For once in my life, I had no ties and nobody to please except myself when deciding where to go on holiday. Time for my dream trip. Which was to go to San Antonio, Texas, and visit the Alamo.

The hardest part of this story to confess is not what subsequently happened, but the fact that, since I was a little boy, I have idolised Davy Crockett, hero of the sacrificial battle that paved the way for the birth of the Lone Star state.

I knew there was only a small section of the original Alamo mission building still standing, and that the rest was mostly reconstruction. But I also knew it would be the ultimate thrill to stand where my coonskin-capped hero, along with Jim Bowie and 180 volunteers, held off a 4,000-strong Mexican army for 13 days in 1836.

San Antonio was wonderful. The first evening there, I enjoyed a stroll along its buzzing, cosmopolitan river walk.Next morning, I headed for the Alamo and its Long Barrack Museum — housed in the one remaining original building. It was even more exciting than I had anticipated. You could see artefacts and documents relating to the battle, and — best of all — there was Crockett’s rifle, Old Betsy, the real thing, handed down through family and friends, patched up, preserved and now on display.

“Ol’ Betsy,” said the woman next to me. “Ain’t she something?”

“She sure is,” I said in my best Crockettese, but sounding terribly English.

“Where you from, honey?” said the woman, who had a broad smile, green eyes and ebony hair.

“Er, Hemel Hempstead,” I said rather pathetically. “England. And you?”

“From Greeneville, Tennessee, honey. . . Ain’t she something?”

Greeneville? Wasn’t that . . . “Isn’t that where he was born?” I asked.

“Near enough — a few miles down the road from there. You should come visit.”

“He’s always been my hero,” I said.

“Mine too,” she said, with another smile.

Caroline was in town for a conference and was staying at the hotel next to mine. By the time we got to the gift shop, we’d arranged to meet for a drink at her place. She went off to buy souvenirs, but I hung around, because there was something I had to buy — on my own.

Later, in the hotel bar, Caroline said: “You know what I got?”

“Nope,” I said in mock Tennessean.

“I got me a Bowie knife.”

“Jeez! You know what I got?”

“No, old chap,” she said in mock English.

“A coonskin cap — well, fake fur, but the tail’s real.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she laughed.

We retired to her room with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. We admired each other’s new purchases and talked about Crockett with the enthusiasm of like-minded fans until, finally, it became apparent that it was bedtime.

“I’m gonna put my Bowie knife away now,” said Caroline, flicking my raccoon tail. “But you can keep your hat on, honey. Just your hat.”

The phrase “Remember the Alamo” still stirs hearts in Texas. And it’s now held in some fondness in Hemel Hempstead, too.

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