I’m from an English village with winding country lanes, so to me this is real California road-tripping – long, straight, empty roads with not much traffic and no map reading required.

The opening sentence of Hunter S Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is: “We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.” That just about sums up the feeling as you approach the town, dazed by miles and miles of nothing much.

To describe Barstow as a military town doesn’t quite paint the picture. Home to the Marine Corps Logistics Base, and the nearest town to the US Army’s Fort Irwin National Training Center, nearly everyone except us was visiting a serving soldier or sharing some family R&R with one.

Perhaps it was seeing so many unfeasibly short haircuts that reminded me I needed a trip to the hairdresser, and that’s how I came to be chatting with a rapist’s mum. The mum and I were in neighbouring chairs, staring straight ahead into huge mirrors.

There had been the usual amazement in the salon that I was English, before the two of us were left alone for the 40-odd minutes our root colours and highlights took to cover the grey. We started in the usual way: “What are you doing in Barstow,” she’d asked. “On your way to or from Las Vegas?” Then I asked: “Do you live here?” “No,” she said, “I’m visiting the jail.”

I hadn’t known the other big visitor draw to Barstow is San Bernardino County Jail, with room for 7,400 prisoners. I thought it was best to stay quiet, none of my business. Then the salon owner came over and checked the mum’s hair, saying: “We want you to look your best for your son tomorrow.”

It turned out the mum was a regular at the salon; she had been coming to Barstow every few weeks for a couple of years – I don’t know where from – hoping her son would agree to see her but always being sent away at the prison gate. This visit, though, was different. “He’s invited me,” she said, smiling. “He wrote and asked me to come. He says he can face me now. I know he did it, but he’s still my son and I love him.”

There was a silence in the salon. “How much longer has he got in prison?” I asked, still not knowing what “it” was that he’d done. “Five years, he got seven,” she said. “He raped a girl. He knows it was wrong. I’ve accepted it now. I just want to see him.”

We spent the rest of our time in the salon talking about her son; she was blatantly proud of him despite everything and bewildered how she could be in this situation. She was also determined he had the rest of his life to live, and he would live it well. As she left, I wished her luck for her visit the next day.

I didn’t know then that the conversation would stay with me the way it has. I went out into the blazing sun and walked the two-mile main road and back, taking photographs and marvelling at the woman’s dignity and courage.

Verdict on Barstow: A great base from which to explore Route 66, which runs through the town. It’s where Courage Under Fire, Erin Brockovich and Kill Bill: Volume 2 were filmed so it’s worth a look.

Another Chance Encounter: Sue’s thoughtful piece reminded me of a time years ago, when I was in my mid-twenties, writes Colin Simpson. I was on holiday in my hometown of Edinburgh, and dropped into a pub in the Portobello district where I grew up.

I got talking to a family, from memory I think it was a couple and the husband’s brother, and it was all very pleasant as we discussed the subjects of the day over Tennent’s Lager and toasted cheese sandwiches. The mood darkened when the issue of capital punishment came up.

I was about to trot out the standard Guardian-reader view that the death penalty was barbaric and inhuman, abolition (which had happened scarcely 10 years before our conversation) was one of the most admirable steps Britain had taken and should be immediately adopted by all other countries, etc, etc.

Fortunately I hadn’t started saying any of this when one of the men said in a low voice, “He’ll get his when he comes out.” The “he”, it transpired, was the man’s brother-in-law, who was in prison for murdering his wife, the sister of my drinking companion.

They spoke a bit more about getting the man killed when he was released, but I like to think this was more an expression of the anguish and loss they felt than a serious intention. For me, it was an early lesson that the liberal consensus that so many of us slip into so easily doesn’t always cover the challenges some people face in the real world.

Updated June 2020