Speaking to the Sunday Telegraph, he said: "When our politicians suggest jettisoning the established understanding of marriage and subverting its meaning they aren’t derided. Instead, their attempt to redefine reality is given a polite hearing, their madness is indulged. Their proposal represents a grotesque subversion of a universally accepted human right.
"If the Government attempts to demolish a universally recognised human right, they will have forfeited the trust which society has placed in them and their intolerance will shame the United Kingdom in the eyes of the world."

Then, in an act of myopic hysteria, he suggests gay marriage could lead to three-way marriages and even compares the government's support for equality to that of legalising slavery. The Catholic and Anglican Churches' position on gay marriage yet again does its bit to further damage their standing as upholders of important moral values at a time when both are already reeling from revelations of paedophile priests. Sadly, it only illustrates further the grotesque way in which the church continues to distance itself from the majority of everyday people, making itself even more unattractive, unwelcoming and out of date to the younger generation.

In his twisted argument, Cardinal Bigot carries on stating marriage is primarily for the purpose of procreation. He says: "..yet marriage has always existed in order to bring men and women together so that the children born of those unions will have a mother and a father. This brings us to the one perspective which seems to be completely lost or ignored: the point of view of the child."

He fails to recognise that this argument is clearly irrelevant when one considers any marriage between those over the age of child-bearing years, or for that matter, infertile couples, or those who choose not to have children and instead use contraception (and lets not forget the Catholic Church described that as "intrinsically evil" not so long ago too). Would one say that marriages between these people are an "aberration" too?

My views on gay marriage are, much like my views on religion generally, that I couldn't care less. To me, there are more pressing matters in the world to be concerning ourselves with. But I do take umbrage to offensive and damning terms like "grotesque" and "shameful". And what's more, the church's homophobic meddling in the matter is utterly needless in any case, since the proposals won't touch 'religious marriage.' The plans are only to extend civil marriage to same-sex couples. Civil marriages, the type of which are seen in country houses, hotels and registry offices across the land, are not religious ceremonies, and nor are they allowed to take place in religious premises.

Even the Very Reverend Dr David Ison, new Dean of St Paul's Cathedral, who backs gay marriage, recently declared that "marriage doesn't belong to the church." And let's face it, what same-sex couple in their right mind would wish to "marry" in the religious sense anyway, perhaps in a church, with the biblical whimsy inherent in such ceremonies (not to mention the homophobia, misogynist heritage, inbuilt inequality, and church-sanctioned subjugation that exists therein)? I am however, all for equality, and thus I am all for civil marriage for same-sex couples. And I'm sure when it becomes law, as Equalities Minister Lynn Featherstone assures us it will by 2015, the vociferous few will move on to find something else to whine about, as often they do.

David Mann, who is to enter into a civil partnership with his partner of 20 years later this year is equally apathetic about the latest diatribe from powerless church leaders, and care's less about the lack of support from the church, choosing instead to have their "nuptials" in a Mayfair hotel. He said: "I don't feel I need religious sign-off for my relationship from Cardinal Whoever. And I really don't think the Catholic Church, with all of its scandals, is any position to be lecturing."

If the fundamental essence of marriage is love, then most liberal thinkers fail to see how a change in the law would subvert negatively the institution which has been around long before we came to exist, and will still be around long after we've all gone. For most see marriage as the ultimate commitment between two people who love each other. So whether its between man and woman, or man and man, why should it concern any one else outside of that union? The icing on this particular wedding cake (so to speak) is that the change will bring the UK in line with progressive countries like Brazil, Canada and Argentina who've all adopted gay marriage legislation.

As for the church, I admire people like Richard Holloway, former Bishop of Edinburgh, who resigned his post after recognising that the elements of Christianity that appealed to him most are not those valued by the hierarchy in which he worked. His view of Jesus was of a man who challenged power, embracing the outsider, championing the poor, the lost and the doubters. According to Holloway, Jesus was a figure who put peoples needs and emotions before cast iron rules or institutions, which then is somewhat glaringly out of kilter in view of the Church's propensity for doctrinal purity. Holloway refuses to accept such rigidities when, to him, the principal function of the church is love, service and pastoral care.

At last, a church figure that not only questions the literal 'truth' of the Resurrection, but has since moved on to a private rebellion against the church's ban on the marriages of gays and divorcees. He carries out ceremonies for them in a direct response to people's desire to be united in the eyes of God, casting aside the Church's expectation of upholding "religion's Stone Age attitudes."

Like Holloway, I detest the moaning and moralising from "the congregations of the disciplines and the good", their unforgiving strictures on behaviour, and not just them but the hypocritical rest of them who don't even attend church regularly, yet deign to take the moral high ground from their sitting rooms against any progressive alterations from which equality is brought about. Why can't these people simply look upon it as a mere updating of a tradition rather than the desecration of an institution? If the church should provide consolation, hope and support to those who require it, why impose harsh demands on them?

Like a work of art, religion, according to Holloway, should have no more authority over us then Elgar or Shakespeare, and I tend to agree. And while he's astonished by the hatred, bullying and cruelty directed at outsider groups and feels the Church is "profoundly sick", he does not think it should be abandoned "any more than we ought to abandon the other great flawed cruel epics of the human imagination." His plea is merely that we shouldn't listen to it's madder voices, among which Cardinal O'Briens is one of the loudest.

The value in religion for Holloway lies not in its hectoring inclinations, but in its capacity to teach us tenderness and love, to evoke what he calls "the miracle of pity". Of course this is a humane vision of what most would like religion to be, but it will take more than gay people's rallying or Holloway's entreaties to make the church willingly surrender much of its authority and, more importantly, power. And that is shameful.

“Religion is an illusion and it derives its strength from the fact it falls in with our instinctual desires.” Freud

The wide-eyed black woman, dressed in her Sunday best of twin set and pearls, gripped mercilessly onto the handle bars of the bus as though she was clutching on for life over a trap door into the fiery flames of hell.

The sharp bends the driver took failed to deter her from barking out passages from the bible to a small and mostly apathetic yet no less incredulous bunch of bemused passengers; mainly pensioners and teens. I was compelled by her sudden and frightening imperiousness which betrayed her very ordinariness and warm facial expressions. She may as well have been invisible though for the lack of heed that was being paid, and my pity rested with her young daughter who sat there quietly looking up at the pathetic figure shouting as if possessed.

This incident reminds me of another, a few years prior, when on a train heading back from Kew, a middle-aged man standing in the aisle started what can only be described as apocalyptic messianic raving – you know the sort – to such a creepy extent that it reduced a young child in the seat beside us to tears. I was incensed enough to gather the whole carriage into a jubilant sing-song of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer (it was Christmas after all) to drown out his anger-filled sermon. It worked a treat, and only made me wonder why born-again people make you wish they'd never been born at all.

This is the aspect of religion which is anathema to me; certain fanatics insistence on ramming it down our throats rather than retaining their beliefs as a personal and private matter. Common sense would tell you the former is the wrong method in which to extol any benefit of religion. That is, of course, if there is. Atheist and philosopher Alain De Botton seems to think so. In his new book 'Religion for Atheists', he believes in the need for religion's host of “consoling, subtle or just charming rituals” to restore a sense of community in a fractured society. Although ultimately a “convenient fiction”, he says religion “teaches us to be polite, to honour one another, to be faithful and sober.” It's essential, he suggests, for promoting morality and instructing us in the “charms of community.”

But for all the many optimistic arguments put forward to justify individual belief systems, there is also, just as pervasive, many a dissenting voice. I think in anyone's life comes a time when one starts to think deeper about the bigger questions, particularly in light of world events. And when those feeble explanations given to us in our formative years just don't add up, its inevitable to look beyond scripture and medieval texts, and open our minds. Sometimes though, those fanciful and farfetched religious tales, and the people who insist on promoting them, leave a bitter aftertaste. An aggressive atheism is often the subsequence.

These are hard times for those who question mainstream religion. We live in a world inflamed by the Godly; from rabble-rousing Christian fundamentalists to Muslim extremists. Scepticism, which was endemic back in the 60s and 70s has been replaced with the modern day God Squad and while the problem rests mainly in America and the Middle East , its effects resonate globally. With this new advent of fundamentalism in the post 9/11 era, its only the brave or foolhardy who risks its wrath.

In his book 'Breaking the Spell: Religion as a Natural Phenomenon' writer and intellectual non-believer Daniel Dennett admits: “By asking for an accounting of the pros and cons of religion, I risk getting poked in the nose or worse. Yet I persist. Why? Because I believe it is very important to look carefully at the question: are people right that the best way to live a good life is through religion.” Both him, and Lewis Wolpert in his book 'Six Impossible Things: The Evolutionary Origins of Belief' don't hold back in being outspoken about the subject and not so much float carefully in these troubled waters but lunge head first into what amounts to a polluted bog of piety. Both look at religion as if it were an unwanted growth. “I know of no good evidence for the existence of God” writes Wolpert, a developmental biologist. "I am an atheist reductionist materialist."

Nonetheless, Wolpert and Dennett provide new insights into understanding belief in God by looking at it from an evolutionary perspective. For Wolpert, religion is a by-product of the mental changes our species experienced as we evolved from grunting apemen to reasoning Homo sapiens. In short, it has much to do with our urge to make casual connections, find easy answers and seek explanations for bewildering occurrences. “An inability to find causes for important events and situations lead to mental discomfort, even anxiety, so there is a strong tendency to make up a casual story” he says. “Ignorance about important cause is intolerable. Our ancestors needed to account for events rapidly even when they had little knowledge.”

Emerging from this 'urge' came the creation of deities, which fill in the gaps in our knowledge. Thus, God wasn't just invoked just to explain thunderstorms or shooting stars to a species that was evolving a deep need to understand the natural world but also to explain our very existence and further, the creation of the universe. Belief could be seen as a form of mental protection against the intolerable reality of not knowing; the absence of fact. And there is, and always will be, a vast spectrum of unanswerable questions.

So why did religious ideas stick and persist, in the face of more convincing explanations? Dennett put it down to the idea of memes; first outlined by Richard Dawkins 30 years ago. Memes are persistent convincing ideas (think mental viruses) that have evolved and passed from one individual to another, from one generation to the next. “It is not surprising religion survives” says Dennett. “It has been pruned and revised and edited for thousands of years, with millions of variants extinguished in the process.”

Surely though there has to be more to religion that mere evolutionary opportunism. After all, it clearly does not change to keep up with the times. Let's look at the Bible; a book of fables? A morality instruction guide? Or a lifestyle guide for surviving the vicissitudes of the Levant thousands of years ago. It condones slavery (Leviticus), exonerates murder for not observing the Sabbath (Exodus); and reviles those with eye defects. Leviticus is not a book for the faint hearted. Nevertheless, hundreds of millions of decent, law abiding people claim every word is true.

Is it any wonder Richard Dawkins claimed the God of the Old Testament is arguably the most unpleasant character in all fiction. Thank 'God' then for people like him, and the late Christopher Hitchens, both of whom spent a career packing a wallop against the God-obsessed. It's turned the tables at long last after years of us having to endure the hysterical tooting by the rigidly religious self-righteous (or the Unco Guid as Robert Burns called them.)

It seems de rigour of late to seek alternative explanations other than Jesus and the big man in the clouds, and this bourgeoning thirst for more clues can only be a good thing. Though it's unlikely things will change. The believers will continue to believe, and the doubters will continue to doubt. I guess us sceptics can live with that. No doubt though, I and the great majority of other heretics, will still be subject to the vociferous few who insist on proselytising. Whether on buses, or trains, or on the local high street, where only last Saturday my ear drum was almost shot by mic-wielding teenagers screaming about “going to hell” and cursing us to eternal damnation for our 'sins', in a fashion akin to a more socially acceptable Tourettes syndrome. I'm reminded of a quote by Philip Roth who described these types as “hideous”, before adding “I'm exactly the opposite of religious. I'm anti-religious. I find religious people hideous. I hate religious lies. It's all a big lie. It's not a neurotic thing, but (it is) the miserable record of religion. I don't even want to talk about it, it's not interesting to talk about the sheep referred to as believers. When I write, I'm alone. It's filled with fear and loneliness and anxiety - and I never needed religion to save me.”

Roth's view, like many others, laments the diminished role played by reasoned debate. As we know, when logic and reason are withdrawn from the public sphere, a vacuum is created into which ideology and extremism rush in. To me, Satan is a metaphor for that dark force that is within all of us. We are all capable of employing such tactics to recruit others into the army of darkness which operates within that satanic framework. By this I mean the the misuse of power, the domineering, the brain-washing, the promotion of bigotry, injustice, discrimination, subjugation, inequality and the restricting of human rights, and at worst, violence and war, all in the name of, and justified by, religion. The force takes no responsibility for the suffering it causes.

If people can resist that dark pull, then people can take from, and be consoled by, the best bits of religion so to speak; the rituals, the art, the meditative qualities, the architecture, the community aspect, and leave the rest to those who wish to worship an actual God and become fixated on the small print. This takes us back to De Botton's argument: “Can we take things from religion in order to remake society and fill in the gaps that are missing” he asks hopefully, while convincing us that religion provides a message of love and cohabitation while acting as a utility to deal with fracture in societies and all the problems which beset us; whether it be death, pain, loneliness and fear. In short, its saving grace is to act as a good host of a party; getting everyone together in a room, engendering a community spirit and allowing everyone's sociability the chance to flourish. He concludes: “Religion makes us work out our minds in a way in which otherwise would atrophy. It puts us into a cosmic perspective, under the stars, and allows us to see we are a tiny thing in a much bigger picture, where our worries are very small, and insignificant, compared to the universe; a cosmos that's been around a long time, and will continue to be long after we're gone.”

And lets not forget death. Believing in a higher spiritual realm is reassuring. It satisfies a desire to be reassured that if you have a religious life, you’ll get to that great oasis in the sky. Which is surely better than the unknown, and the uncertainty that just perhaps when you die, you die, and life will have been just, well, a great joke. People embrace religion because its less depressing than it would be if it were all a conspiracy which has merely snowballed. That is the sad conclusion.

I'd then thought most people's ability to hold a grudge (mine included) couldn't be surpassed by that of the most formidable of monarchs who seemingly set the standard. I’d learnt this bit of trivia on an open top bus tour around Bath. We’d stayed over for the night en route to South Wales to pick up a tuxedo AF had made in India and generously brought ‘home’ by a friend who lives in Swansea. So, with the chance of getting out of London for the weekend, with someone other than myself driving, and especially with the promise of hot thermal pools - my bag was packed immediately.

The city of Bath's main attraction has long been its famous hot spa water, fed by the area's hot springs. These natural geothermal springs were fed into the original Roman Baths complex, responsible for the prominence of Bath in the Roman period. However, the old municipal hot pools were closed in 1978 after the discovery of an infectious organism in one stratum of the aquifer. And that was that. Bathing was thus prohibited until the opening in 1996 of the Thermae Spa, where we spent 2 wonderful hours on Friday night. Nick Grimshaw’s bold reinvention of the spas with its edificial glass shell is quite startling and somewhat incongruous in a town known for its old world gentility and Georgian elegance. However controversial it was at the time, this new architecture, according to reports I scoured online, has been a success in these parts with some claiming to be a “thrilling rebuke to municipal introspection and complacency”.

It was busy when we arrived, but not so crowded as to cause a nuisance. Samuel Pepys, who was carried to the hot springs by struggling chairmen, said: “Methinks it cannot be clean to go so many bodies together in the same water.” I opined that such a reluctance to bathe with others could easily be applied to the spas of Budapest with their crumbling decadence and filthy facilities- there it was akin to marinating in a large smoothie of peasant excretions, but here it was immaculate - a floating tampon notwithstanding.

By 9pm it was almost deserted and from the rooftop pool we had uninterrupted views of the sun descending the city’s verdant hills, church steeples and Georgian crescents. Our skin still porous with minerals, we departed the aquatic bliss and ate at a local Thai, followed by drinks beside the Avon as the effervescent waters came gushing from beneath Pulteney Bridge.

Expecting another Cheltenham; bland, provincial – I was impressed with Bath's old world charm and rural pulchritude . Even Jane Austen, whose Northanger Abbey and Persuasion were set in Bath, felt it was living on its past. And that was 1816! But I kind of enjoyed the antwackie vibe, despite certain quarters proclaiming it to be merely a ‘pastiche of classicism’.

Indeed it was a weekend of surprises. Having had my impressions of South Wales tarnished forever by my year in exile (otherwise known as my first year at Glamorgan University) with the parochial lugubriosity of Treforest and Pontypridd nestled amidst the gloomy Welsh Valleys, and the equally underwhelming nearby Cardiff – 15 years later I set upon this part of the world with new eyes, enjoying lunch on the sea front in Swansea Bay, and a walk up to the Mumbles Lighthouse. Just for the afternoon of course. Not wanting to stay long enough for the creeping disdain of yore to stir, we decide to make the most of the glorious June weather and head west.

Most British seaside towns are famous for decaying and depressing facades of decadent days gone by. I'd decided Tenby would be no different. But I was mistaken. Situated on the Pembrokeshire coast, Tenby has been its premiere resort since the 1700s and I was astonished by its charm. Surrounded by its fortified ring of walls, towers and gateways for which its famous (built by the Earl of Pembroke in the 13th Century) this classic Georgian town boasts a magnificent sea front and an immensely quaint harbour which one could easily mistake for one of Cornwall's more picturesque locations. Traversing the town, as we did after arriving at dusk, new vistas constantly come at you with a brilliant mix of architecture and beaches, two of which are, according to the Readers Digest, the best in Britain.

I’d also read that this once-peaceful Welsh resort is now the piss-up capital of Britain, having been named the world's second-best stag night location after Los Angeles by Maxim magazine. This was confirmed not only by our hotel’s free bar for an hour (yes, we couldn’t believe it either) but by the sight of the micro-mini clad ‘ladies’ (and their equally inebriated male counterparts) falling up the cobbled streets after dark as we walked back from a post-dinner amble around the harbour. It seems even the drunks couldn’t be rebuffed by the gateways of the towns fortification.

After a night sleeping to the soundscape of waves crashing on the cliff rocks below our hotel room, we left the Ayia Napa of Wales behind to explore the more isolated and rugged territory of the Pembrokeshire Coastal National Park. “Coo, this is lovely" we chorused, as we drove along the coast which, in the midday sun was just as arresting in its scope and beauty as somewhere like the Big Sur.

After a brief spell on Freshwater East beach (preparing for the filming of a Russell Crowe movie later that week), we drive on, all unexpected turnings and random diversions, before stumbling across Stackpole Quay - a tiny harbour used by local fishermen and small pleasure boats with a quaint tea room as its centerpiece (cream teas alert). From here we climbed the cliff path walk to Barafundle Bay and the jewel in its crown - Peachy Beach; with its crystal clear waters in between the limestone cliffs and backed by dunes and expansive woodlands. Places like this make you wonder why we pay thousands of pounds travelling across the world in search of natural beauty and 5 star luxury. Often the simplicity of what Britain can offer is just as appealing and surprisingly rewarding, as the view confirmed.

After the long drive home to London and with aching backs, we make time for late supper at The Spaniards in Hampstead. Hungry and exhausted, we tuck into stodgy pub grub and sup guinness while reflecting on the last 3 days. AF is delighted with the tux, despite the cheap looking buttons, and I'm enervated yet secretly satisfied Wales had finally redeemed itself after 15 years. Unlike Queen Victoria, perhaps I no longer need to pull down the blinds on that part of the world, or that period of my life, ever again.

I didn't notice the day light fade. It happened inconspicuously, leaving a swathe of meat pink sky over the Hollywood Hills. There's a buzz in town, for Oscar preparations are taking place behind the metal railings on the sidewalk. I write to stay awake; jet-lag slowly picking at me and my eyelids becoming heavier. Soon I'll sleep but first perhaps I'll take a drive up to Laurel and Tobago Canyon in my silver Pontiac. I'll cruise the anfractuous roads of the elite neighbourhoods up there, and on Mulholland drive I'll step out to absorb the calm dusky night of Suburban Hollywood contrasted with the frenetic sounds and lights of Los Angeles spread out in the valley below.

Freed from the systematic tedium of work for five weeks, I've come to LA with no real purpose or plan other to see where I end up. In my mind I'll drive east across states and desert, taking in the Grand Canyon enroute. I'll arrive in solitude there, like an early pioneer, and see the greatest natural wonder of all; two billion years of the earths history, seen through its red layered rock, remnants of oceans, swamps and giant desert dunes. It will be awe inspiring and liberating.

The iconography of America's West had always been a seductive proposition. As a child, I eschewed the past-time of pinning posters of anodyne singers on my wall, opting instead for masterly portraits of American landscapes; epic vistas of verdant prairies, lightning storms over bleak highways and arid deserts with straight endless roads like black masking tape disappearing into stormy horizons. Such photographs were enticing by their promise of freedom; of expanse, mystery and beauty. For a young sequestered teen growing up in the suburban north west, they awoke something far greater than that of the forced smile of some vapid pop star.

Through my teens I hungrily devoured a diet of books which mythologised the great American road trip by the likes of Kerouac and Hunter S Thompson. I'd watch films like Duel, Feris Bueller's Day Off and Thelma and Louise. For me, the American road came to life through those photographs on my wall, those movies and that evocative prose by the aforementioned writers. While friends see the road as monotonous and functional, a path in which to travel from one place to another, to me it has been appealing by its offer of possibility; the unexpected and the ever changing. The ultimate rites of passage; allegorical and spiritual.

**

I'm floating in a hot spa outdoors on a hill-side in San Luis Obispro, 192 miles north of Los Angeles. Night fell hours ago and now the lights from Highway 101 in the valley below are ablaze. The magenta and amaranth pink pool lights illuminates the ash which is falling from the sky due to the nearby raging forest fires. It's a magical scene.

A quarter of the way into the Californian road trip I've pulled into the The Madonna Inn for the night. Located on the Central Coast, it's reputation precedes it, and for good reason. Established by Alex Madonna in 1958, this old world inn is a wonderfully eccentric fantasy palace (once described as the hotel equivalent of Barbie and Fred Flintstone's love child) and a legendary local landmark. Every room inside is individually themed; garishly bold, kitsch, loud. Flamboyant is an understatement. They have names like Daisy Mae, Jungle Rock, Hearts and Flowers. I choose the Floral Fantasy for its evocation to childhood nights spent at my late grandmothers.

In LA I'd stayed at The Standard Hotel, on Sunset Strip; a white sixties modernist building and the epitome of insouciant LA cool. Perfect for a few nights to introduce you to this most famous of towns. A large waterless fish-tank housing a bikini-clad woman nonchalantly reading a book sits behind the reception desk overseeing the swish interior of the lobby. Yes, welcome to Hollywood.

You'll know the Beverly Wilshire hotel from the film Pretty Woman. Standing regally at the end of Rodeo Drive, and home for A-list glitterati in bygone decades; Warren Beatty, Judy Garland and Jack Nicholson to name but a few. Rumour had it that wondering off the street and up to the roof top terrace pool and bar wouldn't be a problem. And so the first day was spent on plumped up lemon sun-loungers where friendly wait staff buzzed around eager to provide complimentary strawberry lemonades and frozen grapes; a great jet-lag comforter.

**

The search for a motel marked the first night in Santa Barbara; a town resplendent with the Spanish Colonial Revival style of architecture giving rise to the thought one is in an affluent Spanish resort; all boutique shops, galleries and pricey restaurants. Like Sitges, but with more obesity. Perched on the stretch of coast often referred to as the American Riviera it's easy to see why it became the winter destination for the titans of post Civil War America. The Santa Ynez mountains rise dramatically behind the city marking a famously scenic backdrop to the town.

After a hearty lunch at Brophy Bros fish restaurant on the harbour, the road awaited and we headed north to Solvang, founded in 1911, and offering a taste of Denmark thanks to the Danes who settled there having escaped the harsh winters back home. The town is noted for its traditional Danish style; all mini windmills, quaint little shop fronts and even a replica of the famous Little Mermaid statue from Copenhagen. I discovered from an elderly gent in a local bakery that Highway 1 along the Big Sur coast is closed due to the forest fires. The highlight of the road trip was doomed. Could this be the end of the dream before I’d even begun?

**

Having left San Luis Obispo rejuvenated, if not a little startled by the Madonna Inn, the next stop was Hearst Castle near San Simeon, the palatial estate built by newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst high up on a hill overlooking the Pacific and now a state historical monument and national landmark. Formally named “La Cuesta Encantada”, the Enchanted Hill, or informally “the ranch”, it covers 90,000 square feet and was designed by architect Julia Morgan as a pastiche of the historic architectural styles Hearst admired in his travels around Europe as a youngster. Like a more flamboyant Rupert Murdoch in his day, Hearst was also the alleged inspiration behind classic movie Citizen Cane.

**

We did make Big Sur eventually, albeit after an inland detour through Salinas County and onto Carmel from where we ended up taking Highway 1 South as far as it would allow. Minimal development and mostly state parkland or national forest has ensured that this part of America remains one of the most beautiful and dramatic stretches of ocean coastline in the world. The Big Sur is specifically the Santa Lucia Mountain range and notable for its redwood forests, parks, hiking trails and desolate beaches. Point Sur lighthouse, built in 1889 and perched atop an impressive 361 ft high monolith in the ocean, assured me we'd arrived at the climax of our trip. And it was beautiful.

We pressed on going South travelling along thin straight roads, white knuckle blind corners, sweeping curves and cascading bends. And onwards across Bixby Creek Arch Bridge, one of the most photographed bridges in the world, past the Big Sur shops where we stopped and happened upon a local woman, a rancher who drove in a beat up pick-up truck with her dog, and bemoaned the terrible events of the last week, berating the local affluent denizens of the area for not doing enough given the state of emergency.

**

For a moment I thought I caught a glimpse of a California condor reaching lofty heights before disappearing into ocean mist but I think it was a trick of the light. The end of the dream was a road sign truncating our grand plans, like an ominous figure tempting us ever so slightly further to see what's around that next corner beyond yet spitefully denying with three short words: road ahead closed.

**

Yosemite marked the end of the trip and the penultimate chapter of a long held dream. 150 miles east of San Francisco, the park itself covers an area of 761,266 acres (1,189 square miles) reaching across the West of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Designated a world heritage site in 1984 and recognised for its spectacular granite cliffs, waterfalls, clear streams, giant sequoia groves and biological diversity, most tourists focus on the valley. Many opt for hiking trails, but we hired a raft and spent an afternoon floating languorously down the Merced River which runs through the valley, stopping along the way for swimming and sunbathing, the latter on a sandy beach near Sentinel Bridge with its terrific view of Half Dome.

Before leaving the valley I took a walk up to the rocks at Bridalveil Fall, which flows from a U-shaped hanging valley that was created by a tributary glacier. The Ahwahneechee tribe believed that the waterfall was home to an evil spirit, Pohono, which guarded the entry to the Valley and that those leaving must not look directly into waterfall lest they be cursed. They also believe inhaling the mist of the waterfall would improve ones chances of marriage.

**

Oh, and I did make it to the Grand Canyon in the end. We travelled there from Vegas. Vegas is perhaps best enjoyed from up high, if only to avoid pavement trolls flicking cards promoting bikini babes at you. 1,149 feet high is a good enough escape, at Stratosphere, the tallest observation tower in the US with not only breathtaking 360 degrees of Vegas, but decorated with a hair raising roller coaster ride on the top (I declined). For the more refined, The Mix atop THEhotel at Mandalay Bay is a rare find and ideal for evening cocktails. 64 stories high, this restaurant and lounge is the brainchild of Alain Ducasse and the neighbouring glitzy bar and outdoor patio with outstanding views of the strip and beyond is a must-see for any visitor.

Gone are the halcyon days of first class Vegas night-life entertainment. The Rat Pack, Elvis and the like have long since made way for chart-dodging has-beens (Matt Goss), tribute acts and marquee style cabaret. Since Bette Midler had ended her run, and Cher was yet to begin her umpteenth farewell tour, we saved our money.

Vegas is the kind of place where one must subsume their idea of what civilisation really is. The place is the king of illusions, in a fake reality where artifice is paramount. Suffice to say, one quickly tires of it. Hence, 3 days is enough. And here must live the most illiterate of America because to find a newspaper or magazine was akin to finding Bin Laden among the slot machines. The town's disdain for the printed word resulted in a laborious trek to the Barnes and Noble store on the edge of town near the airport. Hasn't anyone spotted the gap in the market?

**

As for the Canyon, there's a sort of incredulity that arises when one is confronted with a wonder of the world. More so when it's not within the frame of reference one ordinarily associates it with ie. Red rock and blue sky. On this occasion, snow, and lots of it! Metallic clouds dumped the white stuff on us until we felt we were on a foggy Yorkshire Moor. And coming after a 5 hour drive, it seemed terribly spiteful of the cosmos. Eventually though the cloud lifted and parted to reveal an unbelievable awesome sight which will be ingrained on my mind forever.

**

People take to the road for numerous reasons; to escape, discover, to find the truth, or just to find themselves. Whether that particular road is travelled in hopeful anticipation or melancholy, ambivalence or joy, many have taken the trip before us and many will do so long after we’re gone. We collect our memories along the way, and they’ll occasionally flash before us as we journey to the end of our very own road. A travel writer once summed it up as thus: “The road is both a fact and an allegory of liberation, and you feel both as you move over it.” As I travelled that journey, I felt it. Those wall photographs become a reality. I stepped into those celluloid scenes, and felt the wind from thousands of years of history. The dream was lived. Normal life back home beckoned. But I knew my own life was a little richer for the experience.

"Hmmmm", she began. Which was most disconcerting, followed by: "It's a bit near the knuckle isn't it." I assumed by this she meant it was too close to the truth. She had a point of course, but I responded by quoting Phillip Roth, as you do, who claimed that "the actuality" is more interesting than fiction. Fifty years ago he made a statement about living in an age in which the imagination of the novelist lies dormant before what he knows he will read in tomorrow's newspapers. He felt real life is "continually outdoing our talents (as writers)" and this infuriating development is "even a kind of embarrassment to ones own meagre imagination."

This perspective back then was rather prescient since fifty years later you only have to watch the news to realise. The main headline today for instance being the trial of Josef Fritzl who kept his daughter locked in a cellar dungeon for 24 years; raped and abused her, and fathered seven of his own grand-children with her. Then it was on to another cheery tale about  an everyday middle-aged couple in suburbia that fostered a young male teenager. The boy went on to rape and abuse the couples other young children. The final news story I should mention to justify the point has been the inevitable canonisation of Jade Goody as she deteriorates daily with cancer.

Emerging into the public consciousness from the council estates of Bermondsey thanks to the popular cultural power of reality TV (Big Brother), she became famous for, well, being thick. Reality TV has a habit of glorifying the stupid to lamentable proportions. However, her care-free lack of self-consciousness ingratiated her to the public and later she showed a shrewd business acumen which saw her build a multi-million pound empire around this comical, yet flawed, figure. Then we were privy to her spectacular fall from grace as the hysterical puritans of the Great British public deemed her to be a 'racist' bully whilst back on the aforementioned 'celebrity' version of the show. Oh, the irony.

Time, contrition, and now cancer has redeemed her, ensuring her legacy as an icon of the vacuous D-rated celebrity set, and she'll die, at 27, a Warholian-reality TV superstar and dare I say, icon. You couldn't make this stuff up. When Roth said that the culture continually creates characters which are the envy of any novelist, Goody is a prime example. But I also can't help but think of my actress friend whose life plays out often in a way which would make Eastenders seem like one of the more banal instalments of The Archers.

In a recent interview to promote her latest autobiographical novel, Diana Athill makes no apologies for only wanting to write memoir. She said: "I have never been moved to write about anything but my own experience (a narrowness I regret but am unable to remedy), and including the very personal is simply necessary."  It is a narrowness I too seem only capable of.
Writing, after all, is truth-telling. So when explaining to MB why the play may seem too close to home for comfort, I told her all this and concluded by informing her of something John Berger once said, that was: "Imagination is not, as is sometimes thought, the ability to invent; it is the ability to disclose that which exists." She seemed satisfied with my perhaps lame excuses and decided she'd like the part.

]]> http://www.robertince.com/journal/three-minutes-slow/feed/ 0 http://www.robertince.com/journal/london/ http://www.robertince.com/journal/london/#comments Sun, 15 Mar 2009 17:20:15 +0000 robert http://www.robertince.com/?p=489 According to Baudelaire, in the city, as in the desert, there is something which fortifies and fashions the heart of man, that is when it does not deprave or enfeeble him. Never has an adage been so pertinent as when applied to the city I live; London, or as Daniel Defoe put it, this great and monstrous thing.

Nearly ten years ago I was commissioned to write a piece about this great and monstrous thing for a magazine. In my heart I wanted to write a love letter to the city. But to write honestly at that time, it turned out to be a flawed admission of affection to the capital rather than buoyant proclamation of endless devotion. As although the place creates resounding emotions and allures people with its amorous charms, it can just as easily break your heart.

The truth is, London is no push-over. It can swallow you whole as much as it can provide the time of your life. It's a place of extreme paradoxes. Where some can feel enlivened by the chaos and pace, it can also leave others debilitated. It makes those who venture here grow up fast and imbues them with a sharp survival instinct.

Living here has been the most tumultuous yet satisfying journeys I've taken; life-affirming, inspiring and momentous. I've accomplished goals, realised dreams, and used it as a gateway to travel far and wide. I've tasted pleasure which had hitherto been mere fantasy. I've met incredible people who I simply wouldn't have had opportunity to come across had I remained in the provincial north. Strong friendships have been formed, and significant relationships played out to an ever changing soundtrack. Some friendships have been haemorrhaged along the way, as have many more loves. The streets and their landmarks have become a montage of my loss and desire, yet I'm happy to remain. From these life experiences has brought a greater clarity and understanding of the human condition and has developed the resilience necessary to confront the face of adversity.

On arrival in this behometh of a city I was immediately absorbed into this incredulous way of living; restlessness in the pursuit of adventure, success and social interaction. One's life brims with possibility. Living in Sydney for a year was my rehearsal for London; a city which now holds 8 million inhabitants. Compare that with Sydney's 4 million or Liverpool's paltry 500,000 and the contrast becomes abundantly clear. The place which has given me as many knocks as it has provided opportunities is as suffocating as it is liberating, and it is here I've learnt to be self-sufficient and self-reliant. And it is this city that I've come to call home. It's made a man of me. London is a metaphor for life. Hesitate and get left behind. Pause for thought and you'll find people miles ahead of you; happy, and probably laughing at you. Or rather, ignoring you.

One moment you can abhor the very shabby ground you walk on, and the next you don't want to be anywhere else; such are the extremes of vacillation that the capital can stir. It's the so-called centre of the world. And if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.

And so, 6 years after moving here with wide eyed optimism and a bag of youthful dreams, I'm sitting in Waterlow park just east of Hampstead and on the border of Highgate cemetery, on this wonderful Spring day with AF; looking at the iconic landmarks of the City through a clearing in the trees. Families of cranes rise into the vaulted sky along the cityscape; the symbols of architectural progress and vitality standing exalted beside the concrete stalwarts of the City. He's oblivious to the detritus of my head-cold streaming ignominiously from my eyes and out my nose. My company seems to be appealing regardless. That's the great thing about London. You just can't foresee what, where, or indeed who is around the next corner.