Was it just an American dream?

Six months, 15,000 miles and 27 states later, Nicci Martel is home and looking back on an awesome American adventure I ALWAYS knew that coming home was going to be depressing, but just how depressing, I wasn't sure. Well, I can tell you now with some certainty that yep, I was right - it's pretty damn depressing.

That's right, folks, the dream has drawn to a close and the adventure is over. I'm back. Goodbye America, and have a nice day.

It was a simple idea - six months, two friends, one van and one very big country.

In practice, however, it was always going to be a tad more complicated - thousands of miles, 100-degree heat, no money, no food, lots of raccoons.

But we did it. We actually did it and we were there for the entire six months without having to come home early or getting shot. Impressive? I'd say more miraculous than anything else, but I thank my lucky stars for every second of it.

We arrived in New York and departed from Los Angeles. We went to Georgia and California, spent more time fearing than loathing in Las Vegas, watched the sun rise over a house in New Orleans and even did a little walking in Memphis.

We drove a whopping 15,608 miles and, to put that in perspective, that's over double the distance from London to New Delhi. That's far ... trust me.

What I find difficult to believe is that we spent the last six months just in the one country. It's hard to believe that the red deserts of Nevada and the snow-capped mountains in Wyoming are part of the same place.

A similar thing applies to the Amish communities and the slums of the Mississippi Delta - all these people and places are lumped together under one big American banner, yet they couldn't be more different.

I didn't 'find myself' while on my travels, nor did I find God, or David Duchovny for that matter, but I did come to learn that I will never think of America in the same way again.

So what great, profound truths can I reveal about the place?

Well, firstly, Americans don't seem to understand cheese. I live for a good bit of cheddar and nowhere, from east coast to west, could I find a decent bit of the stuff.

I find that particularly poor, especially coming from a country that puts cheese on everything.

Secondly, Americans love to drink-drive. On a serious note, not one American we spoke to had a bad word to say about it and we witnessed many a Yank drink their bodyweight in booze before getting behind the wheel.

We Brits have been conditioned to realise that driving under the influence is a very stupid thing to do. Catch up, America.

Thirdly, America is one of the most beautiful countries in the world and it's not given enough recognition for this. It's not that hard to see why so many of them get a bit patriotic, because it's stunning.

It has it all - mountains, lakes, canyons, deserts, swamps and tropical jungles. It's epic, diverse and it makes for some kick-ass driving.

Fourthly, I detest country music. Enough said.

Finally, Americans talk a lot. But this isn't necessarily a bad thing. Sure, it can get annoying when all you want to do is sit in a dark corner with a pint, but it is just their way of expressing genuine friendliness.

There are friendly people everywhere in the world, but the difference is that Americans aren't shy about it. They are never embarrassed to be friendly and if it weren't for this one particular national trait, my travelling companion, Hutch, and I would have found ourselves in some sticky situations. That's not to say we completely avoided trouble ...

This is a story about what happens when you sit round a campfire getting drunk with communists. By communists, I mean people who actually lived on a commune somewhere in the northern California forest. It was getting dark and the fire was roaring. The drinks kept coming, as did the unsettling revelations about our new friends.

It turned out they all worked growing marijuana for a Mexican drug ring and so, naturally, they all possessed firearms, which they just happened to have with them.

One barely coherent girl started muttering about guns, ran to her car, and began rooting through it, looking for something. I was scared.

'If that wasted hippy gets a gun,' I thought, 'I'm going to have to run into the pitch black bushes and take my chances with bears.'

I was preparing myself for a stealthy exit when she stumbled back, then plonked - and I kid you not - a banana on the table. Close call.

We met a lot of strange people in California, which within days of being there fast became one of my favourite states.

It's split into two: the north is full of rugged cliffs, expanses of beach, redwood trees and vineyards. The people there are laid-back, honest, tolerant and liberal.

In the south, there are a few beaches, some desert, palm trees and Lindsay Lohan terrorising the roads. Need I say which area I preferred?

One of my favourite characters was Kathy, who despite her strong Californian accent assured us that she was British because her surname was Plum.

We met her in Bodega Bay, incidentally the town where Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds was filmed.

She was a real old rock chick who used to own a record company with her ex-husband, hung out with an ex-boyfriend of Janis Joplin's and did a lot of LSD. Now she lived in a hut with her 'fisherman friend' and her son also lived in a hut with a goat called Sparrow.

Anyway, Kathy proved to be very useful. She told us about a little-known town north of San Francisco.

'It's the last true hippy village left in America,' she said. 'And only people in the know can find it. There's no sign, so no one goes there. Follow the road through some trees and take the fork in the road. There you shall find it.'

It felt like fate and since we were on the run from park rangers, after doing a runner without paying camping fees, it seemed like the perfect place to lie low. We sceptically followed her ropey directions, and, there it was.

We'd been transported back to the Summer of Love - a time when love and peace ruled supreme. Brightly-coloured murals covered the walls, every garden had a vegetable patch and hemp-clad hippies welcomed us with open arms.

It was everything Kathy promised us and more and we managed to camp, undisturbed and rent-free, next to the beach for four glorious days.

Now, if truth be told, I miss camping. Admittedly, I'm delighted that I no longer have to wash my hair in the sinks of public toilets, or pop out for a leak in the great outdoors.

I love the fact that Super Noodles no longer form the core staple of my diet and that the risk of raccoon attacks is zero.

But for all the roughing it and all the effort involved with making a simple cup of tea, I liked it. I loved it, in fact.

There is nothing as satisfying as digging into a bowl of freshly-prepared instant noodles after a hard day's sightseeing.

I've never been fond of camping before, but then again, camping in Herm is one thing and camping in the Rocky Mountains is another.

For a start, there aren't elk and mightily big moose going for an afternoon stroll through the Seagull campsite, where the scariest thing you're likely to bump into is someone wearing socks with sandals.

Camping in the States feels like a real adventure and it's the perfect place to play Boy Scout and let your inner Ray Mears run wild.

When you find yourself knee-deep in a freezing cold river in Montana, trying to shampoo your hair, then you know you've become a real camper.

Of course, we didn't actually spend a single night in a tent. This explains why I enjoyed it so much. At the end of each day we could always take comfort in the knowledge that we had a bed, albeit a very uncomfortable bed, and the security of a van.

Oh, Jerry - he was so much more than a van. He became an integral character, in a sort of comedy support role. We laughed at him, we moaned at him, sometimes we hated him, but we always relied on him. I feel a kind of fondness for him like you would for a dog.

Whoever takes him on next had better take good care (and be extra gentle with the passenger door handle - it will probably fall off).

It wouldn't be fitting to end my letters on America without a few words dedicated to Hutch, my woolly Welsh friend.

Three arguments in six months is incredible and it's a testament to her good nature that she managed to put up with me for so long. It has been like living with a conjoined twin and now she's been surgically removed, I feel a bit lonely.

Bizarrely, I miss the pillow talk. I miss being woken up by such philosophical musings as: 'If you were to hand-pick your own male strip troupe, using anyone in the world, who would be in it?'

Another favourite would be: 'If you had a choice between Brad Pitt with no fingers or George Clooney without ears, who would you choose?'

But they do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder - or in Hutch's case, the hair grow bigger - and we've already planned a little reunion for next year.

America was the most fantastic thing I've ever done, but it would have been nothing without her.

As for getting on with our lives, it's going to be hard. I've got pounds, not dollars, toilets not restrooms, work, alarm clocks and a credit card bill as long as the roads in Utah. But on the plus side, there are friends, family, Cathedral City Cheddar and the knowledge that we achieved it.

We did the road trip we set out to do. First there were Dean and Sal, then Thelma and Louise, and now Martel and Hutch - international freeloaders extraordinaire.