I am always a little anxious when taking possession of a hire car, despite the fact we tend to hire them whenever we return to England. Sitting outside Westchester Airport in New York State, I was having trouble inserting the key in the ignition. Ellie tried without success and immediately got out of the car to call the attention of the sales lady.

It was at that stage the penny dropped and I looked for the starter button, pressed down on the brake and the VW Jetta sprang to life. I recollected I had hired one like this before; another that fired up as soon as you put your key in the ignition and another that seemed to stall every time you stopped at traffic lights etc, only to spring back into life when you touched the accelerator.All such developments you may be tuned into but, living in rural France and deploying somewhat older English cars, we are a little behind the times.

It used to be so simple when I first owned a car: you pulled out the choke, detemining the degree by the state of the weather and then pulled the starter switch. As long as you remembered to push the choke back in within 100 to 200 yards, all was well.

But what puzzled me was if it was a matter of old age and old-dog-new-tricks syndrome or just the habit of lifetime because no matter how many times I prepared to start the hire car, I would find myself steering the key towards the likely site of the ignition.

It took over two weeks for me to put the keys down as soon as I sat behind the wheel.

The car was named Zane. My wife Ellie has a compulsion to give cars a sense of identity so we have Rhoda the Skoda; Ronda the Honda; and Harvey the RV (Motorhome). We expected Rhonda to fail the French MOT at the age of 20. She is slightly battered and has been used as a service vehicle, carrying bags of cement, rocks and often as not three dogs, twice a day as we head for the hills and a walk.

In anticipation, we invested in a second-hand VW Golf, which is red and has since been christened Moulin (Rouge), but now we are in the position of having three cars, which sounds a little luxurious but one is 20, the other is ten and the third is four years old. In fact the Honda waltzed through the test leaving us in a bit of a quandary. There is no such thing as road tax in France: the MOT lasts for two years and so we only have the insurance to consider and that is much cheaper than in the UK. So, for the moment, we have three cars.

Within a few hours of picking up our grey Jetta, I was informed it was called Zane. I struggled to see a connection, but Ellie pointed out it was grey, so it it is Zane as in the writer Zane Grey. Zane has done us proud. With the aid of Hilary, a very impressive Garmin sat-nav, who proved to be a shrewd addition to the hire cost, Zane took us to Boston and then, after we had returned and gathered our strength, we headed out across the state. We drove west through the seemingly endless forest, up into the Catskill Mountains, where Bob Dylan and the Hawks holed up for over a year, prompting some to try and lure the musical poet out of his hermit-like existence, by holding a festival there, near his home, in Woodstock. The Hawks came and performed, having renamed thesmelves as The Band, but Dylan stayed at home. We had been to Woodstock on a previous visit and I am still the proud owner of a Band t-shirt.

The forests of the northern USA are amazing. Dropping by the coast from Maine to Maryland, the forests stretch across 20 states to the line formed by the western boundaries of Minnesota and Missouri and you can be tempted into thinking they consitute one, great forest. Ironically, the forests have increased by 28 per cent since 1953, although that trend has slowed.

It was a seven-hour trip to Niagara with refreshment stops, including a delightful home-spun family diner where you felt you ought to put down roots and embrace the community, such is the delightful ambience.

We journeyed on and reached Buffalo, a city that gave us a slightly puzzling name for food. I had always wondered where the concept of buffalo wings had come from, when it was and is chicken meat and not bison. The Superbowl was held in Buffalo, New York state, some years back and the concept of wings - chicken in batter - was launched and so we have Buffalo wings- although the capital B has been forgotten.

Eventually we reached Niagara Falls. The hotel owner advised us to visit a really old village nearby where they serve a different wine with your desserts, he added, as if revealing a revolutionary concept. We had an open mind how long we would stay in the locality but, when we headed out for an evening meal, I suggested we speed up to this village and take a look because Americans enthuse over old things that are, in reality, not that old. This proved to be the case. The village was nice and attractive but we have seen many such late 19th century clapboard buildings in the USA, so we did not stop.

It is said you under-estimate distances when looking down and subsequently, we both admitted to being a mite disappointed at the size of Niagara Falls. Our initial view was looking down on the Falls, which drop 180 feet - not quite three cricket pitches piled on top of each other.

Most of the shots of Niagara are taking from below, where the Falls look even higher than reality. Nevertheless, they were a stunning sight. The concept that 75,750 gallons falling over the edge every second is a sobering thought. You could water your garden to the point of total saturation in less than a quarter of a mili-second.

The power and roar are of frightening intensity. You can hear the Falls from some distance and see the spray high above the park, often containing rainbows. All of which makes it even more remarkable that Annie Edison Taylor, in a custom-built barrel, used a bicycle pump to pump in the air, then corked the barrel from the inside and was pushed out into the current. She was harnessed inside the five-foot barrel with leather straps and the iron skeleton inside would have offered a degree of resistance, and there were cushions and a mattress to ease the effect of buffeting. The barrel took her over the edge and some 15 minutes, after spotting it bobbing near the base of the Falls, willing helpers hauled the barrel in when it floated near the Canadian side.and unscrewed the lid. She emerged saying: “That must have been the dumbest thing I have ever done.”

She sustained a scratch on her forehead when being hauled to safety but apart from feeling a little shaken, she was unhurt.

She did not make the expected fortune from selling pictures of herself standing beside the barrel and her hopes in that direction were not helped by the fact her agent ran off with the takings and the barrel. When do we ever learn?

She died in poverty but what was remarkable about her feat in 1901 was that the former schoolteacher was exactly 63 years old on that day.

The doughty lady in fact went over the adjacent Horseshoe Falls, which are ten feet shorter in height but still formidable. Others have died in subsequent attempts and it is now illegal to go over the Falls. Apparently you can face a severe fine, which I would have thought was the least of one’s concerns. Imagine having your attention drawn, when about to climb the fence at the lions’ enclosure at Whipsnade Zoo, to a sign saying you will be fined for climbing into enclosure. “Oh, right, well that does make a real difference. I don’t think I’ll bother."

The currents around the Falls are frightening. “If you fall in there, you have two minutes before you go over the edge,” said a guide as we viewed the water beginning to gather pace some distance from the Falls. That power will remain in my memory.

Apparently there is a plan for re-investment into the town of Niagara Falls, and it is much needed. The areas around the river and the Falls are well maintained as the oldest of national parks but the town is somewhat dilapadated.