13th February 2013

Sue and I marked the first day of the shortest month with an afternoon visit to Charlotte and Suraj. Coffee in hand, we settled in for a lively discussion on the one topic that seems to dominate the family Messenger thread these days, decorating. For a good couple of hours, we were deep in debate over colour charts and the perils of mismatched furnishings, before Charlotte had to dash off to collect the boys from school in Corby, signalling it was time for us to head home too.

A few days later, with Archie just over a week old, we made another trip, this time to Newbold Verdon, to visit the newest (and currently sleepiest) member of the clan. He’s feeding well and, true to form, spending most of his time either snoozing or stretching. Meanwhile, Alice appears to have come to terms with the fact that babies aren’t especially entertaining. With the initial novelty wearing off, she’s returned her focus to more important things, like running grandparents ragged.

As the weather was unusually pleasant for February, we ventured out for a walk and made our way to the Windmill for a relaxed family lunch. Suitably full and mildly reluctant to move, we wandered back for a final round of coffee before heading home to Harborough.

On the Sunday that followed, Archie and his entourage were treated to a visit from Jamie and Ruth, another notch on the growing list of admirers for the newest member of the clan.

Later in the week, however, the poor lad developed a couple of infected fingers (as babies somehow do) and was promptly prescribed his very first course of antibiotics, a rite of passage, albeit a rather uncomfortable one.

Midweek brought a welcome distraction as I joined Sean and Jim on a lunchtime stroll to the Red Lion in Great Bowden, drawn in by the irresistible lure of their £5 lunch offer on Wednesdays and Thursdays. The only dish available was spaghetti and meatballs, hearty, generous, and made all the better with a couple of ‘refreshments’ to wash it down. Sadly, the walk back proved less agreeable. My ankle, long-suffering and increasingly petulant, made its displeasure known. Sue was also out that day, rambling and lunching elsewhere, so I limped straight to bed, treating the aching joint to a generous helping of Ibuprofen. With a trip to the Grand Canyon and Hawaii looming, the signs were hardly encouraging. Clearly, someone at the NHS has a sixth sense, as I received a text that very afternoon inviting me to book an appointment with a specialist to discuss foot surgery. I’ve scheduled it for the week after our return from the US, timed neatly before I’m off camel trekking with the lads in Morocco. No rest for the wicked, or the moderately broken.

On an icy cold 7th of February, Charlotte invited us round for dinner. She and Suraj had recently attended a school parents’ evening for Ellis and Lucas, both of whom were reported to be doing exceptionally well, so the evening doubled as a small celebration. Several delicious curry dishes were served, rounded off with a splendid sticky toffee pudding. As ever, it was all closely monitored by the family greyhound, whose finely tuned senses allowed him to position himself directly beneath any potential source of droppage.

Come Friday morning, at the thoroughly unsociable hour of 9 a.m., Sue and I hit the road for Heathrow to catch our 4 p.m. British Airways flight to Las Vegas. Despite a few pre-flight jitters, everything went surprisingly smoothly. We navigated the Meet and Greet at Terminal 5 with barely a hiccup and breezed through to Departures. I hadn’t been able to check Sue in online the night before, which had me slightly on edge, but it turned out to be no trouble at all. Passports were all they needed, and with boarding passes in hand and suitcases dispatched, we were soon through security.

With four hours to spare, we resorted to the usual departure lounge rituals: lunch via a WH Smith meal deal (an exotic start to our American adventure), a crossword to keep Sue sharp, and a much-needed nap for me, recovery from the previous night’s poor sleep and a bit of early jet lag rehearsal, all rolled into one.

Our flight eventually left an hour late, not entirely surprising given that we were coached to the aircraft, seemingly parked somewhere in the general vicinity of Gatwick, despite still being officially at Heathrow. It was, without a doubt, the furthest corner of the airport from our departure gate. Still, after several meals and a few in-flight movies, we landed late in Las Vegas.

Unfortunately, our arrival was not without its complications. First came the passport control kiosks, where a fellow passenger in front of us struggled heroically but fruitlessly to have her fingerprint scanned. After several failed attempts and much sweating (hers and ours), Sue and I wisely opted to change queues. Our new kiosk, however, proved no more cooperative. Sue’s prints, now decidedly clammy, refused to register. After several more attempts, a handful of coat-wipes, and the firm hand of a patient but determined officer guiding hers onto the scanner, the machine finally recognised her arches, loops, and whorls. Just as we were about to move on, the queue behind us was halted again, this time by a woman who collapsed, causing a minor scene and a major delay.

Once through security, we made our way to baggage reclaim. My case emerged quickly, raising hopes for a similarly swift reunion with Sue’s. It was not to be. Despite having entered the system at Heathrow side-by-side, her case took a further 20 minutes to appear, as if wanting to remind us who was really in charge.

Of course, the hotel transfer desk couldn’t be any more inconvenient. After a long hike to what turned out to be the furthest point in the terminal, we arrived to find it closed, with a helpful note instructing us to ring the number displayed in the window. Another bewildered couple were already waiting and equally clueless. I called the number and was answered by a gentleman who sounded as if he might be enjoying the Las Vegas nightlife a little too thoroughly. He informed me the transfer service from Terminal 3 had finished for the night and suggested we make our way to Terminal 1. Tired, cold, and thoroughly fed up, I made it abundantly clear this was not a feasible option. Thankfully, ten minutes later, a minibus arrived and rescued us, along with our fellow strandees, depositing us at the Luxor Hotel shortly after 9 p.m.

Check-in was busy and slow, but we were just relieved to finally reach our room without further incident. However, no rest for the wicked, our Grand Canyon tour was due to depart at 6:45 a.m. the next morning from the hotel’s bus plaza. Luxor is less a hotel and more a sprawling labyrinth of casinos, cinemas, shops, restaurants, and various other distractions. At 10 p.m., armed with an email of vague instructions, we left the room to locate our departure point, determined to avoid any morning confusion. With help from a few obliging staff along the way, we found the plaza and stopped to pick up some supplies from a nearby mall for the next day’s outing.

The following morning dawned bitterly cold. We made it to the bus on time, only for the departure to be delayed by a young couple who couldn’t find the plaza, an understandable difficulty, perhaps, but one that repeated itself at every stop throughout the day. Whether due to poor timekeeping or an inflated sense of entitlement, their tardiness and constant vaping grew tiresome for the 51 other passengers.

Thankfully, the trip itself more than made up for the hiccups. Our guide was a British expat from London now settled in Las Vegas. He was impressively well-versed in the region’s history and geography, peppering his commentary with personal anecdotes and dry humour. We passed through Dolan Springs and the otherworldly Joshua Tree forest before stopping briefly for coffee and a chance to investigate the breakfast boxes handed out by the tour company, not haute cuisine, but perfectly serviceable under the circumstances.

The arid landscape we travelled through on our way to the canyon reminded me of our earlier journey through Israel’s Negev Desert, though here, snow-capped mountains in the distance offered a striking contrast to the dry, sun-bleached earth. We reached Eagle Point, located on the west rim of the Grand Canyon, at around 10:30 a.m., disembarking into a surprisingly chilly breeze. A few in our group appeared to have been expecting beach weather and looked distinctly underdressed.

Most of the group had signed up for the Skywalk experience, a circular glass-floored platform that juts out over the canyon rim. We opted out. For one, personal photography was forbidden. Visitors were required to stow phones and cameras in lockers before joining the slow-moving crocodile line for their allotted ten-minute shuffle around the platform. While you could purchase photos taken by their in-house photographers, we’ve done similar skywalks in other equally dramatic locations around the world, and found that without your own photos, the memory somehow doesn’t quite stick the same way. Instead, we stationed ourselves at the adjacent viewing platforms, camera in hand. Same view, $72 richer.

After snapping our fill of canyon panoramas, we took a short walk to the nearby Hopi village exhibit. We wandered through the tipis, paused to read the interpretive signs, and took yet more photos before making our way back to the rim for a few final shots. A quick detour to the souvenir shop concluded our time at Eagle Point, and we reboarded the coach.

A short drive later, we arrived at Guano Point, the site of a long-abandoned guano mine and, by far, the best vantage point of the day. This is where Sue and I decided to break for lunch, tucking into the sandwiches and snacks we’d picked up the previous evening at the Luxor Mall. As we ate, we attracted the attention of a large, assertive, crow-like bird who had no qualms about begging for leftovers. We shared a few scraps, more out of respect for his persistence than anything else, then set off down the trail to the old mine structure.

The views here were nothing short of jaw-dropping. As we made our way along the trail, the Colorado River revealed itself far below, carving its way through the landscape a mile beneath our feet. We stopped frequently for photos, each more spectacular than the last, before finally returning to the coach, thoroughly windblown, lightly sun-kissed, and very glad we’d made the journey.

At the very tip of the promontory, I spotted a small rocky hillock which, I guessed, would offer an even better vantage point over the canyon. Leaving Sue at the base, I picked my way up its uneven, jagged slopes. The short climb was worth every step. From the top, I was treated to an expansive view of the abandoned guano mine and the vast chasm carved by the Colorado River, its brown waters winding far below.

By now, the afternoon had turned gloriously sunny, though the breeze persisted, lending the air a sharp clarity. Unlike at Eagle Point earlier in the day, the sky here was crystal clear, ideal conditions for photography. I took my time soaking in the scale and silence of the landscape, capturing what I could with the camera but knowing full well that no picture would quite convey the grandeur of what lay before me.

Returning to the coach, we began our journey back to Las Vegas. After a brief coffee stop to revive ourselves, we made one final detour, this time to the Hoover Dam. Our visit here was fleeting, just twenty minutes, enough to snap a few photos but not nearly enough for a proper tour of the dam itself, which wasn’t included in our itinerary anyway. By now, most of us were tired and ready for the comforts of our hotel rooms.

Our driver, ever the raconteur, took the opportunity to bust one of the enduring urban legends about the dam: that mobsters from Vegas used to dispose of bodies by entombing them in its massive concrete pours. In fact, he explained, each section of concrete was thoroughly tested and x-rayed to ensure its structural integrity; nothing but cement was ever found inside. However, he added with a grim twist, the water level of the reservoir created by the dam has been dropping steadily since the 1930s. In recent years, oil drums containing bodies, many with gunshot wounds to the skull, have begun to surface. So perhaps the mob didn’t bury their victims in concrete after all. They simply dumped them in the lake. Even more sobering, we learned that within three years, the water level may fall so low that the Colorado River will no longer be able to power the dam’s turbines.

On our return and worn out by the day’s adventures, we opted for a low-key dinner from one of the fast-food outlets inside the Luxor’s pyramid, then turned in for an early night.

The following morning afforded us a gentler start. We began with coffee at one of the hotel restaurants, though not without some grumbling. Why is it, we both asked, that American hotels rarely provide tea- or coffee-making facilities in their rooms? A minor grievance perhaps, but still a baffling omission.

Our first proper outing of the day was to the food court once again for our wake-up drinks. Caffeinated and composed, we headed to the hotel’s Bell Station to confirm our airport transfer time for the following day. That sorted, we ventured outside to tackle the Strip on foot, determined to take in the sensory overload that is Las Vegas.

Like many American cities, Las Vegas isn’t particularly kind to pedestrians. Navigating the Strip on foot meant weaving through congested sidewalks, underpasses, escalators, malls, footbridges, and enduring long waits at every crossing. Step across a street when the countdown hand flashes red, and you’re met with an instant honk from an indignant driver. What might take a car just over a mile to travel can easily double in distance and effort for those on foot.

Ever the optimist, Sue suggested that perhaps one day the authorities might pedestrianise the Boulevard. I smiled politely. And thought, yes, and perhaps pigs will fly.

We ducked into most of the hotels and casinos along the Strip to see how they measured up to the Luxor. Disappointingly, the vast majority shared the same layout: endless rows of slot machines and gaming tables, all engineered to extract cash from punters as quickly and loudly as possible. Glitz, noise, and brashness seemed to be the house style everywhere. The sole exception was Caesars Palace, which, perhaps owing to its age, retained a certain air of sophistication absent from its newer, brasher neighbours.

Our wander ended opposite the Trump Hotel, suitably flanked by a Señor Frog’s, an odd juxtaposition, though somehow entirely fitting in this city of excess.

On our way back to the Luxor, we paused for lunch at a small restaurant and indulged in the obligatory burger. It was, predictably, enormous, tasty, certainly, though one suspects it did little for our cholesterol levels. Still, when in Vegas…

To spare our now-aching feet, we made use of the overhead tram that runs from the Excelsior Hotel to the Mandalay Bay. It was fast, free, and a great relief to our soles and souls.

After a couple of restful hours in our room to recharge, we ventured out again, this time heading south down the Strip. There was, truthfully, little of interest in that direction beyond the opportunity to watch a few aircraft descend into the airport. Not quite the entertainment Vegas promises.

We’d hoped to cap the day with a show at one of the hotels, something spectacular or perhaps a little bit absurd. Unfortunately, our timing couldn’t have been worse. It was Super Bowl Sunday, with the Eagles playing the Chiefs, and the usual Vegas fanfare had given way to football mania. There were no shows running, save for the odd striptease, which we decided to politely decline.

We caught the start of the game on one of the many televisions lining the Strip, only to spot Adele and Rod Stewart among the crowd at the stadium. Naturally. Still, we couldn’t help but feel it was their loss. They missed a golden opportunity to entertain us.

Returning to the Luxor, we revived ourselves with another round of coffee before setting out once more, retracing our morning route, this time in the growing darkness, as the city lit up around us. Vegas was coming into its own. This, truly, is how it should be seen: glowing, buzzing, pulsing with energy. Magic and noise in equal measure.

Word spread quickly that the Eagles had clinched the Super Bowl in the final eight seconds. As jubilant fans poured out of the bars and into the streets, the volume and vibrancy of the city surged. In retrospect, perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing that we’d found ourselves in Vegas on Super Bowl weekend after all.

Our evening meal was back at the Luxor, comfortably close, reliably filling, and we retired to bed just after 10 p.m. Another early start awaited us in the morning.