If, like me, you grew up in Ireland in the 1950s/60s, you wanted to be a cowboy. It was a boy thing. Of course I don’t mean to discriminate or exclude, so any ladies who are of a similar age, and who wanted to be cowgirls back then, are welcome along. Anyway, you know who you are. If you ever ran down the road in a half skip/ half hop, slapping your thigh with your open hand and saying “whoa”, whenever you wanted to stop, then yes. You know who you are. You wanted to be a cowboy. Just like me. 

   
 So the drive to Lone Pine was like a childhood returned. We drove across the desert on those roads that you see on film, that lead on in a straight line for miles, before winding up into the distant, stoney hills. All sides are stone and scrub and sand, across which, many a thievin’ rustlin’ no-good varmit was chased by an eager posse. Through two-bit towns, where you could throw a dice for a free room, (no indication of the penalty if you lost …. hangin’, I expect). Over the pass and down into Death Valley. The ground is scorched and dry. The cowboy is crawling. His water canteen long ago gave up its last drops. His horse, sadly put down, in the last reel. The desert fox comes and looks, before casually walking away. This place is great. The rocks, the meagre brush, the sand dunes. The blazing sun. This is Death Valley. 

   
 Sundown comes sudden, in these here parts. It’s dark as we ride into town.  That’s Lone Pine. A cold beer in Jake’s saloon helps wash the dust from dry throats. Alas, there is no waistcoated piano player, with bands on his sleeves and an out-of-tune piano. There is no smoke reeked, whiskey sodden, gun bearin’ poker table, peopled by dirty cowpokes or suited dandies, with one fist full of aces and the other full of colt 45. There isn’t much of anything actually. Four guys playing pool. Two at the bar watching football, (American football – it has nothing to do with the foot, by the way). And us. We keep us a quiet town here in Lone Pine.

   
 However, there is the museum. The Film Museum. The museum of the cowboys. Here is where they made all those great TV programmes and films. The Lone Ranger, Roy Rogers. Most of those John Wayne’s.  Gene Autry. They’re all here. This is cowboy town. Then there’s Humphrey Bogart, Star Wars and even some monstrous worm, that came from beneath the ground. Lone Pine is the spot. 

  
Ooops!  I forgot to mention, that an hour or so out of Las Vegas, we came upon one of the great secrets of the modern world. Area 51. Yep. There it was. Large as life.  It consists of a cafe, an essential souvenier shop, (for buying aliens and all things extra terrestrial), and a brothel. That’s it all right. Area 51. There it is.  Of course I went in. To the cafe that is. Not the brothel!  They serve ok coffee and play classic films (The Magnificent Seven and Shenandoah), on the television, at full volume. Apparently, the aliens like them.