The Last Ditch by Tom Paine

It was hard to tear myself from the comforts of last night’s hotel this morning. It was comfortable and the service was superb. The concierges were sophisticated enough to recognise, as all the best European hotels will, that a Ferrari should be parked prominently under the watchful eye of the doorman, where it can lend its stature to the establishment while being protected as the treasured work of art it is.

Still, the road beckoned and after a late breakfast, it was off to the Baseball Hall of Fame. I really didn’t know what to expect. I like “Field of Dreams” as much as the next movie fan and “If you build it, they will come” is the motto of the more reckless in my industry; real estate. Still, I can’t begin to explain the American fascination with the game. They feel the same about cricket, I guess.

In consequence, the visiting American public were more interesting to me than the exhibits. They were gleeful, excited, even awed in the presence of the relics of their national game. And the Hall of Fame itself really verges on idolatry. I have not felt as awkward since I stumbled – clad as a tourist and brandishing an enormous camera – into a Mass at the Jasna Gora monastery in Poland; the home of the Black Madonna. I was in the presence of something profound; something I didn’t understand, and while I could sense its importance I also felt I should not really be there.

I am a good guest, I hope, so I let slide all the nonsense in the museum about the history of the game. Clearly, like all major world sports, it originated in England but the Americans have adopted it with vigour and relish and it would be churlish to spoil their fun.

Then it was back to my favourite road so far – the Route 20 Scenic Byway – which I followed until it stopped being scenic. I then allowed the satnav on my temporary phone, which had been trying to head me off to the Interstate at every junction all afternoon, to guide me to my resting place tonight in Amherst, NY.

I achieved my target average speed of 50mph (despite keeping mostly off the interstate) but fell short of my target distance of 260 miles. There’s time to catch that up. Indeed if my East and West Coast American friends are right, I will just hurtle through the “flyover states” wondering why I came. Something tells me they are being snobbish and that there is much of interest in the great middle. Time will tell.

Tomorrow; Niagara Falls.