Break-out occurred at approximately 0900 hours. Running like a bat out of hades up the i35 we turned sharply to the minor 83 road to aim for Carrizzo Springs. Didn't make it before being stopped by a closed-road Federales car check: "Where you from?", said pock-marked officialdom. "England!", we said cheerfully. "Passports!" He demanded, followed by a string of questions determined to catch us out on the fact that a) we were in a hired car, b) we spoke an unquestionably alien language (English), and c) we were leaving the Mexican border with no drugs (otherwise why would we be in a rental car looking stupid?). At Carizzo Springs we stopped at a well-attended restaurant called Rosita's for a Huevos Rancheros breakfast before the long climb away from Laredo. The radio stations were a depressing ping pong between Spanish Mariachi bands and wrist-slitting Texian country music. For large stretches of our road we chose to watch the sage scrub pass in silence. As we moved eastwards to San Antonio the good old classic rock stations came on line. Ah! Civilisation.
The road trip itself wasn't without entertainment. Buzzards picking away at a suspiciously large mammalian roadkill. Passing a couple of prisons in the middle of nowhere we were greeted with advice in big letters: DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS. THEY MAY BE ESCAPED INMATES. Barring the occasional overlarge truck the desert road was empty, encouraging playful use of the car's cruise control. A bit like playing a computer game with a keyboard: if you die you can go back to an earlier saved game but you'd rather not because you'd have to travel that stretch of road and listen to that interminable country music all over again. All sing along now: "Cruise Control to Major Tom".
We were heading for Hill Country north of San Antonio. Not sure where we'd stay but Linda had a route set out supported by the tablet's sometime-faithful blue dot. First place we passed was a busy one-street town by a river called Bandera; a place that had an interesting number of non-chain bars and restaurants right next to the few motels catering to the likes of us. The sage brush and flat lands turned into more recognisable trees and hillocks as the road became twisty and uphill. By the time we reached Kerrville I'd been driving for five hours (NB: while Gary has assumed a wild cometary elliptical orbit around the SanAn star mine has been a more Earthlike sedentary circular circumlocution: my back does not stand the pressures of the FarrantDrive hyperjump}. Unfortunately, Kerrville was quite charmless; we were beginning to wish we'd nested in Bandera. Another 24 miles got us to Fredericksburg, a charming German-Texan hybrid town with a huge Main Street. A cheap Super8 motel within walking distance of a handful of Yee Ha! Bar & Grills defined the rest of the evening. Ahhhhh!
