‘We have beers!” came the cry, followed by the more enigmatic “and hair clippers!” As the sun began to set, with no discernible abatement in temperature, the crew was in the process of building an outdoor stage at El Cosmico campsite in Marfa, Texas, for the forthcoming Trans-Pecos festival. The festival was the reason I was in Marfa for three nights. But I had made my travel arrangements and campsite booking before the festival dates were confirmed, and had ended up arriving a week early. The serendipity of this was slow to reveal itself but has had long-lasting ramifications, and is a shining example of opportunities that can come your way as a solo traveller.

I had taken early retirement at 60 and undertaken this first long trip on my own to the US and Canada to gauge how I felt about being away for four months: I had a plan to go to Cambodia to teach for a year in the future. I come from a family that has always travelled, so it was very much a “normal” activity and nothing to fear. I am single, with two independent adult children, who loaded me up with sufficient tech to ensure I could stay in touch with them.

I chose North America for my maiden voyage because I love live music – Americana and blues in particular – so had planned my itinerary around various festivals, beginning with Vancouver Island Musicfest. I applied to be a volunteer for the litter-picking team in return for a free ticket, camping and access to an instant community, as well as a job to do. Plus, I finally got to see Emmylou Harris.

The other festivals I had chosen were generally smaller and I found I was readily welcomed by friendly people, with invitations to join them for meals, conversations and trips out of the festival site to see the local area.

To keep my costs down and to experience as much as possible, I travelled between destinations mostly by “riding the Greyhound” buses, along with a couple of Amtrak trains and one flight, from San Francisco to Phoenix. I booked advance tickets online to get the lowest prices and, though I had been regaled with horror stories, nothing bad happened to me beyond a couple of long delays. Indeed, I met a lot of interesting and kind people.

One young man, having asked me whether I had a warmer jacket (we had spread my gilet over our legs on a freezing night-time bus whose driver refused to turn the aircon down), surprised me by handing me a spare fleece from his luggage as I left to run for my connection. “Kate, take this,” he said. “Keep warm in New York.”

The longest Greyhound ride I made was from Fort Collins in Colorado to Oakland in California, with two changes: at Salt Lake City and Reno. The journey took more than 24 hours, but passing through such varied landscapes – desert, mountains, canyons – made it all worthwhile.

The Amtrak was, by contrast, sheer luxury. Waiting at El Paso station on my way to Alpine, Texas, I was savouring a fabulous green chilli and meat burrito from the famous Burrito Lady who times her visits to meet arriving trains, when an elderly gentleman tapped me on the shoulder and said: “I’ve just told my wife that you take me back to the 60s, when free-spirited women went travelling.” That made my backpack feel so much lighter.

I had booked accommodation in advance, too – a mix of camping in my little Walmart tent, hostels and Airbnbs, which suited my budget. What I might have lost in spontaneity, I gained in security. When some of these plans fell through, as they inevitably did – the missed connection, the Airbnb accommodation that didn’t exist, twice! – I was relaxed enough to be able to find solutions quickly. One of these included getting a lift from Memphis to Clarksdale in Mississippi via the Deep Blues festival network.

Planning the trip was a big part of the enjoyment. I had researched each stop, noting museums and places of interest, as well as recommended restaurants and shops for local specialities, which meant I could make full use of my time wherever I was.

Highlights included an extraordinary exhibition at the Glenbow Museum in Calgary by Cree artist Kent Monkman called Shame & Prejudice: A Story of Resilience, as well as the rather conflicting experience of the Angola Prison Rodeo in Louisiana.

Food in America can be hit and miss, but high on my list of recommendations would be R Kitchen, in Charleston, South Carolina, whose five-course menu changes daily to allow the chefs more licence with seasonal products. I went twice. The first time featured pork belly tacos, crab cakes and Mexican ice-cream with cinnamon, cloves, bay leaf and other spices. On my second visit I had littleneck clams and saffron in soffritto broth, and an amazing spicy carrot and coconut soup for dessert. (It turned out that they had burned the intended bread pudding, but I infinitely preferred this.)

There were occasions when I missed having company and one drawback was that I very rarely ventured out in the evenings. I tended to do that only when I had met up with other people, or felt very secure in my surroundings, and I generally avoided drinking alcohol.

I did, however, have some beers that night in Marfa. The reason for the hair clippers quickly became apparent. This was Texas and it was hot. Tyler, known for his precision cutting skills, had the others swiftly lined up for haircuts and, after some persuasion, I too had a “Marfa strip” shaved underneath my shoulder-length hair. Having nothing touching the nape of my neck made me feel instantly cooler.

My friendship with Tyler continues. Through him I discovered the astonishing 18-day Kerrville folk festival in Texas, which has been going since 1972. I have been twice more, making a lot of friends, as well as attending Tyler’s wedding. Things happen when you travel by yourself – most of them wonderful.