Crossing back into the USA by coach didn't turn out to be as complicated as I had been expecting considering the hassles I had crossing into Canada a couple of weeks ago on the west coast. From my seat near the front of the coach, it seemed that the entire process of crossing the border back into the United States consisted of the following conversation between our coach driver and a US customs official:

Driver: Good Evening, Officer.

Customs: Good Evening, Sir. Have your passengers been with you for the whole trip?

Driver: Yes.

Customs: Will you be picking anyone new up while in the USA?

Driver: No.

Customs: Okay, that'll be fine, then. Have a nice day.

Not the most secure conversation I've ever heard, but certainly quick and efficient. None of us had to leave the coach, and not a single passport was inspected. Now that's what I call service. Or stupidity. I get those two confused.

To be honest, today has just been the first half of a long southern drive from Quebec to Massachusetts, and was broken up into slightly more manageable chunks with stops every now and again to take photos or view the stunning scenery of New England - not, of course, that this is a bad thing. To start with, we parked the coach way up in the mountains at the bottom of a four thousand foot peak called Cannon Mountain and were just staring up at it in wonder when the guide casually slipped into the conversation the fact that we were about to ascend it in a cable car. At this point, several people who suffered from vertigo fell over, although luckily we weren't quite close enough to the edge of the cliff to have had to have to rescue them. Of course, this area of the United States isn't exactly in what you would call the sun belt, so we were pretty much shivering our nuts off standing at the bottom of the mountain without going all the way to the top where it would be several trillion degrees below zero and the idea of having any air to breath would be something of a novelty - but we resigned ourselves to our fate.

Getting on the cable car, I was amused to see that a stern sign had been erected to the effect that it wasn't permitted to ride up Cannon mountain without wearing a shirt. I couldn't help thinking that anybody who tries to ascend to the top of a four thousand foot mountain at sub zero temperatures without a shirt is probably ever so slightly mad and the sort of person you should keep away from anyway, just in case they suddenly come at you with an axe - but I let it go. Instead, I wrapped both of my arms around myself for warmth in a way which made me look ever so slightly strange and rode the cable car to the top looking as though I was a very lonely person attempting to hug myself to death.

It was possible, at the top, to follow a twisty-turny mountain path which took twenty minutes to lead visitors to a point from which they could view an overhanging rock which local folklore insists resembles the face of an old man - and in a moment of insanity, I decided that this was the thing to do. In all honesty, and after looking at it from several angles, squinting and doing everything possible other than standing on my head, I came to the conclusion that what the overhanging rock actually looked like was, well, an overhanging rock - but at least I'd had a bracing twenty minute walk along dodgy mountain pathways and frozen my nuts off to find this out. The next time anybody suggests that I might want to walk a couple of miles in dangerous conditions with them to look at a rock, remind me to laugh for a couple of minutes and then go and get a cup of tea while I wait for them to get back.

The view from the top of Cannon Mountain, to be fair, was nothing short of spectacular - and somebody had even thought to build a full service restaurant up there from which we could eat our breakfast while looking out over New England. Cannon Mountain is actually a popular destination for skiers - you know, those people who take great amounts of pleasure in climbing to the top of a mountain so that they can strap a couple of pieces of metal to their feet and come down it again at a ridiculously fast speed. There's another name for that sort of person - nutcase.

The cable car actually stopped, not at the summit of the mountain, but at the start of the ski run - which is obviously the main reason it was built in the first place - and a steep pathway allows people to hike the remaining distance to the summit from where an observation tower gives the best view possible. Needless to say, the older members of our group and those who suffered from vertigo got off the cable car at the top feeling quite proud of themselves,and were a little dismayed to find that they still weren't at the real summit. They then went into the restaurant and comforted themselves with a cup of tea and a biscuit while the rest of us headed off for the top.

Our group was one of the last to see (or not see, as the case may be) the old man of the mountain. Despite having apparently been mentioned in literature for centuries, the overhanging rock had clearly only been waiting around until I had seen it. On the 3rd of May 2003, the whole formation came crashing down and the old man of the mountain became the slightly pointy jagged overhanging rock of the mountain, which doesn't have quite the same ring to it. Nevertheless, people still go to see something called "the old man of the mountain historic site", to lament the loss of their great rock - probably because they are slightly mad. Actually, I should be serious for a moment and point out that the profile of the "old man" is actually the state emblem of New Hampshire and appears on license plates and stamps, so it had obviously become something the locals were really proud of and they were understandably unhappy to see it go. Some people, of course, always take things a bit too far and there were even attempts to put the profile of the old man onto the state flag and - and this really shows how far the Americans are willing to go for something they love - stick a giant plastic replica right up there on the mountain so that it would appear as though nothing had happened. We're back to the slightly mad again, aren't we? And don't even get me started on the people who left flowers at the base of the mountain in tribute to their dead rock - I don't even think a suitable word has been invented to sum up people who take things that far. It was a rock, people - if you look hard enough, you'll probably find another one down the road shaped like a different old man, or something - if you look at it from the right angle, squint and stand on your head...

About Simon and Burfords Travels:

Simon Burford is a UK based travel writer. He will be re-publishing his travel blogs, chapters from his books and other miscellaneous rantings on these pages over the coming weeks and months, and the entry on this page may not necessarily reflect todays date.