QUARTZITE, ARIZONA
Wow. I'd assumed it was a mythical beast, part of the rich folklore of the American West.
But here it was, a monstrous mirage, visible through the dust and heat haze, thundering across the desert floor like a Brontosaurus with Baby Bronto trotting along behind.
In the rest of the world, caravans are towed behind cars. But here in America, the home of the gargantuan motorhome, it's the other way round. I had been told, in bars mainly after a few drinks, that some of these supersized Recreational Vehicles are so colossal they tow Hummers behind them as runarounds. Like yachts tow little rubber dinghies. I had assumed I was being wound up.
Wrongly, as it transpired, because here it was, larger than life and twice as ridiculous, lumbering along before my very eyes. This is how the richest nation in the history of our planet goes camping.
For most of the year, Quartzite, Arizona, is a dried-up former mining town with a population around 1,900; an undistinguished string of gas stations, budget motels, fast food outlets and trailer parks between two off-ramps on Interstate 10.
But in January and February every year, if you exit one of those ramps, park up on the dirt and climb the hill branded with a giant Q by the disused gold mine, you will see an ocean of motorhomes stretching horizon to horizon.
It is, simply, the biggest RV rally on earth. No-one's counting precisely but between one and two million people are reckoned to arrive in Quartzite every winter in hundreds of thousands of Dreamcatchers, Ultras, Allegros, Contessas, Airstreams, Streamlines, Arrows and Prowlers, Monacos, Bounders, Raptors, Jamborees, Pushers, Encounters and Dolphins. They fan out across the scrubby, sun-baked land like migrating buffalo and set up camp, turning the desert into an immense temporary city. Or suburb, more accurately, since by the time they''ve rolled out the astroturf lawns, set out the deckchairs, positioned the garden ornaments and in extreme cases, actually marked out their domain with a little while picket fence, Quartzite's visitors have effectively brought the 'Burbs to the Boondocks.
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But here it was, a monstrous mirage, visible through the dust and heat haze, thundering across the desert floor like a Brontosaurus with Baby Bronto trotting along behind.
In the rest of the world, caravans are towed behind cars. But here in America, the home of the gargantuan motorhome, it's the other way round. I had been told, in bars mainly after a few drinks, that some of these supersized Recreational Vehicles are so colossal they tow Hummers behind them as runarounds. Like yachts tow little rubber dinghies. I had assumed I was being wound up.
Wrongly, as it transpired, because here it was, larger than life and twice as ridiculous, lumbering along before my very eyes. This is how the richest nation in the history of our planet goes camping.
For most of the year, Quartzite, Arizona, is a dried-up former mining town with a population around 1,900; an undistinguished string of gas stations, budget motels, fast food outlets and trailer parks between two off-ramps on Interstate 10.
But in January and February every year, if you exit one of those ramps, park up on the dirt and climb the hill branded with a giant Q by the disused gold mine, you will see an ocean of motorhomes stretching horizon to horizon.
It is, simply, the biggest RV rally on earth. No-one's counting precisely but between one and two million people are reckoned to arrive in Quartzite every winter in hundreds of thousands of Dreamcatchers, Ultras, Allegros, Contessas, Airstreams, Streamlines, Arrows and Prowlers, Monacos, Bounders, Raptors, Jamborees, Pushers, Encounters and Dolphins. They fan out across the scrubby, sun-baked land like migrating buffalo and set up camp, turning the desert into an immense temporary city. Or suburb, more accurately, since by the time they''ve rolled out the astroturf lawns, set out the deckchairs, positioned the garden ornaments and in extreme cases, actually marked out their domain with a little while picket fence, Quartzite's visitors have effectively brought the 'Burbs to the Boondocks.
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DUNGENESS
An eerie wasteland in the shadow of a perpetually humming nuclear power station is not perhaps an obvious setting for a carefree day of family fun. But Dungeness is one of our favourite outings.
This isolated expanse of shingle juts into the English Channel south of Romney Marsh. The wind rarely drops, strong currents make swimming inadvisable and the whole place has a spooky, desolate feel.
A wag from the New York Times once claimed that 'if Kent is the Garden of England, Dungeness is the back gate'. But I don't think that goes far enough. Dungeness is somewhere beyond the back gate. It is the British seaside redesigned by Tim Burton. More end-of-the-world than end-of-the-pier, it's a Dickensian doomscape of driftwood, rusting metal, crumbling concrete war relics, tumbledown fishermen's shacks and eccentric, higgledy-piggley houses constructed around disused 1920s railway carriages.
It is also Britain's only desert; a weird habitat with weird fauna and flora. Strange species thrive in its unique conditions. Alongside rabbits, hares, foxes and rare birds, the RSPB's Dungeness nature reserve is home to exotic creepy-crawlies such as medicinal leeches, jumping spiders and unusual plants like the pungently-named 'stinking hawksbeard'.
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This isolated expanse of shingle juts into the English Channel south of Romney Marsh. The wind rarely drops, strong currents make swimming inadvisable and the whole place has a spooky, desolate feel.
A wag from the New York Times once claimed that 'if Kent is the Garden of England, Dungeness is the back gate'. But I don't think that goes far enough. Dungeness is somewhere beyond the back gate. It is the British seaside redesigned by Tim Burton. More end-of-the-world than end-of-the-pier, it's a Dickensian doomscape of driftwood, rusting metal, crumbling concrete war relics, tumbledown fishermen's shacks and eccentric, higgledy-piggley houses constructed around disused 1920s railway carriages.
It is also Britain's only desert; a weird habitat with weird fauna and flora. Strange species thrive in its unique conditions. Alongside rabbits, hares, foxes and rare birds, the RSPB's Dungeness nature reserve is home to exotic creepy-crawlies such as medicinal leeches, jumping spiders and unusual plants like the pungently-named 'stinking hawksbeard'.
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THAMES SEA FORTS
The Thames Estuary glitters in the sunlight as we skim across its unusually calm surface towards what resembles a frozen troop of stilt-walking Martian war machines.
But these four-legged metal giants are nothing to do with HG Wells' War of the Worlds. They are unique relics from the last world war.
The hauntingly-named Shivering Sands and Redsand forts were anti-aircraft installations built to defend the Port of London from German air raids, E-Boats and flying bombs.
Today they are visible from the Kent seaside towns of Whitstable and Herne Bay only as enigmatic dots on the distant horizon. But after years of neglect and notoriety, they are now achieving recognition as national architectural treasures.
Designed by civil engineer Guy Maunsell, these innovative structures were forerunners of North Sea drilling rigs. Bristling with guns, each fort was manned by 265 soldiers and comprised seven separate towers linked by steel catwalks.
Stripped of their ordnance and abandoned by the Army in 1956, they were simply left to rot. Until the mid-Sixties, when they were commandeered by bearded young men in chunky sweaters on a mission to liberate the airwaves: the radio pirates.
Pop singer Dave 'Screaming Lord' Sutch was the first and his Radio Sutch operation on the Shivering Sands fort was quickly followed by stations on neighbouring Redsand. Sixties TV star Patrick McGoohan was a visitor during this era. He filmed an episode of his spy show Dangerman, the predecessor to The Prisoner, on Redsand's towers in 1965.
But the offshore radio movement had its dark side; its share of intrigue on the high seas. Death even. Radio Invicta owner Tom Pepper, an eccentric figure who actually dressed as a pirate, drowned with two others when his boat sank in suspicious circumstances en route to Redsand. And Shivering Sands broadcaster Reg Calvert, a colleague of Dave Sutch, was shot dead in an argument over a transmitter. Meanwhile shots were fired and petrol bombs thrown in battles for control of other abandoned estuary forts.
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The hauntingly-named Shivering Sands and Redsand forts were anti-aircraft installations built to defend the Port of London from German air raids, E-Boats and flying bombs.
Today they are visible from the Kent seaside towns of Whitstable and Herne Bay only as enigmatic dots on the distant horizon. But after years of neglect and notoriety, they are now achieving recognition as national architectural treasures.
Designed by civil engineer Guy Maunsell, these innovative structures were forerunners of North Sea drilling rigs. Bristling with guns, each fort was manned by 265 soldiers and comprised seven separate towers linked by steel catwalks.
Stripped of their ordnance and abandoned by the Army in 1956, they were simply left to rot. Until the mid-Sixties, when they were commandeered by bearded young men in chunky sweaters on a mission to liberate the airwaves: the radio pirates.
Pop singer Dave 'Screaming Lord' Sutch was the first and his Radio Sutch operation on the Shivering Sands fort was quickly followed by stations on neighbouring Redsand. Sixties TV star Patrick McGoohan was a visitor during this era. He filmed an episode of his spy show Dangerman, the predecessor to The Prisoner, on Redsand's towers in 1965.
But the offshore radio movement had its dark side; its share of intrigue on the high seas. Death even. Radio Invicta owner Tom Pepper, an eccentric figure who actually dressed as a pirate, drowned with two others when his boat sank in suspicious circumstances en route to Redsand. And Shivering Sands broadcaster Reg Calvert, a colleague of Dave Sutch, was shot dead in an argument over a transmitter. Meanwhile shots were fired and petrol bombs thrown in battles for control of other abandoned estuary forts.
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CHURCHILL, MANITOBA
Try to imagine changing a tyre as tall as a man with just basic tools. Now imagine doing it in a raging blizzard in temperatures below minus 40 degrees. Now think about attempting it, in the dark, while hungry polar bears circle around sizing up your snack potential.
Don't panic.You don't actually have to do it. Jason Parsons and Rob Mollard, on the other hand, do. These unsung heroes of extreme spannering build and maintain a fleet of extraordinary off-road buses, the famous tundra buggies of Churchill, Manitoba. And when the buggies break down, as they sometimes do, field repairs frequently attract a large, furry and perpetually peckish audience.
"I try not to think about the bears. I know they are there but I try not to let it bother me," says Jason. "You're nervous, always looking around. You usually have two people. One to work and the other to make sure there aren't any bears sneaking up on you. For a big animal they are quiet."
"You've got to have eyes in the back of your head," agrees Rob, "It's worse in the dark because you can't see anything until it's right there. The bears are naturally curious so as soon as you start doing anything they come around to look."
Churchill (58o 46' N, population 970) justifiably considers itself the world's polar bear capital. Each Autumn, between September and November, bears wander by, and sometimes through, the tiny Canadian town as they migrate towards the Hudson Bay sea ice to spend the winter hunting seals. It's a dangerous season for the people of Churchill and over the years a few have been killed by bears straying into the town. Halloween trick-or-treating in Churchill has a certain unique frisson of danger.
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Don't panic.You don't actually have to do it. Jason Parsons and Rob Mollard, on the other hand, do. These unsung heroes of extreme spannering build and maintain a fleet of extraordinary off-road buses, the famous tundra buggies of Churchill, Manitoba. And when the buggies break down, as they sometimes do, field repairs frequently attract a large, furry and perpetually peckish audience.
"I try not to think about the bears. I know they are there but I try not to let it bother me," says Jason. "You're nervous, always looking around. You usually have two people. One to work and the other to make sure there aren't any bears sneaking up on you. For a big animal they are quiet."
"You've got to have eyes in the back of your head," agrees Rob, "It's worse in the dark because you can't see anything until it's right there. The bears are naturally curious so as soon as you start doing anything they come around to look."
Churchill (58o 46' N, population 970) justifiably considers itself the world's polar bear capital. Each Autumn, between September and November, bears wander by, and sometimes through, the tiny Canadian town as they migrate towards the Hudson Bay sea ice to spend the winter hunting seals. It's a dangerous season for the people of Churchill and over the years a few have been killed by bears straying into the town. Halloween trick-or-treating in Churchill has a certain unique frisson of danger.
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