September 26-27th

After slipping the driver a couple of cheeky ‘ten-spots’, The Big Man was permitted to dive into the luggage compartment of the surprisingly glacial ‘Bolt Bus’ and hide deep within the tumbling baggage until they reached the US border. To his astonishment, he was not the only traveller making use of the hold:

“Howzit?”

“Christ! You scared the arse off me, lad!”

“Sorry, bro.”

“You hiding from the women down here too, like?”

“Yeah nah, bro, it was just a bit chocka up there so someone had to come down here and I’m like, all good, sweet as, I’ll get in the bonnet and boot for a bit, I’m pretty buggered from the sculling either way, yeah?”

“Eh?”

It seemed that The Big Man’s luggage-based companion was a borderline-incomprehensible kiwi fellow by the name of ‘Mitch’. Once the Irish/NZ language barriers had been broken down, however, the two got on famously – and it was not too long before the slow, southerly grind of the Bolt Bus had brought them all the way to the border.

Once there, and with the hordes of irate Vancouver lady-folk safely behind them, The Big Man clambered out of the side-hatch and straight into the arms of a heavily-muscled border-guard.

“Usually, stowaways are meant to get in at this point, buddy…”

“Ah, yeah, sorry lad – had bit of trouble with the women back in Canada, like.”

“Ha, haven’t we all…you got ya papers?”

“Sure do, here…”

“Thank you, sir. And you, sir?”

“Yeah nah, bro, sweet as, but…”

It turns out that the New Zealand Government, as part of an ill-thought out attempt to raise public funds, recently sold the bulk of its citizenry’s passports to various insalubrious fellows in the Middle East. This has left fellows such as Mitch, whose wanderlust greatly exceeds his paperwork, in a slightly sticky situation.

This morning, however, the stars aligned and all aboard the Bolt Bus were eventually waved through. Had this been the soon to be walled-up Mexican border – and had Mitch been a slightly less pasty fellow – perchance things might have gone a little differently.

Yet all, this time, was well. Mitch and The Big Man headed straight to a nearby bar, where a friendly couple of Spanish extraction poured scorn upon our hero’s west coast plans and forced their own ‘wisdom’ upon him. Once well-catered with new information, he began an epic one-and-a-half day jaunt around the city of Seattle, completing a marathon or two of mileage and wearing through the old shoe leather with serious abandon.

Seattle, as a settlement, he found very much to his tastes – though, lamentably, many of the city’s residents did not seem to have dwellings of their own. Rather, they spent much of their time al fresco, as they say en español. Our American cousins seemed quite fine with this unequal situation, however, so The Big Man opted not to comment. He had not, after all, come to give yankees lessons on communism. Instead, he gave thanks for the roof he found over his head and looked forward to the morrow – for the very next day he would meet the love of his life…

 

September 28th – October 2nd

“Ah, go on, give us the Impala.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the Impalas are all out hopping over the Highveld, ahaha.”

“Eh?”

“We’ve got none left, sir.”

“Bollocks.”

“However, this Buick Regal, sir, is quite the automobile.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah – it’ll rip that handsome face of yours right off your skull, sir.”

“Hmm…”

So often, in this life, one receives exactly what one always needed, rather than that which one might have, erroneously, wanted…if you take my meaning. That is to say, the vehicle was, to The Big Man’s delight, an absolute animal on the road. He tore across from the city to Mount St. Helens in a matter of seconds and, finally managing to tear himself away from the steering wheel, went to see about this ‘nature’ thing they have in that America.

“Walk around, you say?”

“Yeah, exactly, just a little wander, like?”

The staff at the visitor centre seemed somewhat perturbed.

“But you say you don’t have a firearm, sir?”

“Nope – why would I need one?”

“Mexicans.”

“What did you say there, lad?”

“Bears, there are lots of scary, moustachioed grizzly bears in the park, sir.”

“Ah…bollocks.”

Reflecting that bears could not really be all that bad, The Big Man set off regardless. A mile or two in, however, the silent scale of the forests and the mountains began to set him ever-so-slightly on edge: Was that a rustling in the bushes to his right? Did the faint, chill breeze spirit the scratching of large paws to his Celtic eardrums?

In order to warn off any potential, ursine threat, The Big Man began to clap his hands loudly and proceeded to sing various Irish drinking songs for the remainder of his six hour hike. Clearly no fans of ‘trad’ music, the grizzlies kept themselves to themselves and he was able to return to his beloved automobile un-mauled. The scenery had been breathtaking and, had he not been in a state of near-constant terror, he might even have enjoyed it.

*

The Big Man’s next stop was Portland – not on his original route but forced upon him by the Spanish folks he had met up in Seattle. Portland, my friends, was not to his tastes. Once one has seen one’s first reclaimed vintage yarn emporium one has truly seen them all. He therefore hit Route 101 and hit it hard, speeding around the winding, forested Cape Perpetua and through picturesque coastal town after picturesque coastal town.

One night he stopped in a town called Glenada, purely because its name appealed to him. There he drank many a pint with gentlemen who, it transpired, were very much in favour of this Donald Trump fellow one has been reading about in the broadsheets. Never a bloke to hold back his opinions, The Big Man made his bafflement regarding their political leanings quite vocal, and they all enjoyed an extended, well-reasoned debate long into the eve.

That night, loathe as he was to spend any unnecessary time away from his car, The Big Man slept within the aluminium and carbon-fibre cocoon of his Buick. He dreamt of pistons and demagogues; of angry, orange faces and long, sweeping roads.

*

Lincoln City came along next, a fine seaside town with lengthy fronts and beautiful views. While upon the promenade, The Big Man set his eyes upon a lady.

He was able to look past her age and, shall we say, ‘heft’, and saw only ‘Sharon’. Wonderful, friendly, energetic Sharon.

Sharon was her dog – a delightful canine, undeserving of such an ‘Essex’ moniker. The lady in question was somewhat put out that he only had eyes for her hound, and this chagrin was increased still further when The Big Man took Sharon out for a steak, a beer, and a tilt at the local rippers.

After a less automobile-based night’s sleep, The Big Man hastened (sadly without Sharon, who was back home by 10.30 with a bone and a pat on the head) to the great redwood forests of the pacific northwest.

Once beneath the awesome pines, he promptly got exceptionally lost and had to be saved by a national park ranger. Walking back to civilisation, said ranger regaled him with many an arboreal fact, often pertaining to the immense height (100 metres plus) and diameter (10-15 metres and upwards) of these famous, lofty shrubs. They are, my friends, big trees. There is no doubt about it…

 

October 3rd – 4th

“Are you going…to San Francisco?” sung the radio.

“Yes. Yes I am,” replied The Big Man, well on his way to the City by the Bay. Off then went the radio and on went Robert Holmes’s Escape, for perhaps the fifteen-hundred and twenty-second time of the trip.

After a long, embarrassingly scenic drive, he finally broached ‘Frisco and met his old buddy Adrian, with whom he stayed for two fabulous days…well, as fabulous as days apart from his Buick could be.

His time in San Francisco was amongst the most conventionally ‘touristy’ of the entire voyage: Gone, for now, were the eccentric acquaintances and implausible adventures; and in their place one found splendid tours led by Adrian and his lassie, visits to Alcatraz island and the Golden Gate Bridge. Good, solid, Christian sightseeing.

All told, The Big Man had a fine time in a fine city. Under different circs he might have been tempted to stay a little longer. But the open road and a girl called ‘Buick’ cried to him. He would, accordingly, be off with the coming dawn…

 

October 5th – 6th

It was a seven-hour drive from ‘San Fran’ to Yosemite. The Big Man did it in four.

Wading through a thick covering of tourists, he trekked up the glacial valley and then up still further, right to the top of the peak overlooking Yosemite Falls. These falls, however, were somewhat short in the whole ‘falling’ department, the cascade being somewhat dry during this part of the year.

“Bollocks,” opined The Big Man.

It then began to snow. His coat was way back in the Buick.

“Bollocks.”

He then remembered that he had booked no accomodation for the night and would slumber in the chilly, automotive arms of his gasoline-fuelled steed.

“Bollocks.”

‘Twas a cold wander down and a restless night which could only be described as ‘brass monkeys’. Come the flickering fingers of the morn, The Big Man was firm in the resolution that heat, and plenty of it, was required. It was four hours to Death Valley. He did it in two. Including a stop for a three-course breakfast.

Once motoring between the sand dunes, his fingers and toes began to thaw and all seemed right with the world. Just then, three fighter jets at low altitude ripped past the Buick, the resultant sonic boom rattling the fillings in his teeth. He buried his foot into the carpet but to little avail; America had won this round.

Forgetting that deserts are liable to be a wee bit nippy of an evening, The Big Man stopped that night in an ‘RV park’, sans RV. To his great annoyance, once the happy sun did one for the day and darkness descended, the frostbite returned to his extremities apace.

“B-b-bollocks…” he shiverred, wrapped in all his coats and at least seventeen pairs of underpants. “M-must g-go s-south…must g-go south…”

*

So south The Big Man went. He dropped by both the Hoover Dam, which was damn big, and the Grand Canyon, which was mighty grand. He sped along a section of Route 66 and spent the night in a town called Williams, apparently transplanted directly from the mid-twentieth century. The next day he was up with the lark to return to the Grand Canyon, in a vain attempt to beat the tourists.

When he arrived a second time, he saw them. Hundreds of them…thousands. The Chinese had returned.

“Bollocks.”

But, on this occasion, his concerns were misplaced. These lads and lasses had clearly not been filled-in about his previous conflicts with their great nation, and many were of the firm view that the one thing grander in the vicinity than the ostentatiously large gorge was The Big Man himself. Scores of them requested group photos, along with hundreds of (what I am reliably informed are known as) ‘selfies’. For one glorious day, our hero was the world’s hero.

Eventually extricating himself from his adoring public, The Big Man fell into step with a top Texan fellow by the name of Joe. He, like The Big Man, was no fan of the Donald, but was a great fan of epic, natural splendor and the pair had a fine ol’ time, walking the great canyon and luxuriating in its gorgeous ‘gorgeyness’.

The hours slipped by and on the canyon stretched. In the end, only the departing light forced them from one of the all-time hikes…

 

October 7th – October 11th

Next my friends, next came ‘Vegas’.

That which happens in this place famously stays there…but so, lamentably, did the Buick. Their farewell was long and tearful…somewhat longer and more tearful than The Big Man’s parting with His Lady, so long ago, back in the frozen north.

But all things, as they say, must pass. That is to say, The Big Man was dragged from his motor, mewling and wailing like an outsize infant, by six of Hertz Car Hire’s burliest employees.

With red eyes and a heavy heart, he checked into his hostel then hastened directly to the New York, New York Casino, where he made a swift fifty bucks. Opting to use his new-found wealth to drown his manifold sorrows, he hit the pub – only to find nine fellow Irishmen in situ, drinking the place very much dry. Irishmen were soon joined by Irishwomen – supposedly over for ‘work’ – and a fine, famous night was had by all. Soon enough, The Big Man found new loves and, piece by piece, his broken heart was mended.

Subsequent nights and days began to blur into one – a thoroughly enjoyable ‘one’, but ‘one’ nevertheless. Fremont Street was explored, revealing, chiefly, lots of naked humans and no little liquor. There he gazed upon the very largest television screen on the planet, also displaying notably more people than vestments. Rather strangely, The Big Man noticed that many men were wandering around in industrial-sized ‘nappies’, which poses questions which one veritably does not want answered.

The next casino he hit yielded up seventy dollars. The house, however, always wins, and he spent it all in the adjoining nightclub. He woke up with the business card of a local attorney – something which The Big Man filed under, ‘best not to think about’.

His hostel had a rather decent swimming pool, which he made good use of during the cruel and merciless mornings. Hostels, apparently, have swimming pools in ‘Sin City’. Further proof, my friends, that Las Vegas, NV and Blackpool, Lancs. are somewhat dissimilar.

It was by this pool that The Big Man met a lovely couple who had, as one does in Vegas, decided to have some spontaneous nuptials. Having such a splendid record at North American weddings, he was overjoyed when they asked him to perform as a witness/best man/maid of honour – but this joy was shattered when he remembered his flight down to Belize (via, of course, Miami, Florida…) was but a few hours before their ‘service’.

Rather than remain and lament this misfortune, however, he sauntered off on a wide-ranging pub crawl, mostly with Australians and South Africans. These southern hemisphere fellows did not, it transpired, ‘do things by halves’, and The Big Man stumbled back to his hostel with the sun coquettishly rising, a broken, sozzled man.

Still somewhat more than ‘half-cut’, he grabbed perhaps three hours of the dreamless then stumbled across town to a ‘pool party’, where the revelries restarted in earnest. Another group of Australians (who flock to the ‘Capital of Second Chances’ like our Islamic cousins flock to Masjid al-Haram) was acquired and a highly sociable time was had by all.

Once out of the pool and (mostly) dried, they visited what might charitably be called a ‘burlesque show’, before heading off into another endless night. The sun was well up when The Big Man returned to his (really rather unnecessary) bed.

*

There are, it turns out, no direct flights from Las Vegas to Belize. However, one does not necessarily need to take three different planes and visit the majority of the Gulf of Mexico’s airports to make the journey. Yet this is exactly what The Big Man did – for while time, as they say, is money, when one has little of the former but all the latter in the world, why not go round all the possible houses?

Let us leave him, for now, in Miami airport, attempting to piece back together his fractured, pickled brain. More adventures, one is certain, await him in Central and South America. Whether these adventures shall prove quite as sinful as those he enjoyed in the quote-unquote ‘City of Lights’, truly, my friends, remains to be seen…