Back in the saddle.

There's much to say about Boston and a lot of it is tied up with my feelings as an Englishman about the War of American Independence.

No time for that now, nor to talk about the USS Constitution - but tomorrow it's Philadelphia, Liberty Bell and then Washington DC so I expect I'll try and tie all that up together later.

But what's the rush? Well, we've got to get back on the road again! We're going south, homewards. Heading for Texas where it's 104F and the oldest thing in town is yesterday's Houston Chronicle.

In comparison, Boston is minty fresh. Our journey starts with a Batmobile-style swoop into the fabled tunnels of the underground freeway. The burghers of Boston decided to dig up the motorway and bury it under the city. It took years and damn near bankrupted them for all I know, but it is beautiful above and beneath, slick and modern.

Laura and I try to imagine what Houston would look like if they did the same thing. I can't - there'd be nothing left.

Then we're out and zooming down the 95 - it goes all the way to Florida you know - but we've picked it because it careers along the Atlantic coast out of Massachusetts, through tiny Rhode Island and then slightly bigger Connecticut. Unfortunately this part of the trip is disappointing - for a coastal highway, you sure as heck can't see the sea. Still, onwards! There's another 250 miles to go and two more states.

Suddenly we're on the fringes of NYC. The city springs up around us, grey, complex, literally multi-layered as split-level carriageways of cement and steel, bridges and tunnels interlace like an Escher sketch. We slide between the strata and then out across the double-decker George Washington Bridge, across the mighty Hudson River. Far off to the left is the Manhattan skyline - so close but it looks lofty and unattainable, a range of mountainous spires faint against the clouds where only eagles could perch.

Across the river and straight into New Jersey. A river of headlights washes against us from the other carriageway, bend after bend, mile after mile, tens of thousands of cars returning to the metropolis in this Sunday gloom. As we reach the Turnpike the sun breaks out from under the clouds and scatters gold across the squat towers and wintry hills of the Garden State, shining back off rivers and lakes.

The light fades. Then on into the dark we go, on and on, almost but not quite over the state line and into Pennsylvania.

Time for some sleep and a quick charge about Philadelphia then it's back on the road and off, finally, to Washington.