The great winter of our time had descended and an eternal, overcast gloom strangled the skies of Northern England (as opposed to the slightly less overcast gloom of summer). My wife and I had spent many years on the road but the cries of pensions, mortgages and children had grown louder as we approached our 30th year. Not wanting to succumb to an existence of watching Come Dine with Me on repeat and waiting for the weekend to reappear, we decided to ignore the social norms of Western Society and book an adventure which would finally include entrance into the realms of Northern America. Our time had come. Suddenly the gloom dispersed. Palm tree lined streets, food portions that could literally feed the entire world and the glitz and glamour of the Hollywood walk of fame. We had arrived in Los Angeles. The energy, the sunshine and the eclectic mix of cultures were immediately hypnotic and this was just day one. We would cross vast wilderness regions, enter great musical kingdoms like New Orleans and Memphis, and almost go deaf from excessively loud voices. No adventure is straightforward and devilry often waits in the most unsuspecting place, but fear not, I was traveling with my wife, so there was always someone to blame me when things went wrong.