and a 9mm Glock as I recall) to the range with absolutely no guidance or assistance other than the dubious aid of a large moustached Canadian who had once shot a rifle on a farm in Saskatchewan. My only solace, small though it was, being that children under the age of six had to be accompanied by an adult. Surely if a seven year old could do this, we could.

Thankfully there was not an incident to speak of, and apart from my hands shaking as I loaded each round I have to say that I quite enjoyed myself. In fact on my way out I inquired as to what a Non-American might need in order to purchase such a firearm and was informed that I would need a New Mexico driver's license and two proofs of address. I first had to clarify that he had indeed heard correctly that I was after a gun and not a new phone contract, and then went about trying to obtain a NM driver's license. As you would imagine in a State that had over 46,000 crashes in 2009 (with a crash every 11 minutes) it isn't very hard to obtain a license. In fact for a foreigner like myself who already has a license, I merely had to take the theory test and answer at least 15 of the 20 questions correctly to get it. In short, by answering 20 ridiculously easy and obvious questions about road safety, I am now able to purchase a gun. Or many guns. If I should have the inclination I could also apply for the permit to conceal such a weapon about my person. I should not be too surprised if it were possible to win a 'License to kill' whilst playing a NM lottery scratch card.

As you know I do not like to hammer a point into oblivion, but just to emphasise how ludicrous this country I now call 'Home' is, I will tell you what happened the other day when I went to buy a simple pain relieving gel, much like Neurofen, Advil or Aleve, at the pharmacy. This gel is readily available in every country I have ever lived in, in fact it is not a prescription drug and can be found on the shelf next to the pill version of the same drug in Canada, Poland and England. I looked everywhere in Walgreens, but couldn't find it and was informed by the pharmacist that here in the U.S it is only available with a prescription from the doctor. We are not talking about a drug that is hazardous. It is a gel pain reliever and unless you were stupid enough to eat the stuff I cannot see what possible damage it could do. It is non-addictive, you'd need to soak in a bath of the stuff to overdose and besides, the same drug is available in pill form from the shop floor. No, apparently the average American is deemed too stupid by the authorities to use a medicated gel, and yet somehow these same Americans are walking around with deadly weapons hidden in pockets, bags and stuffed down the front of overly baggy trousers because they have proved themselves capable of answering simple traffic questions and have payed their utility bills.

I apologise, I seem to have ranted myself out of space and have failed to tell you anything about Albuquerque. That will have to wait until next time.

Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

As the North American tour neared its conclusion, we found ourselves at our final stop, Chapel Hill in North Carolina. Famous for its University and their sports teams, Chapel Hill is a wonderfully pretty place, lined with stunning trees and hidden lakes: brimming with small town charm and surrounded with vast, magnificent countryside. Finding the house where we were staying would have been a remarkably tricky task without our (for once) accurate navigator Tom, as driving around Chapel Hill and Catham County at night leaves you wondering if they have ever heard of street lamps. After a few days of driving around and getting my barings, I was actually very glad of the lack of lighting as their absence left a remarkable view of the Milky Way in its wake. Very rarely have I seen such clear and glorious skies, and although I didn't take the opportunity to photograph them, I did take time to sit and marvel at them on many occasions.

The winding lanes that take you from Catham County into Chapel Hill itself were reminiscent of the Essendon Road in Hertford, England (where my parents live) and made me feel at home very quickly. Having to slow down for deer early in the morning or swerve to avoid other creatures kept me on my toes, but it is always great to see so much wildlife in one place. The people of Chapel Hill were friendly for the most part, although I was expecting a little more warmth from the deep south, having been told of its famous hospitality on many occasions

and I was surprised that general politeness levels were not equal to that found in Richmond, for instance.

Towards the end of our second week in Chapel Hill, John came to visit us (see the entry on Letchworth State Park in September for more adventures with Mr.Blundell) for one night which gave me the opportunity to sample more of the micro-brewed beers I hadn't yet tried and to catch up with a few old favourites. That night we had an Ice Storm, which is something I had never even heard of, let alone experienced, and I awoke to discover that my car was completely entombed in a one inch layer of ice: door handles and all, putting me in mind of the Delorean in back to the future after it had arrived from another year in time. Armed with a plastic spatula I set to work, chiseling and scraping and bashing and scraping and chiseling......did I mention scraping? It was hard work but I was eventually successful. I took some photos of the large pieces of ice that we removed from John's car later that day.

A few days later, whilst Whitney was watching someone having their brain cut up, I went out to take a few photos. I stumbled across a lake that had many trees growing out of it, and due to the stillness of the weather, the water acted like a mirror for the trees. I also stumbled across a deer carcass lying serenely beneath the surface, like some hideous Zombie-Bambi and couldn't resist taking a few snaps. Apologies to anyone who finds this, or me, disturbing.

This was our final stop on a long, but thoroughly exciting and fascinating trip around one of the most underrated countries in the World (although it is only underrated by non-Americans, as those who do not fall into this category already know what a great place it is and won't hesitate to tell you so). I once told a dear friend that, "I will never, ever, ever, ever step foot on American soil", and while I did spend the first week in the States trying to avoid all grass areas, I soon conceded and I cannot wait to go back and explore some more of it. If you ever have the chance to go, please don't be put off by your prejudices as I was, and take the plunge. You won't regret it. It is truly one of the greatest places on Earth.

New Hampshire and Vermont

Sometimes you arrive at a place and have no expectations of it whatsoever. That is how I found myself, driving from Manchester airport in New Hampshire towards the town of Lebanon, on the border with Vermont, being completely overwhelmed by the vastness of the place and overawed by its beauty. The time of year might have played a big part because instead of the usual rain found in these parts the cold had ensured that the countryside was now blanketed in thick fluffy snow.

New Hampshire is one of the few States in the Union that doesn't have state income tax, and is therefore quite a desirable place to live, but here on the border with Vermont (a state which has one of the highest sales taxes) it seems that the residence have the best of both worlds. They get to earn money relatively tax free and spend it in convenient shops, and then when they want to get away from all commercialism they can merely drive ten minutes away into Vermont and be free from all chain restaurants and shopping malls. These chains tend to stay away from Vermont because of the high sales tax, which instead leaves us with small family run businesses and local restaurants serving local food. Absolutely idyllic. Not being able to wait for the weather to change is the biggest problem with being somewhere for so short a time and I awoke to grey skies. Being un-perturbed I had a hearty breakfast and set off in my large gas-guzzling AWD, being very thankful for its extra grip and brute power. I had planned a route which took me along a road that ran alongside the Old River heading towards Hartford, away from the White River junction. I was hoping that the extremely efficient snow removers had at least left these roads covered and I was not disappointed as I carved and slid around each curve with ease, and a poise I couldn't have dreamed of if it had not been for the superb vehicle I was driving. I stopped along the way to take pictures and followed the road through to Woodstock and the excessively named Marsh-Billings-Rockerfeller National Historical Park, which in turn led me down to Windsor and my ultimate goal: The Harpoon Brewery. I was either too late or too early for the official tour, but was allowed into the factory part of the brewery to take some pictures, which took all of about 5 minutes, and then left me with plenty of time to sample some of the goods.

Having driven, I was forced to limit myself to two glasses and so I had to choose my beers carefully. The bar maid was very accommodating and allowed me to taste a shot sample of whatever I liked before I decided. I chose the Harpoon Winter Warmer to start with, and a fine choice it was too: very hoppy, smooth with a hint of vanilla, cinnamon and a touch of clove.

A very friendly local builder who it appeared had had a million beers already, tried to persuade me to try the Dunkel. I know ordinarily, when a strange gentleman offers you the Dunkel, you might find it appropriate to politely decline, but on this occasion having had my wits dampened by the Winter Warmer I accepted the advice. I am very glad that I did as this one off, Oak Aged ale brewed in the style of beers from Dunkel in Germany was quite simply stunning. It had the smoothness of a Balvenie whisky, with all the character and honeyed sweetness that goes with it, but was refreshing and delicate at the same time. I just hope that when they make another batch they can remember what they did. All in all this was one of the best days I have ever had on my own. Cannot wait to go back.

Albuquerque, New Mexico

As Prefab Sprout once sang, "Hotdogs, Jumping frogs, Albuquerque". I didn't actually see any hotdogs or jumping frogs, but Albuquerque was definitely as bizarre as the song. Such a wonderful mix of eclectic buildings, sensational backdrops, fascinating side streets and superb food should make Albuquerque a number one tourist destination. Sadly though, it is all a bit run-down, and one of America's poorest states certainly needs to pump a little bit of cash into this little gem of a city before it crumbles completely. I did have a wonderful two days here though, a particular highlight being my visit to the Petroglyph National Park, home to many rock drawings, some of which are claimed to have been drawn by aliens. I think being so close to Roswell has gone to some people's heads. Another highlight was a quirky little New Mexican restaurant set up in an old clothes shop where you can eat exceptional food, drink some good imported mexican beer and receive excellent service, all for as little as $8 per person.