We awake several times during the night in the Hotel Nevada. There are dogs howling and drunks yelling. And that's just in our room.
It's not a particularly restful night, especially as an inebriated local informed us that our room was haunted by a con artist. Didn't bother me but Donna's quite thrifty - she is an Essex girl after all.

After our restless night we're glad that the hotel restaurant is serving excellent FC [full cholesterol] breakfasts. My food comes first so Donna starts licking her arm for salt. Finally her roast cow arrives. She even uses a knife and fork. While re-filling our cups with coffee the waitress asks us where we're from. Donna looks up impatiently from gnawing at one of the cow's hind legs. I tell the waitress, "England." Then it happens. One of those moments you hear about but never believe will happen to you.

The waitress responds thus: "Cool, what language do you speak over there?"
We both look at each other. Donna drops the leg in shock. Is she joking?
From the vaguely inquisitive look on her face it appears not.
"Er, English," I reply.
"Wow, really? I thought you spoke English real good."
Better than you do, I thought, perhaps a little uncharitably.

We wander around Ely for half an hour or so taking pictures of the murals. It's a nice little town. On our way West Donna spots the "US-50 - The Loneliest Highway" sign and takes perhaps 4,567 frames.

Then begins another fantastic drive which earns the US-50 the loneliest road sobriquet. This part of Nevada is beautiful and huge and full of nothing. Absolutely astounding.

Then we get to Eureka. Before we embarked on this road trip we'd earmarked one hotel that we really wanted to stay in - the Jackson House Hotel in Eureka. When we'd called to reserve a room we got the Best Western down the road telling us that it was shut. I was, as we Cockneys say, gutted. It's owned by Jeff Bartley, the same man who owns the Best Western. I tried to see Jeff to have a chat but he was in Alaska. Likely story.

Anyway, we crept in to see the place as there were some very friendly guys performing some maintenance. It's a terrific old-style hotel, with real class. The bar itself must be 100 years old. We find out it's for lease. We discuss leasing it and setting it up as an upscale getaway boutique hotel. Then we remember. I'm a writer and Donna's a photographer. Neither of us has any knowledge of the hospitality business whatsoever. It was a brief but delightful dream.

We continue West. Suddenly the road is carpeted with weird brown insects. What the hell are they? Kamikaze crickets? Mile after mile of them just sitting in the road. We stop off at some petroglyphs although I've forgotten where. Out of the car all is still and calm. We are utterly alone. It's spinetingling. Then Donna's stomach rumbles. Uh-oh. Better get a move on.

We find food at either Austin or Cold Springs, I really can't remember which [the town was on a hill]. We find the loneliest phone which is adjacent to the buggy-infested Sand Mountain and the dried up Carson Lake and airbase. Donna has a brief reverie which includes Tom Cruise and a fighter jet. We spend some time just watching the pilots horse around in the sky, as though they were just riding bikes.

We head toward Lake Tahoe and find lodging by the lake. Bed.

The highlight of the next day is Lake Tahoe and me joining the Lake Tahoe Bear League. I'm the only English member. Still am actually. The drive down from Lake Tahoe becomes increasingly traffic-ridden and I find myself yearning for Nevada again. I think it might be my favourite American state. Well, it's certainly in the top two with Montana. The drive is now boring. We're nearing San Francisco and the end of our 3,400 mile road-trip. We feel sad and vow to do another next year. We're totally hooked.