English corners of Californian fields

Tucked away in a fold of Marin County, close to Muir Beach, is a tiny piece of England. Looking for all the world as if it had been plucked complete from West Sussex and dropped into northern California, the Pelican Inn is a perfect English pub. Reached down narrow roads that wind through rolling hills, currently blissfully green after a much-needed recent rain, the creaking sign beckons drivers off Highway 1 and in through the inn’s heavy wooden door. White painted and surrounded by an inviting lawn, full of people lazing in the early spring sunshine, the Pelican is just as authentic inside, with hunting prints, antique furniture and a huge fireplace that must be bliss to curl up beside when the August fog shrouds the coast. My feeling that I had stumbled into Sussex without the bother of a 10-hour flight was increased when I spotted a print of a Spitfire above what looked like Tangmere airfield, which lies not far from my godmother’s home outside Chichester. Even the menu is authentic, with a ploughman’s lunch, bangers-and-mash and fish-and-chips, plus proper English ales on tap.

The Pelican Inn, a glimpse of southern England in northern California

Sir Francis Drake would have been delighted to find such a hostelry when he landed nearby in 1579. Sadly for him, there was nothing but steep valleys and towering redwoods on a seemingly uninhabited coast when he careened his ship in one of the many bays (several now claim to be the one he chose). No doubt, however, he would have been gratified to know that his sojourn here was commemorated 400 years later by the building of an inn named after his ship. Later renamed the Golden Hinde, she was then called the Pelican – an eminently suitable name, oddly enough, as the name of the infamous prison island Alcatraz means Island of Pelicans in Spanish, after the thriving colony of brown pelicans that lived there when Spanish explorer Juan Manuel de Ayala charted the Bay in 1775, two centuries after the English sailor landed. Sir Francis himself never discovered the Bay of San Francisco, despite passing within a mile of the Golden Gate – no doubt, the fog was hiding its secret well.

Feeling at home

There was slightly more batter than fish, but it was still jolly good,

especially washed down with a pint of Irish cider

Astonishingly, the Pelican, despite its 16^th-century appearance and wealth of genuine period furniture and fittings inside, was actually only opened in 1979. Englishman Charles Felix, a native of Bath, fought for eight years for planning consent before he could start work on his dream to build the kind of comfortable country pub his family had run for years. He started from scratch, importing prints and furniture, but employing local craftsmen and materials to do the actual building. Eventually, he created something that appears positively ancient in a land where anything over 50 years old is worthy of an archaeological dig. Now, the Pelican is run by Romantic Places, whose collection includes Culloden House in Scotland, and is enormously popular with both San Franciscans and tourists visiting nearby Muir Woods.

The magnificent redwoods of Muir Woods 

Tulips and flowering wisteria formed the backdrop to my next English-flavoured encounter. A friend and former colleague, Jeremy Musson, one-time architectural editor of Country Life, author of numerous books on country houses and presenter of BBC2's much-missed The Curious House Guest, was paying a brief visit to California on a lecture tour with the Royal Oak, the American partner of England's National Trust. The setting for his excellent talk 'From Fish to Fowl: Sporting Life at the English Country House' was Filoli, about 30 miles south of San Francisco in the wooded hills of the Peninsula. Built by Mr and Mrs William Bowers Bourn, the unusual name of this secluded country house is taken from the first letters of Bourn's motto: 'Fight for a just cause. Love your fellow man. Live a good life.' 

Me and Jeremy Musson, one of England's pre-eminent architectural historians

The main entrance of Filoli

Now one of the 29 sites under the aegis of the American non-profit National Trust for Historic Preservation, Filoli was designed by Willis Polk in 1915-17. The architect, one of the Bay area's most eminent professionals, had also built the Bourns' house in San Francisco and the property at their gold mine in Grass Valley, from whence came their wealth and status. Filoli is in the 'Californian eclectic style', an amalgamation of styles that come together in something similar to an English Georgian rectory, built in brick, with a Classical stone portico and wings flanking a gravel courtyard. The interiors are elegantly apportioned, with a collection of art and antiques that includes a rug from Queen Victoria's Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, but its real attraction is the gardens.

Looking towards the south wing across a sunken garden ablaze with tulips

Spring was bustin' out all over at Filoli!

By all accounts, we were seeing the gardens at their best, with the recent rain enticing every petal to bloom and bask in the warm sunshine. Tulips of every shade, from vivid orange to palest yellow and deep red, filled the beds, their bright colours set off by neatly clipped yew hedges. Waterfalls of blossom dripped from every tree, mown lawns begged for a game of croquet to begin and archways led to yet more delights. The Bourns both had English ancestry and their taste was for the English formal style, blending formal pools and parterres into a landscape that, with the nearby Crystal Springs Lake and steep hills of Spring Valley, reminded them of Ireland. Frequent travellers to Europe, the Bourns' daughter Maud met Arthur Rose Vincent of Co Clare, Ireland, on board ship, and they subsequently married. The Bourns bought Muckross House and 11,000 acres around the Lakes of Killarney, Co Kerry, for the young couple in 1910, and the whole family loved spending time in Ireland. As a permanent reminder of the Emerald Isle, the delicate murals in the ballroom show the wild hills of Kerry. Touchingly, they were painted after a stroke meant that William Bourn would never be able to travel again, so the family brought the Irish views to him. 

The ballroom, adorned with paintings of Irish hills

Looking towards the swimming pool, a slightly incongrous turquoise

The design of the gardens was, I was pleased to hear, influenced by the Bourns' perusal of Country Life magazine and the incomparable photographs of houses and gardens across Britain (a browse of the Country Life Picture Library, which has numerous prints for sale, is always worthwhile). The couple was closely involved with the design, alongside notable Bay area professionals such as artist Bruce Porter, floral designer Isabella Worn and architects Polk and Arthur Brown Jr, and they would have been thrilled to know that Country Life featured the gardens in the April 3, 2013, edition of the magazine. Incorporating elements of Renaissance and Georgian design, the garden weaves together a rose garden, sunken garden, yew walks, bowling green, kitchen garden and orchards in beguiling patterns that delights the wanderer with a new view at every turn. The Filoli website gives a detailed account of the history and design of the garden, which reveals the reason for the only ugly element - a metal perimeter fence to guard against the depredations of deer. Many of the plants in the original plans, such as yew, boxwood and wisteria, are deer-resistant, testament to the herds that roam wild nearby. Now, a militaristic chain-link monstrosity borders the garden, which, although allowing views of the meadows beyond, is definitely not what one would find in the English country-house gardens the Bourns loved so much. Perhaps it could be replaced with a post-and-rail or wrought-iron fence?

One of the many vistas down a yew allée

A riot of colour

Vivid orange tulips flank the path into the garden from the house

But this is to quibble - Filoli is a sumptuous place to spend the day, especially as the cafe serves delicious lunches and the most divine chocolate cakes. The gardens are a feast for the eyes, and, especially for an English visitor, the house is a beguiling blend of historic styles and 20th-century convenience. I couldn't help worrying that noises from the butler's pantry and kitchen, which are divided from the dining room by only a swing door, would have been uncomfortably intrusive during a formal dinner, but I'm sure the servants appreciated the short walk. Below-stairs kitchen quarters were not a tradition continued at Filoli!

Me amid the blossom

A perfect place for lunch

My week finished in true English style, with afternoon tea at Lovejoy’s in Noe Valley. Named after the much-loved antique dealer played by Ian McShane in the television adaptation of Jonathan Gash’s books, it began as an actual antique shop that served tea as a sideline. However, the idea of a decent cup of tea became so popular that the proper tea room was born, and now it is frequently packed with people enjoying the eclectic mix of china and British-esque ornaments. The obligatory Keep Calm and Carry On poster hangs next to a red telephone box, but this place goes beyond the cliché to be comfortable, quirky and endearingly familiar. The tea is real tea, the crumpets are crumpets and the scones are scones, with not an ‘English muffin’ to be seen. (The latter is a doughy blob that bears not the slightest resemblance to anything served in England, yet is very popular on this side of the pond.) We plumped for smoked-salmon and pear-and-Stilton sandwiches from the extensive list – delicious – and my strawberry jam was perfect. Admittedly, the clotted cream wasn’t quite thick or creamy enough, but it was an excellent effort nonetheless. I do love America, but it is lovely to have a week of Englishness every now and again!

Happy ex-pats

A proper cup of tea at last!

Ah, that looks good

Across the wide prairie with the Grand Canyon Hounds and the Paradise Valley Beagles

Two and a half hours after I had left the house at 5am, our Jeep was bouncing over railtracks that ran across the prairie in a dead-straight line from horizon to horizon. Behind us were juniper trees and a pair of elk with magnificent antlers, ahead was acre after thousand acre of grassland. All it needed was a posse of cowboys riding down a train – and I was delighted to hear that such a occurrence is not just a fantasy. The train that runs from Flagstaff to the Grand Canyon is regularly held up by a posse of  cowboys who charge into action with pistols cocked. Apparently, however, they're unusually friendly and don’t steal all the passengers’ jewellery. I would love to know what those guys put on their passports.

The real Wild West

But the members of the Grand Canyon Hounds were here in pursuit of coyote, not plunder. Crossing a cattle grid (or guard), our convoy of three horse trailers, which included visitors from the Red Rock Hounds of Reno, Nevada, pulled over and stopped at the side of the track on a featureless plain, the horizon broken only by the bulk of San Francisco mountain some 40 miles to the south-east. No sign of human habitation was visible beyond the dirt road and single fence stretching over the horizon, and the wind whistled from the east, belying the bright sunshine. The pasture we were going to hunt is 80,000 acres in size, or 125 square miles, more than the entirety of my hunt country at home and just one holding of the Babbitt Ranches, one of the most historic operations in the area. Founded in 1886, it is still run in the old way, with cowboys working the herds on horseback and living in bunk houses, but with an eye for business and environmental practices that is entirely modern. The Grand Canyon Hounds have reason to be grateful to them, with at least two thirds of the hunt country being Babbitt land. It's a hard, dry country, freezing in winter and baking in summer, with little water and sparse grazing, but the vastness of the rolling grassland is intoxicating – the knowledge that one could gallop uninterrupted for hundreds of miles makes one want to do just that.

The finest view in America?

Unfortunately, the coyote had other ideas. We set off westwards across the plain, passing clumps of juniper bushes, a couple of curious cows (cattle out here enjoy several acres per beast), and herds of antelope, but no coyote were in evidence. The antelope gave us fleeting hope as, according to Paul Delaney MFH, coyote like nothing better than collapsing after a long day’s roaming the prairie and watching the local herds. ‘We have television, they have antelope,’ he explained, entirely seriously.

Me and Paul Delaney ready for the off

The lack of action was in no way due to huntsman Peter Wilson and his excellent pack of hounds. Dogs and bitches are kenneled together in their state-of-the-art kennels just outside Flagstaff and, as a consequence, are happy and willing to work together. In the old saying, one could have thrown a blanket over them. They’re a mixed crew, with long-eared Penn-Marydel from the eastern seaboard, where Peter grew up, together with American and Walker hounds. The latter is descended from the English foxhound, but developed in its own right in the 1800s after a stolen dog was crossed with a foxhound. Now, they are a tenacious and energetic addition to the pack. To combat difficult scenting conditions, there are a couple of gazehound crosses, too, which add a vital extra weapon on hot days. The whole pack is impressively biddable – the previous evening, admiring them in kennel, a single word from Peter was enough to move the whole pack into the neighbouring yard – and they were equally responsive to his quiet commands in the field.

Finding a sunny corner in the yard

Can we go hunting now?

Mounting up.

A tad difficult to see (and take, hence the wonky horizon),

but this shows hounds working hard!

Turning south, we crossed what Paul calls the Sargasso Sea, and it certainly is wide. The holy grail of hunting here is to get a run across this patch, as the footing is excellent and free of most of the stones and treeroots that make this land more tricky to cross than a grassy field, but sadly, hounds weren’t running this time. We opened the throttle anyway for a blissful gallop, to the relief of humans and horses alike. My grey Percheron x Thoroughbred Cinco was extremely pleased to work off some excess energy – he had been champing at the bit since we set off. I had been warned that he was capable of putting in an impressive buck, usually accompanied by a squeal, so I had been on my guard, but I was in luck - he behaved beautifully. (Unless, of course, it was simply my superlative equestrian skills? ahem.)

The brilliant Cinco

Peter leads his merry band to a watering place

After a stop to let the hounds quench their thirst at a ‘tank’, or large pool, we were rewarded for our patience with a brief but exhilarating run that proved Cinco’s worth beyond doubt. Beginning at the top of a small rise, we charged through a patch of juniper across rocky ground that would have had every English rider slowing to a walk and picking their way. None of that here – we took it at full gallop, horses’ ears pricked and their feet unerringly choosing exactly the right path. They all have rubber pads under their shoes, with convex bubbles in the centre to get rid of compacted snow in winter and studs on the shoes themselves, but they hardly need them. It reminded me of Irish horses knowing exactly how to cope with double banks – the person on top just has to hang on and marvel at the brilliance of the equine expert beneath them. Leaving the stones behind, we increased our speed even more across the grass and I turned to Crispin, Peter’s brother, thundering beside me.

‘Is there anything in life better than this?’ I called.

‘Not to my knowledge!’ he shouted back.

The scent petered out soon after that, and the rest of the morning was spent casting fruitlessly, but it didn’t matter. There is always a joy in being on horseback and watching a good pack of hounds work well together, noses down, sterns waving, refusing to give up, and I would never grow tired of gazing at this landscape. For much of the day, at first just a streak on the northern horizon but growing ever clearer as the ground rose beneath us, the North Rim of the Grand Canyon was visible. Stretching on and on in both directions, the rocky cliffs plunged earthwards, even at this distance appearing impossibly huge. My photographs simply don’t do it justice – my naked eye could see far more than my trusty Canon reveals. The whole thing was a beguiling mass of juxtapositions – red coats, hounds, horses, English saddles, Wild West prairie, a natural wonder of the world and cowboy shenanigans, all mixed up together in the joy of the chase.

Crispin Wilson (left), brother of Peter

Amy of the Red Rock Hounds in Reno, Nevada

Lone hunter: England meets the Wild West

Hacking home after a blank but extremely enjoyable morning

The following day was an even more mixed-up jumble, when Amanda, Peter’s wife, took out her adorable Paradise Valley Beagles in pursuit of jackrabbits with an assorted group of followers that ranged from Karen Thurston (who has travelled the world with her daughter Rachel) on a neat grey Arab to Peter and Crispin in jeans on a couple of enormous grey youngsters. Amanda herself was extremely smart in the green coat of the beagler, with the PVB tartan (plaid) collar. Unlike beaglers in the UK, followers here are mounted, which makes it much easier to keep up with a quarry that leaps away like an arrow loosed from a string, jinking and darting before dropping to the floor and lying motionless in the hope that it has evaded its captures. Jackrabbits are rangier than hares, with longer ears and gangly, skinny legs, and we had seen several the day before - more, indeed, than coyote. The beagles were keen as mustard, bustling about and casting everywhere. They are such a happy and biddable bunch that they make one smile to see them.

Huntsman and master Amanda Wilson with her beagles

Setting off towards San Francisco mountain

With the San Francisco peak looming above us, the beagles cast among the sagebrush for some time without success, until a barrage of canine voices alerted us to a cottontail tearing up a rock-strewn slope through tough old juniper trees. It was a brief burst that got everyone’s blood going and must have woken up the jackrabbits, as several scurries ensued that saw the pack doing their best to keep up with two unusual additions to their number – a couple of elegant black lurchers. Dazzle in particular was extremely keen on her first time out, coursing the jackrabbits in magnificent style. Amanda spoke about the difficulties of hunting gazehounds and scenthounds together – the beagles were working very well, but when the quarry is only a few yards ahead, the lurchers do have an advantage. But I have no doubt this unusual partnership will flourish - aided and abetted by a couple of cheerful terriers. 

Spot the odd one out in the pack

Dazzle waits for a glimpse of a jackrabbit as the beagles cast

We didn’t kill – that honour was reserved for the terriers, who caught a pack rat during breakfast afterwards – but it was a treat to watch the hounds working at such close quarters. For me, there was an extra thrill – at long last, I was galloping across the Wild West of America Western style! Although I worked on a ranch in Wyoming for two months last summer, riding there was one-behind-the-other and we rode English style, going into two-point/cross-country seat for cantering. Amanda had been very happy for me to change saddles - the attitude here is that anyone is welcome, however and whatever they're riding. So this was a longed-for chance to try Western style at speed, and I loved it. Cinco, too, felt more relaxed this way, without a hint of him being a 'beast with a bellyful of bedsprings' as the old cowboys put it, and I could have ridden all day. The best fun came when I rode upside of Jimmy Doyle, the modest, brilliant kennel-huntsman of the GCH who whips in to both packs. He hails from Scotland and came to the US after a spell at the Quorn in England’s hunting heartland, and is a fine, fearless horseman who is great fun to shadow, bouncing around the sagebrush on the lookout for jackrabbits. Cinco’s only fault is a very slow walk, which necessitates frequent jogs to catch up, and at one point this turned into a full-on gallop when Jimmy was a few lengths ahead of us and hounds spoke. Golly, does Cinco have power in those quarters!

Western style on Cinco!

This being America, we finished both days with a convivial breakfast around the trailers, and I thought again how easy and comfortable is the company of hunting people. Stories of long and fast runs on coyote abounded (typically, it seems that the country we had covered yesterday is usually some of the best – am I a jinx?). But I’ll be back next season, as sure as hounds were born to hunt, and perhaps be lucky enough to experience an epic run across the wide, rolling prairie of the Wild West.

My wonderful hostess Sherry, resplendent in PVB livery, 

and me, not quite so resplendent

Visitors from Red Rock - Angela and Amy

Peter and Crispin educating a likely looking pair of youngsters

Yum: hunt breakfast in the desert

Into the Total Perspective Vortex of Arizona's natural wonders

The Total Perspective Vortex has been described as the ‘most savage physic torture a sentient being can undergo’. When someone steps inside, they are given a split second glimpse of the entirety of creation, as extrapolated from a fairy cake, with a tiny little dot saying ‘you are here’ - a terrifying revelation of how microscopically tiny we are in relation to the universe. 

The daunting desert of Arizona

Douglas Adams, the genius writer of TheHitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, may well have had the great southern deserts of Arizona, Nevada and Utah in mind when he came up with the Vortex. Driving around them last weekend, my mouth was in a permanent ‘O’ of astonishment as every bend (or, rather, shallow curve 50 miles from the last) revealed new and ever-more spectacular landscapes, stretching on and on into the distance. 

San Francisco Mountain towering over the plains

My destination was Flagstaff, an old town on the famous Route 66 that nestles in the shadow of the snow-capped San Francisco Mountain – yes, really, I left San Francisco to arrive at the foot of San Francisco. That fact made me inordinately excited. En route from Las Vegas, I stopped at a manmade monument - the Hoover Dam, with its soaring bridge above and Dalek-like towers. I confess, however, that I couldn’t help thinking of the splendid 19^th-century dams of the Elan Valley in Wales, where torrents of water gush down to the thirsty people of Birmingham over elegant walls topped by copper-covered onion domes. The sparse concrete lines of this 1930s structure just didn’t excite me in the same way.

The Hoover Dam, with the road bridge beyond

But the landscape I entered on the other side of the Colorado River certainly did. Endless miles of sagebrush and prairie grass stretched away on either side of the road. For the first time in my life, I was grateful for cruise control – my hired Chrysler 200 showed a disturbing tendency to creep above the speed limit if I didn’t use it. As dusk fell and the gradient rose, pine trees began to gather in on either side, the pale, dry grass beneath them glowing like phosphorescence in the fading light. Arriving in Flagstaff, Arizona, 7,000ft above sea level, the temperature had dropped and the tall trees around my friends’ house evoked all sorts of spooky stories. Fortunately, the welcome inside, not to mention a pot roast, chased all terrors away.

Miles and miles of tarmac just waiting to be eaten up by my wheels

I was in Arizona because of an invitation issued by members of the Grand Canyon Hounds when we had hunted together with the Tejon Hounds in January. I can never turn down an offer of hunting, and as I had never seen the Grand Canyon, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to see it for the first time from horseback. The view of the North Rim from the saddle is certainly one I will never forget. Yet the weekend proved to be about so much more than hunting, for the landscapes that stretch on and on, broken by canyons and mesas, were instantly beguiling. I will return to the hunting in the next chapter of this blog, but I cannot move on before trying to give some impression of the area’s natural beauty, however impossible it is to convey in words and photographs. It might remind you of another quote from Hitchhiker - 'Space is big. Really big. You just won't believe how vastly, hugely, mindbogglingly big. I mean, you might think it's a long way down the street to the chemist, but that's just peanuts to space' - but the photographs at least are worth glancing at!

Me aboard Cinco - and that streak in the background is the Grand Canyon

Even the gloomy weather of my first day, with a weak sun trying to penetrate the clouds, couldn’t detract from the spectacular rock formations of Sedona. Dark red, ringed about with straggling trees, they rise unpredictably from the desert floor, forming pinnacles and towers and brooding bulks, with fanciful names from Coffeepot to Cathedral, Sphinx to Steamboat. There’s even a Snoopy rock lying next to a Mushroom. Impervious to the ghastly strings of motels and fast-food joints in the valley, they receive the hordes of admiring hikers with lofty indifference, safe in the belief that they preceded us by centuries and will still be there, yielding only to wind and weather, long after we have gone.

Cathedral Rock, Sedona

Bell Rock, the last red-rock edifice on the 179 to the south of Sedona

Bright sunshine and a brisk wind accompanied me the next day as I drove east along the old Route 66 (now Interstate 40) to Winslow, an old, shabby town immortalized in the Eagles’ hit Take it Easy. Naturally, I had to embrace the modern world with a ‘selfie’ on the corner, with the bronze statue of a guitarist that, together with the mural behind, now makes the most of the town’s 15 minutes of fame. Winslow has its charms, with an art gallery, museum and flowering trees, but it just needs a tumbleweed bowling down the street and a cowboy chewing a plug of tobacco to complete the picture of the Old West. 

'Standin' on a corner in Winslow Arizona'

The obligatory selfie

There's still romance in the name Route 66. My kingdom for a Harley Davidson!

A few blocks down the main street stands La Posada, a charming hotel with a Spanish feel and informative displays telling the story of Winslow, which grew due to the building of the Santa Fe railway that brought tourists visiting desert delights such as the Petrified Forest and Monument Valley. Its potential was spotted by Fred Harvey, manager of a hospitality empire that stretched across the continent along the railway, who determined to build a luxury hotel here, and engaged notable architect Mary Colter in the 1920s. Widely regarded as her masterpiece, La Posada is a rambling building intended, successfully, to look as if it has grown up over time. It was staffed by the 'Harvey Girls', widely credited with civilising the cowboys along the railway by settling down with them and getting them out of the saloons. In the later 20^th century, La Posada fell into disrepair, but was rescued by the tireless efforts of Allan Affeldt, who negotiated for three years to buy it from the Santa Fe Railway and finally opened it in its present state in 1997 after a $12 million restoration. Unfortunately, my explorations of the hotel were interrupted by an unshaven man in a dirty yellow sweatshirt who asked for my life history while massaging my hands. Being English, I couldn’t pull away in disgust as I would have liked to have done, but, thankfully, he met my refusal to take him to Flagstaff with equanimity. Even so, I confess to scarpering somewhat quicker than I might otherwise have done!

La Posada, built by Mary Colter in the 1920s

Between Winslow and Flagstaff lies Meteor Crater, a vast depression that, today, is obvious as the landing site of a huge ball of burning matter from outer space, but which, when it was first discovered, was taken as a volcanic crater. (One nearby volcano, I was told by former volcanologist and current master of the Grand Canyon Paul Delaney, was erupting during the Battle of Hastings in 1066.) It was years before the indefatigable mining engineer Daniel Moreau Barringer proved his theory that it was caused by a falling meteor. Having first seen the crater in 1902, he worked until his death in 1929 in the hope of finding a giant meteorite, not knowing that it would have disintegrated entirely on impact, but he at least knew the satisfaction of having his theory accepted. Now, the site is still owned and run by his descendants in partnership with the surrounding Bar T Bar Ranch, and features an excellent little museum on the edge of the crater. Standing on the edge, it looks as if a gentle stroll would take you to the bottom, but, in fact, it is 550ft down and 4,000ft across, with a diameter of 2.4 miles. The Statue of Liberty would be lost inside. A set of telescopes trained on various features includes one that focuses on a 6ft cutout of an astronaut standing in the bottom, together with a 5ft by 3ft American flag, the same size as that planted on the Moon. The astronaut is barely visible with the naked eye – proof of just how huge this thing is.

Looking across Meteor Crater to a southern storm

Honestly, he is down there

Can you see him?

The Grand Canyon itself is equally incomprehensible. In the crystal-clear Arizona air, my brain struggled with the notion that it is 10 miles across and a mile deep – it looks as if one could reach out and touch the far side. It is only when you spot the mighty Colorado River looking like a Hampshire stream at the bottom that you start to notice the ridge upon ridge of craggy rock, each a mountain in itself, that fill this natural wonder. The edges are surprisingly wooded, and I love to think of early explorers battling through the undergrowth and suddenly teetering on the edge of something that would make even the most laconic of pioneers raise their eyebrows. 

Truly - those tracks at the bottom are a mile away

Blissfully free of safety barriers, a tempting promontory 

thrusts its way into the canyon

Rather beautiful, isn't it?

A watchtower at the southern end of the canyon. 

Built by Mary Colter of La Posada fame, it was designed to look 

as if it was a centuries-old Native American relic, 

but  it was actually completed in 1932

Smaller, but equally wondrous for different reasons, is Walnut Canyon, just east of Flagstaff. Home to the Sinagua people (Spanish for ‘without water’) from about 1124 to 1250, it is a deep ravine of rock, pine trees, cacti and juniper with apparently sheer sides. Looking closer, one can see evidence of brickwork amid the stones, marking where the inhabitants built their homes under overhanging limestone bluffs. Presumably, they thought nothing of scampering barefoot up and down between their neighbours across cliffs that would require full climbing equipment today. Some are accessible, however, from a trail that winds tactfully down around a central ‘island’ of stone. Elegant boards at regular intervals offer information on the lives of the Indians and the plants they would have used for everything from eating to medicine, in a typically understated, but informative way. I have been most impressed with the way the American National Parks are run, with well-designed visitors’ centres, unobtrusive landscaping and helpful staff. There are taps galore for filling water bottles, with the laudable aim of halting the modern-day blight of plastic, and the water, fresh from a canyon stream, is unfailingly cold and delicious.

A typical home of the Sinagua, nestled under a limestone overhang

Spot the houses about two-thirds up from the bottom...

A typical National Parks information board, with stuff you actually want to read

A completely different experience is offered by the astonishing Antelope Canyon, so named for the antelope that once roamed the area. Visitors bounce about for 10 minutes in a 4x4 driven by one of the local Navajo guides to reach a slot canyon that appears as a mere slit in the indigenous deep red sandstone,. Formed by the mere passage of wind and water, it is a holy place for the Navajo and can be dangerous in summer when flash floods rage through, leaving branches and tangles of twigs resting in crevices several feet up. The sunlight slanting down through the narrow openings above sets the stone aglow with red-gold sunbeams, illuminating the painterly curves of the canyon walls and leaving the floor in shadow. At certain times of the day, beloved by photographers, slim rays of sunshine will strike the bottom of the canyon in a celestial spotlight more magical than any seen on the stages of Broadway. Our Navajo guide, AJ, tinkered with my phone’s camera so it took stunningly beautiful images – this is a place that is gorgeous even when captured by the most cack-handed of amateur snappers.

Hidden beauty: the entrance to Antelope Canyon

Hall of wonders

Literally, the heart of Antelope Canyon

Sculpted by the masterly hand of wind and water

Me

The southern exit. It's hard to imagine a flash flood crashing and raging

against these walls as it fights to find a way through

Crossing into Utah, I descended in the gloom to Zion National Park, driving through towering walls of rock that loomed like something from Gormenghast. Exiting the 1.1-mile-long Zion-Mt Carmel tunnel, a tour-de-force of engineering completed in 1930, I was brought up short by flashing lights – a black truck had gone off the road and was being winched onto the back of a flat-bed. Glad to find there were still other people in the world, I inched down the switchbacks behind them to Springdale and my motel. 

A stricken truck is hauled out of Zion Canyon

In the morning, not a cloud marred the sky and I drove to the end of the Zion Canyon Scenic Drive at about 2 miles an hour, craning out of the window for a glimpse of the canyon rim. At the far end, a neatly paved trail leads to a spot past which only those equipped for river wading can go. Tempting as it was to explore, I opted for a drier stroll up to the Emerald Pools, which, sadly, are not very emerald and were crowded with families on spring break. The paths themselves were fairly empty, however, and I had a blissful time wandering around in the sunshine and taking far too many photographs. Zion attracted 19^th-century artists in search of the Picturesque just as the Lake District in England did, and paintings by the likes of Thomas Moran emphasise the majesty of the misty heights and the tumbling Virgin River below. Flash floods are common here, too, but I saw nothing but peaceful pools and sparkling waterfalls. Zion means ‘place of refuge’, and it is well named.

The mysterious depths of Zion - to go further, you have to wade

Early sunshine edging down the canyon walls

Water cascading into the Lower Emerald Pool

Bit steep...rockclimbing, anyone?

A view that has inspired artists for nearly 200 years

Who needs casinos when this kind of tranquillity is available?

After all these natural splendours, the casino strip of Las Vegas was a nasty shock, a temple to excess, consumerism, vulgarity and bad taste. I’m sure it could be fun to get dressed up and win thousands at roulette, but for me, I would take the wild beauty of the desert canyons over a fake Eiffel Tower, rammed up against a plastic version of Camelot, every time. America is a land of contrasts, and a circuit of the glorious south-western deserts of the Colorado Plateau sure has it all.

Fake Venice

Plastic New York

A temple to consumerism

Ah, that's better. The Grand Canyon

Me at the Grand Canyon - looking a little odd in riding clothes after a morning's hunting!