Way out West, the Tottenham Kid

wins his spurs
By Ronnie Golden (Mail on Sunday)

   All this is definitely not me. No way. Where I come from, the sky is small, grim and grey – nothing like the super-economy-size, bluer-than-blue affair that they have here. And I usually consider leather stirrups and cracking bullwhips to be strictly the province of Cabinet Ministers.

      So what in tarnation is a bloke whose idea of breakfast TV is Pebble Mill at One doing tucking into a T-bone at a time when I would normally be tucked up in my pyjamas?

       What I am doing is spending four bizarrely glorious days at the Lazy K Bar – just a few miles out of Tucson, Arizona – and dang my hide if it ain’t a sight more purdy than Tottenham, my usual territory

      It's the lure of the Old West, the rolling tumbleweed, the smell of old leather, the feel of rope biting into your hand. It's where men are men - and, for the short time they are here, women are too.

     It's a dude ranch - and, incredibly, it's a package holiday.

     It soon becomes evident, however, that this is no fly-by-night affair, thrown together to cash in on the success of Billy Crystal's movie, City Slickers.

      The Lazy K Bar first opened its swing doors to guests back in 1936 and now, celebrating its 60th year, it's still doing great business.

     It has just 23 rooms, giving it an altogether cosier feel than other, much bigger ranches.

     You sleep in single-storey outhouses, redeemed inside by many of the accoutrements of a decent hotel; you eat in a spacious diner and you help yourself to drinks in the bar. Among the outdoor activities on offer are lassoing, hay rides, trap-shooting (clay pigeons), hiking, biking, picnic rides and line dancing.

      But this is a ranch and it is mainly about horses - and, indeed, riding horseback is really the only way to take in the spectacle of the awesome terrain.

    The good news is that both the experienced and the inexperienced can get a ride. Even if, like me, you are a 'greenhorn' they'll find a horse to suit - though Western riding is very different from British 'posting' style. For a start, you sit full in the saddle, which can wear out your thighs. And the horse's patience. So a video is available to those who need help to adjust.

        Our trusty scout informs me not to 'rile'im'. That he's more scared of me than I am of him. Maybe he is, but I'm not ready to test the theory - and give the snake the widest of wide berths.

      After the long haul back to base, we are all more than ready to tuck into fresh salads with melon, catfish, and Ma's all-American apple pie.

      I had wondered who my fellow travellers would be. Kindred spirits, home on the range, had seemed unlikely. But as it turned out, they were there. It quickly became apparent that it is not essential to be part of a couple to enjoy the place. I met many single people, some middle-aged and many of them women, who seemed to be having a ball.

      Obviously there were couples too, and I started chatting to a pair from San Diego.

       Mike is a bright and Hollywood-handsome ex-polo player now running his own sports clothing business; Alison, his wife, is a stunningly beautiful public relations manager.

        After the meal, during our 'happy hour' conflab, it transpires that Mike is the proud possessor of the first album of a band that I was in many moons past - The Fabulous Poodles. I glow a little as we manfully bond on the patio, exchanging dubious jokes and howling into the night like two flea-bitten hyenas.

        Next morning, over a perfectly prepared Denver omelette (everything in it and lots of eggs), Mike says he is driving to Tombstone for the 'Wyatt Earp Days' weekend and invites me along for the ride.

       It's only an hour away - and how could I miss seeing 'The Town Too Tough To Die'?

       Tombstone is the most renowned of Arizona's old mining camps, though now more like a down-at-heel, low-rent Disneyland. Locals dress  up in a poor polyester approximation of the 'bad 'ol days' and weave up and down the High Street, while life-size plastic effigies of Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp slouch in seats to a bland voice-over emitting their story.

      Not so much the 'OK Corrall' as the 'Sort-of-all-right-if-you-like-that-sort-of-thing Corral'.

      Mike, Alison and I then adjourned to the bar for belated aperitifs and continue the process outside on the patio to the strains of a local country singer.

      With great sincerity he lassos the 'bleeding heart' songs of Don Williams and Willie Nelson, plugs 'em full of holes, then leaves them for the buzzards.

        I then put the fear of the Lord into him by offering my Frank Ifield impersonation on harmonica - before we all realise the beers and copious single malts have wreaked havoc enough, and make falteringly for our beds.

       At 7.30 am over wood-smoked ham and hash browns, I'm feeling a little smug. Mike is just feeling terrible. 'Amateur', I cannot stop myself from thinking. Where hedonism is concerned, you have to put the hours in.

        After another arduous horse-ride, around the remains of an old film studio responsible for celluloid landmarks like Bonanza, Cheyenne and Bronco, I try trap shooting. Great fun made all the greater when I nearly shoot the launcher of the targets.

       And thus I come to throw myself into my last activity - the evening hayride. This, to put it accurately,  is a hay-filled cart filled with people-old-enough-to-know-better being smashed around in ungainly fashion while the horses pretend not to know where they're going. Like London cabs really.

        Back at the ranch I bid farewell to new chums and helpful staff and prepare for my impossibly early alarm.

        I know that across those vast skies the proud towers of Broadwater await my return.

       As I take a last look at the panoramic sky, Dorothy's words in the Wizard of Oz, or something like them come to mind, 'I don't think we're in Tottenham now, Toto'.