Santa Barbara, CA (1,426 miles, 84f)

At the end of the Bug Sur drive, just before San Simeon, is Hearst Castle, William Randolph Hearst's concrete and antique 1930s folly. Having spent the night in our cheapest motel yet ($45 for a room with two queen size beds in it and a pool) and recovered from the dramas of Big Sur, we headed up out of the sea mist into the bright sunshine at the top of the mountain the castle is set upon.
The sea mist here is really incredible, I've never seen anything like it. It hangs up to about 100 feet above sea level and is thick that inside it it's like a gloomy day in November at home, but once you're above it it's bright 90f California sunshine. Really weird.

Anyway, Hearst was obviously an odd man, as the again-excellent American tourism machine explained to us. One guide described him as a "collector, not a connoisseur" and he undoubtedly built a one-of-a-kind house. The views out over the Pacific are stunning and his pools, both indoor and out are otherworldly.

But while he proclaimed to be a great fan of the regions and histories he imported wholesale into the house, he had no emotional attachment to any of it. He would buy 14th century Italian castle ceilings and 15th century German cathedral choir stalls out of New York dealers' catalogues and then add to them or cut chunks out of them so they fitted the house. And if that didn't work, he'd move the walls until everything fitted. A clear case of more money than taste, but the whole effect is impressive despite of his lack of finesse.
And weirdly, in the main dining room, where some rennaisance antique long table dominates, Hearst would insist on cheap china, paper napkins and condiments out of their normal packaging.

Once we'd done the castle we headed down the rest of Highway One into Santa Barbara. Santa Barbara is another seaside resort town like Santa Cruz, if a little bigger and not quite as 'Blackpool'. We managed to find a really lovely little hotel called Villa Rosa, just back from the seafront - really lovely rooms, a great little pool and complimentary wine and cheese served from 6 until 7. You don't get that at the Super 8!
Off into downtown SB, which was full of students returning to university. And bizarrely meeting a couple of girls, one of whom's best friends is a girl called Lucy who lives in Sway. A small world as they say!
The highlight of the evening's social though (well for me anyway, Alan may disagree) was finding a bar with one of those 'How hard can you punch' machines with a punch bag. For those of you who know mine and Alan's relative physiques would think this to be a fairly one-sided contest. And indeed Al smashed the machine's record with his first punch. Step up mighty Morgan who managed to throw a lucky shot that beat Al's, the machine's and everyone else who used it that evening's efforts. Go me.

Tomorrow, the bright lights and big city of Los Angeles. Although to be honest we're running out of steam a bit now and will be glad to finally arrive and give the driving a break.

San Simeon, CA (1,268 miles, 75f)

Today was all about Big Sur. We mooched about Santa Cruz for the morning, went to the beach, got sunburnt and strolled along the pier. A good half day's relaxation before the big drive down Highway One - 65 miles of jaw-dropping views, killer bends and scary drops.
We pretty much rushed past Monterey and Carmel, which was a shame, but we had to make some sacrifices to stay on schedule and do the Big Sur drive in daylight. About an hour out of Santa Cruz we hit the town (hamlet) of Big Sur, filled up with petrol and had a coffee in a lovely little mountain bar, which kindly put its chairs in the babbling brook at the bottom of the hill so we could cool our feet.

Then off for two hours of never-to-be-repeated driving and views. It was simply incredible. Alan was the passenger today so got to see all the views and be official photographer for the afternoon, but I had the bonus of driving the road. You kind of enter a zen-like state as sweeping turn after hairpin after rising and dipping bends come at you one after another. You catch glimpses of the view with the mountains on your left and the Pacific on your right, but you have to concentrate the whole way round. A different kind of fun from taking in the scenery, but fun nonetheless.

And we managed to come off the mountains just as the sun was setting. A genuine life experience. Wow.

Santa Cruz, CA (1140 miles, 80f)

Fortunately our marathon trek around SF, seeing an old face, and meeting some ladies had turned San Francisco around for us, and so we set off for our boat tour to Alcatraz in much-improved spirits. We were able to check-out of Dog-shit Towers, but leave the car in the garage, and so headed down to the wharf.
The US National Parks Service (or something sounding like that) has done its best to highlight Alcatraz island's past lives as a military fort in the Civil War and as an Indian protest camp.

Sadly noone really gives a shit and just wants to see where the Birdman lived and the cell Clint Eastwood escaped from. Having said that, it is a genuinely interesting tour - I'll give the Americans this, they do tourism very well and we were both pleasantly surprised. Alan was so surprised he went a bit mental and had to be locked down.

Did you know the Birdman never kept birds on Alcatraz? He kept them at Leavenworth before being moved to Alcatraz apparently. See, interesting.

Next stop Highway 1 and Santa Cruz. We were only on the one for a brief time, but got a taste of it. It seems majestic.
More silliness in Santa Cruz with the lovely Heather as she will forever now be known.

And some Americans called Craig and Mike. When we arrived in the bar Mike and Craig were well-oiled, but being American they were keen to here us talk, only then to talk alot about themselves. Turns out they'd been made redundant from Charles Schwab and were basically touring America's finest golf courses and drinking the finest tequila on the way.
Sadly for them they decided to teach me and Alan how to drink "American-style". An hour later they fell over each other on the way out of the bar.
When we left 20 minutes later we heard a voice calling out of the distance "Hey, guys", and there was the lovely Mike with his pal Craig face down in the road, "I can't get him up the hill, dudes, can you help me out?"
Of course we could, and we had time to take a picture of ourselves helping them too, cos they were too drunk to notice.

That'll learn 'em.

More San Francisco

Hopeful that San Francisco would redeem itself, we set off for Haight-Asbury. It may be a drug den, like the Tenderloin, but at least the weirdos would be strumming guitars rather than shouting at the traffic.
And so began our walk of epic proportions around SF. At no point did we want to return to the hotel for a siesta so we just walked the earth. Starting at Haight-Ashbury.

Then we walked through the Golden Gate park to hear the sounds of a tannoy drifting across the valley, promising hotdogs and sport. How could we resist? Well, the hotdog was great, and we did see our first American football game - for 10-year-olds.

After the pee-wees, we walked another couple of miles to where we could catch a bus up to the Golden Gate Bridge.

There's only so much time you can spend with the great unwashed tourist, so we headed off away from the crowds down a track to Fort Point, which is actually under the bridge for some great photos and gale force winds. Extreme photography!

We strolled along the bay front for about five miles back into town, past the wind- and kite-surfers to meet young Mr Dolling for sausages, sauerkraut and steins in a district called Mission. German food in San Francisco sounds weird, but it's better than German food in Germany I can tell you.

We had a rather jolly night trawling the bars around Jamie's five-star hotel (git), found a couple of young ladies and then realised we couldn't take them back to our fleapit so had to abandon them on a streetcorner somewhere and head back to Hotel de Merde. Class acts us.

San Francisco, CA (1040 miles, 68f)

It turns out that drinking until 3am in Wine Country is not the best preparation for hitting the Interstate into San Francisco.
After a late check out we emerged blinking into the California sunlight and went for another healthy brunch at the "world-famous" Taylor's Refresher burger place. Exactly, me neither, but it was a good burger.
Because we were worried it was going to be difficult to find a room if we just turned up in town like we had been doing, we booked into a place called the Sweden House Hotel. It turns out that the area of San Francisco it's in is called the Tenderloin and, according to the guidebook, you need to "keep your wits about you". Basically it's a crack and hookers area near downtown SF. Not very nice and unfortunately the hotel was even worse.
A greasy, lank-haired man with a giant hand checked us in and showed us around, which included a stop at where the garbage was put. And luckily enough the window of my room faced that very spot where an old cracked sink took pride of place.

Alan's room was upstairs and the floor was covered with feathers and birdshit where the pigeons had come in. It really was a dump: "Someone had a shit and built a hotel in it," as Alan said.
We dumped our bags and legged it as quickly as possible, not wanting to spend any more time in the place than we had to.
San Francisco really is as steep as everyone says and we decided to walk up its steepest hill and down again across town to the wharf, by way of Chinatown and a crazy old rock memorabilia where my partner in crime bought a hand screen-printed poster for Incredibly Strange Wrestling. It is weirdly beautiful and has to be seen to be believed.
We had to go back to the hotel eventually and it's a shame it's so shit as it's really pissed on our bonfire. San Francisco has a reputation for being cool and interesting, but it looks like a crack den from here.

Tomorrow we're off to Haight-Ashbury and the Golden Gate so hopefully things will improve.
Oh, and the crazies we thought we'd left behind in Portland are back!

St Helena, CA (970 miles, 77f)

After all the exertion of the jet-skis and the gay psychopath in Lakeport, we headed out for wine country. We've kind of got into a rhythm of stopping in a place, going for dinner and a few beers and deciding on where we'll go the next day. This is great when the motel has wireless and we can book into somewhere before we arrive the next day, but the lovely place by the lake didn't so we headed in to wine country blind. But, hey, it's an adventure.
Unfortunately we forgot to fill the car up with petrol too though, so halfway over a range of mountains the fuel light came on and we had a tense half an hour as we freewheeled down the hills into Calistoga in the Napa Valley. A gas station materialised and we set off again into row upon upon row of vines and Wine Country worked it's peculiar magic.

We checked into the El Bonito motel to find the largest beds ever slept in by man.

And, of course, because it was Wine Country there were complimentary glasses and corkscrew where the complimentary miniature soap would be in the other places we'd becme used to.
A quick tour round the Beringer winery later and we were sitting on our porch drinking one of the bottles we'd just bought, watching the hummingbirds flit around in front of us.

It really is a beautiful place and we headed into town to sample the local night-life. For the first time we felt like we were in a real town with real people our own age and we find a nice bar with live music and a pool table.

This being America the group we ended up playing pool with were Australian, but we got on famously, argued about cricket and drank tequilas. One of them, Dan, was a vintner over to learn his trade who had a bike to get around. Of course, this meant we had to do bunny hops in the street and generally arse about. Though when Dan got on he pedalled twice, rode into a wall and fell off, which of course we found hilarious and walked off into the night laughing our asses off. San Francisco tomorrow.

Lakeport, CA (900miles, 77f)

A cherry Coke works wonders the morning after the night before, and when I’d got my head together, bought some new tee-shirts (this is genuinely good practice for my big trip) we headed back onto the 101 and a two-hour drive to a place called Nice on Clear Lake.
Who wouldn’t want to visit a place called Nice?
Unfortunately, Nice isn’t that Nice, but Clear Lake is. We popped into the tourist information office (which, of course had a red telephone box outside it, just in case we were feeling homesick), picked up some info about where to stay, but we only came here with one reason in mind – to hire jet skis.
We checked into a beautiful motel overlooking the lake where sea planes seem to be the accepted mode of transport, and headed into town looking for the skis.

I’ve never been on a jet ski before, but oh my god it was fun. 45 mph on flat calm water, carving sharp turns over your pal’s wake in the blazing sunshine – does life get much better?

I’m back in my room now, remembering all of this and I’m amazed at how much we’ve done. And we still haven’t done San Francisco or Los Angeles, in fact it’s still only a week since we arrived. It’s dizzying really.
We had a bit of a crash back to earth tonight though. We went for a few beers in downtown Lakeport (three bars in a hundred yard street) and met a guy called James.
James is a big guy and had just come back from Iraq, and over a game of pool he broke down in tears and confessed he’d killed a family in cold blood and enjoyed it. It’s hard to argue morality with a drunken US veteran who seems hell-bent on self destruction. He gave us his number – Al thinks he’s gay, I think it’s a cry for help. In hindsight I think Al is right.
Weird. But we are getting closer to La La land.

Garberville (780 miles, 47f)

After the nightmare of Hell Ridge, we woke up on Wednesday morning and I bravely made my partner in crime drive it – just because I’d done it twice (once in the dark) and he hadn’t. It was foggy and cold again this morning but we had to do it,
I have to admit to having a bit of a tantrum. We drove over Hell Ridge (it wasn’t as bad as when I had to do it) and hit the Indian Yukon reservation to buy some petrol, only to realise that because someone else had been filling us up before that we didn’t know what kind of petrol we needed. Ten minutes of bickering and sulking (on my part) later we filled up and went on our way.
The Redwoods National Park is undoubtedly amazingly beautiful, and the world’s largest Paul Bunyan is something I’ll never forget. But I found the place oppressive, depressing and I couldn’t wait to put it behind me. It was nothing but a place of wrong turns, dim light and a general feeling of gloom. Good riddance.
Fortunately, as we came off the 101 on to the Avenue of the Giants the sun came out and we put the roof down – we’d finally put the shitty weather behind us and were entering California proper.

The Humboldt National Park is just amazing, and The Avenue of the Giants is on another level. 31 miles of the most incredible trees you’ve ever seen. I was brought up in a forest, so impressive trees are nothing new, but this was something on a whole different scale.
We pulled over a couple of times and went for a walk in the woods and were pleased to discover the tallest tree in the world. And then were as disappointed to discover it had fallen over in 1991.
I remember as a kid reading some kind of encyclopedia that told me all about the world’s tallest trees and being awestruck, and here we were seeing them for real. Amazing.

But the real thrill was driving through the ‘Drive-thru tree’ – I remember seeing it in a photo when I was a tiddler and not being able to even comprehend a tree that there was such a thing as a tree you could drive through. But, well I’ve done it now, and it was just amazing – and cheesy. A lifetime ambition ticked off!

At the end of the Avenue of the Giants is a town that was billed as the ‘economic hub of the Humboldt’ – Garberville.
Well, for all of you that thought that America was a big place, I can tell you that Garberville is basically 300m of main street, six motels and two restaurants. Sometimes this country can surprise you with how shitty some of the towns can be. But then that’s what we came here for.
We went into town (well, walked two hundred yards down the road) and went for a drink in the Branding Iron saloon. We meet a thoroughly nice guy called Abraham who was a firefighter, drank some beer and retired to our motel.
Another mad day put behind us.

Crescent City, CA (620 miles, 51f)

We headed for Brookings, Or, along the Redwood Highway, which does exactly what it says on the tin. Sweeping bends, soaring trees and a bit of Elgar’s cello. It was a memorable drive and exactly what we’d been hoping for when we dreamed up this little adventure.

During the course of the forest and as we approached the coast the weather took a decided turn for the worse and within two hours of slapping on the sun cream in 100f heat we were shutting the roof and turning on the heating as the sea mist rolled in. The sea-view motel Karen had suggested in Brookings resembled a wet weekend in Margate more than a sun-kissed Pacific resort.

Not fancying the $180 a night view of where grey sky meets grey sea we turned round and headed south along the coast back towards the Redwoods National Park. We skipped Crescent City in the hope we’d get closer to the park and headed up onto what will forever be known as Hell Ridge.

As the coast road rose up into the mist, visibility dropped to about thirty feet, which at the end of a long day’s activities and drive was not what was required. But we pressed on higher over the ridge with white knuckles and brown shorts, swearing never to return if we made it out alive.
After 15 minutes of fear we finally dropped out of the mist and entered the park proper, only to realise that the range of motels we were used to on the interstate were not going to come toward us out of the gloom like the neon saviours we were praying for.

We turned off the 101 somewhere in the park and headed to what we thought was a town, before thinking better of a foggy cliff-side track to nowhere as our fevered brains began to hear the strains of banjos floating over the mist. We eventually found a full motel only to be told we had to go back the way we’d come to Crescent City or press on another 60 miles to Eureka. A rock and a hard place. Tired, pissed off and hungry we turned back to take on Hell Ridge once more.
Determined not to be beaten, we set our teeth, grabbed our balls and accelerated up the ridge into the fog. It was terrifying and exciting - being torn between the need to go as fast as the locals so we could see their tail-lights and the need not to die horribly on a freezing road we didn’t know and couldn’t see. Fortunately the Americans don’t believe in street-lighting, so that made it easier.

After 12 minutes of adrenalin-fuelled concentration we hit Crescent City again and I’ve never been so glad to see a neon light. We found a motel, checked in, had a crappy meal and a couple of beers, and retired knackered.

A full and adventured-filled day – God know’s what tomorrow will bring. But then that’s the fun.

Grants Pass More

After a hearty breakfast of multi-coloured circles we headed off for an 8.45am meeting at the Hog’s Creek slipway, four miles west of Merlin on the Rogue River.



If none of that sounds weird enough, after introducing ourselves to our river guide Karen and two companions from San Diego Bill and Carol, we boarded our raft and headed for Hell’s Gate Gorge.



The names are a bit scarier than the actual places, but we were holding on for dear life at the first set of rapids. They ended up not being quite as terrifying as we thought and we settled in to drift, enjoy the sunshine and scenery and chat to our companions.



We’d obviously been a bit gay opting out of the kayaks so the kindly Bill and Carol let us borrow theirs for three sets of rapids, including the ominous Widow-maker. Paddling furiously and blindly for thirty seconds in the teeth of, oh, inches of white water, we made it out the other side. Not particularly difficult or treacherous in hindsight, and Karen was brilliant in guiding us through, but exhilarating none the less.

Along the way we saw wild turkeys, a beaver, herons, and a doe drank the water feet from us as we quietly drifted past. With giant conifers clinging to rocky cliffs rising steeply all around us, it was a magical experience.



We were done by 3.30, said our goodbyes, promised to exchange blogs (http://www.rogue-river-rafting-trips.com/) and set off for a place called Brookings on Karen’s recommendation (more of that later!).

Grants Pass, OR (411 miles, 97f)

After a lesiurely start from Portland we headed down through Oregon aiming for Grants Pass, a small mountain town on the Rogue River.

Today has been hot, too hot for a convertible really but we're determined to enjoy the sun and the car. Managed a break near Eugene (me neither) in the middle of seemingly nowhere.

After Eugene the landscape took a turn for the better as we hit the mountains.















Spectacular scenery, giant trucks, sweeping roads, hot sun and cheesy rock music. Perfect. We hit GP at about 3.30, thoroughly cooked and pink. Luckily the Super 8 Motel has a pool.

A quick jaunt out into the bondue looking for an outdoor activity centre lead us to someone's house at the end of a dirt track. After standing at the gate and shouting hello a very nice young man came out, took our money for a white-water rafting trip, offered us beer and was throughly hospitable. We chatted amiably to him and his lovely wife before heading into town for dinner - only to find Grants Pass shuts at 9pm.

Tomorrow, the Rogue River and hopefully Grants Pass will offer up something more exciting than clam chowder and an early night.

Portland, OR (162 miles, 82f)

We faffed at the airport for an hour while the Budget lady managed to lose our Mustang. She offered us a hard top, but all our cliched fantasies were based on a convertible, so we dug our heels in and ended up with a Chrysler Sebring. Not ideal, but at least its lid comes off.

I took the first stint of driving and pulled onto I5 from the airport, I think my first words were "Fucking hell this road's big!" After two and a half hours of eight-lane, sixty-mile-an-hour mundanity, which included such roadside highlights as the Tacoma Dome and the Washington Museum of Glass, we made it into Portland under the guidance of Led Zeppelin.

Portland is probably quite a lively place normally, but on a Sunday afternoon it was as dead as the horse-sized roadkill we passed somewhere near Olympia.

Fortunately, the hotel was just gorgeous. It was some kind of converted hospital or insane asylum, so every room was bright white with wooden floors and vintage fittings. It was very cool and made up for Portland's lack of excitement. After a sound thrashing at pool and a couple of beers at the local pool bar (which allowed smoking indoors) it was time for bed.














Oh, and if Seattle is the city of midgets, then Portland is the city of homeless crazy people and hippies - they could have been one and the same though. It was hard to tell - witness the homeless Elvis.

More Seattle

Well Seattle was cool. Managed a trip around its old underground sidewalks and to watch the fisherman throw their wares over people's heads in the Pike Place Market. Made it up the Space Needle only to become convinced that it was moving under my feet so had to beat a hasty retreat to ground level.

Managed to hear Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit only twice, but once was in a Whiskey Bar with a bunch of Republican's from Tacoma. They invited us to a BBQ on Sunday, and of course we agreed to go despite having no intention of going whatsover. After a few Johnnie Walker Blue Labels we moved on and tried to get last orders at the Five Points Cafe, just round the corner fromthe hotel. Despite it being nearly midnight we decided we must have food - unfortunately I was too drunk to eat my Pot Roast and I think we were thrown out for being too drunk. Ooops.

One thing about Seattle, well two - the people are all short, most of them have tattoos and most of the men have James Hetfield goatees. A truly rock town.

Oh, and most public benches have signs on them limiting the amount of time you can sit there - "15 minutes maximum", "Out of respect for your neighbours, no longer than 30 mins". Very weird.

Last supper was a whole crab at Elliott's on Pier 50-something. The food was delicious with each item labelled on the menu down to the bay it was caught in. Two grown men cooing over a crisp Pinot and the succulent scallops probably left most of the Okie football supporters in there convinced we were a couple, but we are confident in our sexuality!