CAMP VERDE, where we have dropped anchor for three nights, was the scene of one of those terrible forced marches deployed against the Red Indians: this time the local Apaches - men, women, seniors and children.

Given their land by treaty “for as long as the water flows and the grass grows”, within two years they were rounded up and forced to walk 150 miles down to San Carlos in the dead of winter.

Naturally many died en route, which did not matter of course. If you fell you had to be carried or left to die. The main thing was to forcibly remove them from their ancient homes.

Ironically, those who made it, found themselves corralled with another tribe, which had been, traditionally, their worst enemies. Consideration ruled, ok.

Another example of how the “paleface talk with forked tongues”.

Being Camp Verde weekend, we had free access to the museum and fort. It made a passing mention of the fact the Indians “were transferred” two years after being given the land for all time, and then featured on with the glory of the cavalry and cavalry life.

We opted to stay Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights before heading down towards Phoenix and Apache Junction, the beginning of Indian country, which was the reason we finished up in this neck of the woods. We were to travel in our hire car in considerably more comfort than was afforded the Indians some 140-odd years back.

The Navajo, another branch of the Apache, had a similar experience to the Camp Verde Apaches and lost even more on a longer forced march, for which they blame Kit Carson, but they did get their lands back. Not so the Apaches in this instance.

Apache is an umbrella term for various related tribes of Indians who lived in the south-west, and were each autonomous, sometimes clashing, trading and at peace with each other. Their language shares similarities with those found in Alaska and Siberia.

We went out for a meal on the first night and they were playing country, so country (Roger Miller and Patsy Cline) that I was thinking in terms of 23 skidoo (an old slang expression of doubtful origin but perhaps originated in England) – namely leaving as quickly as possible.

I quite like new country but the old stuff leaves me cold.

When we talked of staying here three nights, I said to Ellie we might end up “puttin’ down roots an’ reminiscin’” with the old folks about when the now-closed Bollon’s Bar was really jumpin’ on a Friday and Saturday night (from our previous accidental visit in 2001).

Well, dang me, that happened. We went to this bar where there was live music and bumped into a Joan from Swindon, who has six kids and still looked like a size 8, compared to the general size 16, 18 and 20 women tend to wear out there.

She and her husband are partners in this bar with another couple and she was knocked out to hear real English spoken in Camp Verde. Give her, her due; she still spoke with a definite Swindon accent. She insisted on giving us a near tearful hug when we left on the last night, but the second night,when some dudes came in, one of the partners said; “This guy can tell you that Bollon’s used to be jumpin’ when it was open.”

“When was that sir?”

“Well certainly back in 2001 and since then,” I replied.

I felt like-a native. Truly ah did.

When we agreed to take the room for three nights, I noticed Ellie’s top was hanging on the wall. “Washed it already,” I asked?

“No,” she replied, “I just covered up the steer’s skull and horns. I don’t want that looking at me. It’s bad Feng-shiui.”

You get used to the strict rules about no smoking in motel rooms. Being non smokers we take it as a matter of course. The signs are prominent but one thing you don’t see in Leigh- on-Sea or Chipping Sodbury is a sign saying “No firearms” in a hotel.

That’s a regular out there.

There was a fun fair on each day of the weekend and there were amateurs trying to ride bulls and live music every night. We saw the officers’ quarters in the old fort and availed ourselves of free admission with people dressed up in period uniforms and costumes.

I bumped into a pensioner from Phoenix and we sat chewing the cud. The cultural differences among the English-speaking were revealed when he told me he had been to Europe on 15-day tour -Antwerp, Germany, Venice and Switzerland were among those visited. When asked I admitted I had not seen Venice.

“Don’t bother. Hardly any roads; gondolas cost you 90 bucks and don’t go more than 150 yards and back and they expect you to stand in line for three hours to go into a church and look at the ceiling. What’s the idea of that? I didn’t bother. Didn’t like the place.”

On Sunday, after a chilled morning, during which our youngest daughter Skyped us on our laptop, we sat out on the stoop in our rocking chairs and had our picnic lunch for the second successive day. The sun was fine and the bluffs looked good. We vowed to get good rocking chairs for our next house.

We then drove down to Cottonwood old town and on spotting a hippie store I let Ellie loose and she emerged very grateful with a couple of items.

We then drove up to Jerome, which is cheaper, original and seemingly more authentic than Sedona but does not have the red bluffs each side. Location is great with Sedona but the view is better in Jerome.

Ellie struck lucky again and felt the afternoon was a retail success, along with some wonderful views from the town, which has distinctly Victorian-type buildings - mostly in wood.

The population is just over 300 but Jerome once was churning out copper, silver and gold; was a hotbed of prostitution and was dubbed “the wickedest town in the west” around 1901. It used to have a population of 15,000 but the mining ended, not least when an underground fire burnt for 20 years. By the early 1950s it was down to 50-strong population but was then named as a US Historical site.

It is known as the mile-high town and when you come out of the shops, you can see right across the Verde valley to Sedona and beyond to that the Grey Mountain we passed near Flagstaff. So it also has a fair location.

It is very arty now – a touch of Woodstock about it – and well worth visiting. Some of the old hotels with verandas on every floor are real period pieces.

I would recommend Sedona but save your pennies for the climb to Jerome, which really is naturally quaint as opposed to the designer-quaint of Sedona.

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