DAY FIVE: MONUMENT VALLEY
Our “deluxe” 3.5 hour tour of Monument Valley is scheduled to begin at 7:45am. But punctuality, it seems, is unnecessary, for our guide is nowhere to be seen. While we wait, we become acquainted with our fellow tourists: Joel and Megan, a twenty-something couple who are tent-camping their way across the USA from the Pacific Northwest to Florida, and Stacey, a woman about our age whose husband has stayed behind in their motor home with their two Australian shepherd dogs. At 8:15, an open-sided truck pulls up next to us and a wiry Navaho man climbs out of the driver’s seat. “I’m Ray” he says, offering us a toothy grin and ushering us into the back of the vehicle.
We bump along dusty desert backroads with periodic stops at prescribed photogenic viewpoints, and if we bang the side of the truck hard enough to get Ray’s attention, he will make an unscheduled stop.
We admire the desert’s wind and time-sculpted features, and thrill to see ancient pictographs.
As a special feature of our “deluxe” tour, Ray brings us to a Navaho homestead of round, dirt-covered dwellings called “hogans”, traditional structures constructed by driving logs vertically into the sand, building an interior log framework and covering it over with mud and sod.
A local woman joins us and explains Navaho rug weaving, soap making (from Yucca roots) and basket weaving.
“The theme song from Gilligan’s Island keeps running through my head,” laughs Megan as the truck bounces along an especially rutted dirt track. I think about how the dusty, spine jarring ride reminds me of childhood jeep trips with my grandpa in the back country of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Those forays always seemed to involve at least one instance of getting stuck whilst fording a creek or driving through a snowbank. Little chance of that happening here, I tell myself.
But I am about to be proven wrong. Traversing a sandy valley, our rear end skids sideways, Ray accelerates and our wheels spin, digging into the soft ground. We are stuck. Ray tries to shift into his lowest gear, but seems unfamiliar with the procedure. “It’s my second day on the job,” he confesses. Joel shouts helpful instructions to Ray—stop, shift into neutral, then low four-wheel drive—and then yells at us to rock back and forth in our seats, and finally the truck gains forward momentum.
As we near the end of our tour, Ray speeds up, and the truck jounces us around like a bucking bronco. We suspect that he has noticed he’s behind schedule. “Chiropractor appointment needed after this tour,” shouts Stacey as yet another jolt lifts us clear off our seats and slams us sideways.
After four scenic hours, we clamber out of the truck coated in red desert dust, but with (hopefully) all our vertebrae intact.
DAY SIX: GOULDINGS to MOAB
On the drive to Moab, our dance card is full of sights to see. First stop is a place on the map called Mexican Hat, and there’s absolutely no doubt about which rock it must be.
Our next waypoint is Goosenecks State Park, a vertigo-inducing overlook of entrenched meanders in the San Juan River. Formed by flowing water and geologic forces over millions of years, the canyon walls tower over 1,000 feet above the river and reveal ancient rock layers of sandstone, shale and limestone.
We consider our next move. Are we up for the adventure of driving an hour round trip out of our way and hiking two miles roundtrip to see Anasazi ruins called House on Fire? We are. The trailhead is unmarked, and we set off on a pleasant trail along a dry river bed only 70% sure we are on the right path.
Our (semi-blind) faith is rewarded, and we eventually come upon ancient stone structures tucked under the overhang of a huge rock. Built of stacked stones 700—1,000 years ago, these shelters were probably granaries, used by local inhabitants to store corn and other foodstuffs. They are called “House on Fire” because the coloration of the rocks gives the illusion of flames streaking from the roofs.
Hot and tired, but feeling a sense of accomplishment, we return to Suzy and continue our drive to Moab.
Instead of staying in town, we’ve booked an Airbnb in a place called Pack Creek Ranch. The directions instruct us to turn off the main road onto an unpaved, gravel-strewn track that appears to lead up a canyon into wilderness. No sign of any inhabitants other than free-range cows—many with newborn calves—who graze near the road and stray into our path. We proceed with caution, dodging livestock, kicking up dust and beginning to wonder if this Airbnb is such a good idea.
All misgivings vanish as we round a bend and glimpse our destination, a lush oasis of towering Cottonwood trees sheltering a handful of vintage log cabins grouped around a large lawn, reminiscent of an English village green.
We transfer a few items from campervan to cabin and then retire to the two comfy rocking chairs on the generous front porch. Years ago, some romantic soul planted lilac bushes around the perimeter of our cabin, and their perfume scents the air.
DAY SIX: MOAB
“I can’t believe that we’re in the middle of nowhere and the traffic is as bad as in the Bay Area!” Dave curses in downtown Moab as he waits to turn left at an intersection with no left turn signal and an endless line of trucks, cars, and jeeps heading toward us. Traffic jams in the desert? Who knew? We had planned to tour Arches National Park, but an unmoving queue of cars, RV’s and ATV’s clogs the approach, and a large sign informs us that timed reservations are required. We have no reservation, timed or otherwise, and a quick check of the National Park Service website shows none available today or tomorrow. We are defeated, but not particularly disappointed. We have already begun to anticipate a mellow afternoon back at our ranch.
Anna practices yoga on the green and Dave plays guitar. Later, we enjoy a simple dinner of shallot-infused burgers and a spring green salad.
DAY SEVEN: MOAB to VERNAL
In the early morning, goldfinches chatter outside the window. Perhaps they are discussing the change in the weather from warm and sunny to breezy and overcast, with thunderstorms predicted. We depart after breakfast, relieved to leave the bustle of Moab behind, and settle in for a longish day’s drive. The terrain varies but ultimately exhibits more of the kind of scenery we’ve seen for the last six days: high plains occasionally broken by juniper bushes, knobby layered cliffs, dry mesas and distant hills. Most beautiful today are the gorgeous cloudscapes softening the bright cobalt sky.
Our destination is Dinosaur National Monument, a place I have wanted to visit since my high school biology teacher (the brilliant and entertaining Ed Holm) described its wonders in one of his lectures. Dave is willing to humor my long-held ambition, and as we near this very out-of-the-way place, I wonder if it will live up to my expectations.
But I needn’t worry. A shuttle delivers us to the exhibition hall, a huge glass-sided structure enclosing an entire hillside littered with embedded dinosaur bones, and it is every bit as impressive as Mr. Holm promised. We are gazing at the fossilized bones of dinosaurs who died beside a dry riverbed during a period of drought 150 million years ago. The time scale itself boggles the mind. As does the knowledge that dinosaurs lived on the earth for far longer than humans have.
Between 1909 and 1924, over 350 tons of embedded dinosaur bones were excavated from this site. Photos in the visitor center show the magnitude of the original hillside and the scope of work required to unearth and transport the treasure trove of fossilized bones.
Browsing in the gift shop, we are both drawn to a tempting array of toy dinosaurs. We comb through the large selection of prehistoric beasts and finally manage to winnow our choices to two—Stegosaurus, an herbivore, and Allosaurus, a carnivore—for our two grandsons, aged 17 months and almost 3 years old.
“These little dinosaur models must be big sellers,” I comment to the young clerk as he rings up our purchase. “Oh yes,” he nods, then, with an impish grin he asks, “Would you get the reference if I said ‘Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!?’” Our blank faces must telegraph our ignorance, for he explains that it is a famous line from a TV show called Firefly, delivered in response to a sudden attack by an Allosaurus dinosaur. Enlightened by this knowledge that we might (or might never) use again, we thank him, head to the parking lot, and make our way to the town of Vernal.
The call of an American Robin welcomes us to our peaceful KOA campsite. A green thicket of scraggly bushes and Cottonwood trees borders our site.
As I prepare dinner—prosciutto tortellini with marinara sauce and a salad of spring greens and chopped olives—I realize that the previous two nights in a rental cabin—no matter how charming—have served to remind me how much I appreciate the simplicity of the small, comfortable world of our campervan. It’s a tiny oasis of harmony. Finite in its dimensions, but wide open in its possibility for adventure.
DAY EIGHT: VERNAL to SALT LAKE CITY
We wake to blended birdsong (my Merlin App recognizes Black-capped Chickadee, California Quail, American Robin, Red-breasted Nuthatch and Yellow Warbler!) and the gentle of tap of rain on the rooftop. The rain continues all the way to our destination of Salt Lake City, but we don’t mind, the moisture feels welcome.
A flat landscape of juniper and sage gives way to bare hills, colonies of spindly white Aspen, patches of snow on bare ground, and in the meadows, the vivid flash of willows.
Our journey comes to a close, but leaves an indelible impression. In the vastness of the desert, surrounded by visible traces of geologic time and landscapes more beautiful—and fantastical—than we could imagine, we felt small and insignificant, and at the same time, connected to everything. Perhaps that’s the best part of time spent in any sort of wilderness; the ego takes a back seat to wonder, and we are reminded that in grand scheme of things, though we are tiny, we are part of a greater whole.
“…the strangeness and wonder of existence are emphasized here, in the desert, by the comparative sparsity of the flora and fauna…” —Edward Abbey, “Desert Solitaire”
I have never been a huge fan of the desert, but I am open to the possibility. The question is whether or not a camping trip in the arid wilds of Arizona and Utah will convert me.
DAY ONE: CALIFORNIA to ARIZONA
A two-hour plane flight from San Francisco delivers me to Phoenix, but the journey is not over yet. I open my Uber app, and soon am speeding away from the airport in a white Chevy Malibu piloted by Dean, a cheerful, middle-aged fellow sporting a goatee and a blue and white baseball cap on his close-shaven scalp. “I love Phoenix,” he declares as we depart the sprawling desert town, nary a tree in sight. “What do you love about it?” I ask, and he recites a litany of dubious claims. I remain unconvinced. He points out the giant Saguro cacti dotting the landscape and informs me that the cacti with the most “arms” can be up to 150-200 years old. They bloom mostly at night, according to Dean, and their main pollinators are bats, who feed on the nectar and transfer pollen in starlight. Just as I am appreciating this bit of interesting knowledge the huge cacti abruptly disappear as our altitude changes and we ascend to high desert plateau. The rest of the two-hour drive passes through a seemingly endless expanse of sand, dirt, rock and sporadic clumps of sage.
Finally, the mystical red rocks of Sedona appear in the windscreen and I have reached my destination.
I am greeted by Dave, along with our dear friends, Jot, Linda and Craig, and also a tiny bodied and hugely charismatic dachshund named Olive. Her antics and affectionate cuddles go a long way to mitigating the pangs Dave and I both feel at leaving Woofus behind.
DAY TWO: SEDONA to FLAGSTAFF
“Men come and go, cities rise and fall, whole civilizations appear and disappear-the earth remains, slightly modified.” —Edward Abbey, “Desert Solitaire”
Our first stop is Meteor Crater, a mile wide and 550 feet deep. Discovered in 1891 and estimated to have been created by the impact of a single meteorite approximately 50,000 years ago, the crater is quite young in geologic time, and one of the best preserved on earth.
We approach Flagstaff through a landscape of tufted blond grass punctuated by clusters of flat red ochre rocks. In the distance, smoke from a fire that we will later find out is a prescribed burn obscures Mount Humphrey, and we can barely discern patches of white snow on its highest peak and ridgeline.
At 7,000 feet, the weather is cool in Flagstaff, and the feeling is of a Colorado mountain town. We don warm jackets and stroll around the historic downtown, including a stop at the local guitar and music shop. Surprisingly, Dave does not come away with a souvenir guitar.
We have a dinner reservation at Josephine’s Modern American Bistro, housed in a converted craftsman style residence, and it’s a good thing we do, because although it is a Monday evening, the place is jammed. A welcoming fire blazes in the stone hearth, and we enjoy a rather fancy meal (wok charred organic Scottish salmon with cranberry citrus sauce and sweet potato gnocchi for Anna; smoked pork ossobuco in Achiote demi-glace with Tillamook green chili polenta for Dave) accompanied by a crisp white Soave wine, all for about half the price the same might cost in the Bay Area. Dave wonders if housing prices too are lower here, but a quick Zillow search reveals there’s not much difference. That’s okay, we have no plans to move here. “But if you were in your twenties, might you?” Dave asks. “No,” I smile, “I’d move to Colorado.” (Which is what really happened, by the way.)
DAY THREE: FLAGSTAFF to LAKE POWELL
“There is no lack of water here unless you try to establish a city where no city should be.” —Edward Abbey, “Desert Solitaire”
Heading north, a thundercloud slaps our windshield with sleet, and Dave muses that we don’t have chains on board. No matter, for soon we are out from under the cloud. Sparse pine trees give way to stunted and even sparser bushes which give way to grasslands and eventually become a landscape of sand, rock and the occasional courageous tuft of dry grass.
Not many settlements out here, and the few small holdings we pass are broken down structures with faded signs proclaiming “FOR SALE”.
Odd mounds of surprisingly multicolored sand—pink, pearl, green, and gray—add bas relief to the flat desert floor.
The geologic drama of the landscape increases as we approach the northern rim of the Grand Canyon and our next stop, Horseshoe Bend.
A moderate walk from the parking lot leads to the viewing area, and although the temperature is only 70 degrees, there is no breeze and soon we both wish we’d worn shorts.
We are not alone on the trail, but high season tourist crowds have not yet arrived, so we have no trouble finding unobstructed views of the iconic—and aptly named—Horseshoe Bend in the Colorado river.
We stay well away from the edge, unlike some intrepid—or foolhardy—souls.
At Glen Canyon Dam we make our way to a scenic overlook by descending a stone path carved into rock that looks like undulating pink waves. Huge boulders the color of overripe persimmons line the trail, laid one atop the other at wacky angles and scored with deep parallel grooves.
Our berth for the night is the Page Lake Powell RV Campground. We cook ourselves an easy dinner of artichoke and spinach ravioli with Bolognese sauce and a green salad, and spend a reasonably comfortable night. Luckily, the temperature is cool enough that if we open the windows and turn on our fan there’s no need to run the AC. We scheduled this trip for late April-early May in hopes of avoiding extreme heat—or cold—in the desert. So far, so good.
DAY FOUR: LAKE POWELL to GOULDINGS
“Each thing in its way, when true to its own character, is equally beautiful.” —Edward Abbey, “Desert Solitaire”
At the appointed hour we join a throng of tourists waiting to board shuttle vehicles for a pre-booked tour of the Antelope Canyon. Our guide, Mariah, informs us with pride that she is 100% Navaho, born nearby. She directs our group to squeeze onto two bench seats of a four-wheel drive vehicle and we set off to on a sandy track to the entrance of the slot canyon. The short ride allows just enough time to find out our group consists of a couple from Texas, a foursome from Salt Lake City, a couple of Virginia, and a pair of newlyweds who have traveled all the way from Korea.
Mariah leads us through a narrow fissure in the rock into a luminous passage of swirling apricot and salmon-colored shapes.
We twirl in slow circles, attempting to capture in photos the wonder of delicately striated and sculpted sandstone illuminated with soft light from above.
Eventually I slide my camera into my pocket and simply gaze in awe.
No doubt about it, over the last few days, the desert has worked its magic and I have begun to fall under its spell. Where before I saw inhospitable landscape, now I glimpse beauty in the ever-shifting palette, the time-sculpted landscape, the over-arching sky. I sense why people revere this place. There is glory here, from the subtle to the dramatic, and it is not man-made.
Do we regret anything about our spontaneous decision to leave Provence two days early and return to Chablis by car? No. Not even the bumper-to-bumper traffic we encounter en route? Well, okay, next time we won’t make the mistake of traveling on the last day of a long holiday period, especially if driving north from the south of France.
Two weeks ago, spring seemed far away, but now, signs of the new season are all around us. Climbing roses brighten stone walls in the village, and tiny green leaves soften the woody vines on the hillsides.
We stay in a roomy and stylish AirBnB that comprises the top two floors of a three-story house and includes a small terrace overlooking the river. A narrow cul-de-sac lane leads to our front door, and every time we step outside Dave makes friends with a local feline.
We dine well during our short stay in Chablis: A repeat gastronomic adventure at Au Fil du Zinc, where we enjoy the chef’s inventive creations such as hay-infused (!) artichokes; petit déjeuner at a friendly art café; and an exquisitely crafted meal at Les Trois Bourgeons that almost makes up for excruciatingly slow service.
We have come back to Chablis on a quest, of course, to procure a case of wine unavailable in the US—La Chablisienne Grand Cru “Les Clos” 2019—and ship it to our home. The vintage is the ultimate distillation of time and place, reflecting when the weather began to warm that particular spring, how much rain fell during the summer, even the frequency of clouds. The cost of the wine is reasonable, the shipping too, and for a nominal additional fee we request expedited delivery, hedging our bet that the vagaries of weather and commerce will allow the wine to survive the journey unscathed.
Our quest fulfilled, we depart Chablis for Paris. It is with a sigh of relief and a thrill of anticipation that we exit the Péripherique and glimpse the Seine. As we approach our destination, we text our VRBO host, Jacques (name changed for everyone’s protection). He informs us via a series of curt, bossy texts that we MUST arrive by taxi (not rental car) because there is no street parking. We explain that we cannot arrive by taxi; we will drop Anna off with our luggage at the curb in front of the apartment. Jacques refuses to accept this plan. But we hold our ground. “Okay,” he snaps, “I will meet you.” But when we arrive, he’s not there. We wait, our rental car perched on the sidewalk—two wheels on, two wheels off—for a full 15 minutes.
Jacques finally shows up, a tall, ginger-haired man who gestures at our car and snarls, “I told you, you can’t park here!” (Seriously? If you hadn’t kept us waiting, we wouldn’t be parked here!) Such “pleasantries” aside, we quickly unload our luggage and Dave removes the offending vehicle. Jacques leads Anna up a flight of winding stairs to an apartment whose best feature is its location, a few steps from one of our favorite Paris haunts, the Place des Vosges. After warning Anna not to disturb the neighbors or accidentally lock herself out of the apartment, our haughty host retreats, never to be seen again.
Langdon has already arrived in Paris and we have arranged to meet him at Ma Bourgogne for an apératif. As soon as we sit down, “our” waiter hurries over to take our order. It is a pleasure to see him every time we visit—he is always on duty it seems, no matter what time we stop by—but his constant presence illustrates the long hours demanded by his profession. “When will you get to retire?” Anna asks. He smiles and looks skyward. “In Heaven,” he responds. His tone is light-hearted, but also hints of regret—or resignation? Note: Since the pandemic, waiters have begun demanding fewer hours, so perhaps things are changing. We notice two new young waiters hovering nearby. Waiting in the wings, perhaps.
A visit to Paris always includes pilgrimages to favorite places. Dave has been dining at the family-owned Le Villaret for over 30 years, but Langdon has never been, and it’s high time we introduced him.
More family members arrive, sleep-deprived but cheerful (one niece without her luggage, but it will show up a day later), and the marathon begins. Dave leads everyone on a long march through a maze of left bank streets starting at the Jardin de Luxembourg, proceeding to Saint Germain des Près with a brief halt at Place Furstenberg before a lunch stop at Brasserie Lipp. And that’s just for starters.
Meeting up with family and sharing the delights of Paris is a rare treat worth an infinity of Michelin stars. Each day brings new explorations and lengthy wanderings around Paris.
The best part is being together. (And the pâtisseries. And the architecture. And the cafés on every corner. And…) The worst part is missing the family members who can’t be with us. But they are in our hearts and minds.
Au revoir, Paris. See you next time!
And so our circular travels end where they began, at home. In our case, to a clean house a happy dog*. Two weeks later, a case of imported wine arrives—twelve bottles, each miraculously intact. Every sip transports us to a certain hilltop vineyard and a unique moment in time.
*It took time and effort to find a trustworthy person to stay in our home and befriend our dog in our absence. For anyone else who has a pet and/or isn’t comfortable leaving their home unoccupied, it is worth mentioning that we recommend “Trust My Pet Sitter” trustmypetsitter.com, a newish agency whose team provided outstanding service at a reasonable cost. (Not to be confused with “Trusted Housesitters”, an agency we’d used before but abandoned due to less-than-great experiences.)
On our way south from Lyon to Avignon, we stop at Vienne, once a Roman settlement (like most towns in this part of southern France) and supposedly full of interesting ruins. We park in a tree-shaded lot and set off on foot past closed shopfronts and graffiti-tagged walls to the rebuilt remains—not ruins—of a large Roman temple. A sidewalk café faces the temple, and we order two coffees. The café is quiet; only a few tables are occupied. Our waitress delivers our espressos, and just as we take our first sip, a young man bursts out of the café door and crashes through a cluster of tables, chased by a burly man with a shaved head who catches up with him and shoves him into a railing. They aim blows at each other, and for a moment it seems we could be caught up in a brawl, but then two more men race over, tackle the aggressor and pin him to the ground. He struggles, and one of the men holding him down shouts, “Tu te calmes ou je t’écrase la tête!” (Calm down or I will smash your head!) An aproned waitress puts down her tray and helps immobilize the man by sitting on his legs. A small crowd of onlookers has gathered, and someone must’ve called the police, for we soon hear the two-tone wail of approaching gendarmes. Our waitress gives a disapproving shake of her head. “Bienvenu en France,” she says. We pay our bill and leave, unwilling to witness any further drama. Such is our introduction to Vienne.
Things improve on our way back to the car. We pass a shoe store and Dave veers inside with a treasure hunter’s gleam in his eye. “I’ve been wanting some of those colorful tennis shoes I saw men wearing in Paris,” he explains. After trying on several pairs of shoes and fending off an opinionated saleswoman’s insistence that he buy a different (more boring) pair, he settles upon a pair of carrot suede shoes that fit like a dream and transform his image from tourist to trendsetter.
We follow the Rhône River valley into the heart of Provence, and it’s easy to see why so many people love this region. Red poppies and vineyards seem to line every roadside, ancient stone villages perch on hilltops and leafy sycamore trees shade the avenues. And of course, sunlight bathes the landscape. “I feel like Monet,” says Dave, as we pass yet another grassy field dotted with bright crimson flowers.
Dave has booked us a seven-night stay at Le Moulin du Four, a renovated old mill in the countryside outside Avignon. We arrive after a long day of driving and it feels like paradise: a classic old Provençal house set in a tree-shaded garden next to a flowing stream. Our apartment opens onto a terrace with table and chairs and a garden with a hammock and comfy chaises longues, and Anna is tempted to quit sightseeing and spend the next seven days right here.
Inside our apartment the temperature is perfect for a dry martini, but not for our comfort. The weather has been unseasonably cool, and the only heat source is a pellet stove in the main room (which we promptly light) but it cannot effectively take the chill off the high-ceilinged rooms and thick stone walls designed to keep heat OUT. Never mind. We wear our jackets around the house and sweaters and socks to bed. Note: Later in the week when warmer weather arrives, we will be glad of the coolness of our rooms.
We’ve chosen this Airbnb for its central location as much as for its charm, and each day we target a few places on the map and set off to explore. In the walled city of Avignon, we stroll along shaded streets and gaze in wonder at the Pope’s Palace and cathedral.
Early one morning we arrive in Gigondas and wander the narrow, cobblestoned streets before any other tourists arrive. Nestled at the foot of the Dentelles de Montmirail mountains, the tiny village is picture-perfect Provençal, and namesake of the celebrated Rhône Valley red and rosé wines produced here.
In Vaison-la-Romaine, we thread our way through the busy, “new” town and across the old Roman bridge into the medieval “old” town. Dave squeezes our car into a fortuitous parking spot and we continue on foot, passing under a stone archway where a street musician strums a guitar and sings a French ballad.
Winding our way up a continuous incline of cobbled streets and stairs, we traverse several tiny squares with a stone water fountain at their center.
Many of the old stone houses display fine architectural details.
Eventually we reach the top of the hill and the ruins of a fortified castle. During the Middle Ages, inhabitants of Vaison-la-Romaine migrated here to the relative safety of the steep rocky hilltop offering panoramic—and defensively strategic—views over the surrounding countryside.
On a day when our route leads past the town of Orange, we stop for a coffee and visit the Roman theater, the best preserved specimen of its kind in the world. The massive venue is still in use, hosting a summer opera festival and accommodating up to 9,000 spectators.
Without a doubt, the culinary highlight of our week in Provence is a multi-course meal at Le Chenet, a Michelin-starred restaurant located near the Moulin du Four. Read on for a description, or simply scroll down for the visuals. The adventure begins with an amuse-bouche of fresh garden peas and herb sorbet. Then we have choices: For Dave, tuna tartare, foie gras and ginger, followed by morel mushrooms, sautéed asparagus and roasted veal served with sa tête (a cleverly disguised way of saying veal brains, which Anna doesn’t divulge until he’s eaten most of it, commenting on its “chewy texture and nutty flavor” and wondering aloud if it is some sort of mushroom). Anna’s meal choices are squash flower soufflé and trout mousse in a balsamic reduction, followed by line-caught monkfish in an emulsion of haddock, grilled fennel and leeks. Then it is time for dessert: a pink orb glazed with strawberry gelée over a layer of feather-light strawberry cream and a core of frozen strawberry sorbet served on a praline wafer. To accompany this already sufficient morsel, a tiny dish of strawberry “caviar” topped with a wildly aromatic basil-lime sorbet. But we’re not done yet. In such an establishment, Les Mignardises (sweet treats), always follow the dessert. We have just enough room left for a thumbnail-sized cube of pistachio cake and a chocolate truffle no larger than a pea.
At this point in our travels, Anna achieves her dream of a day—or two—without sightseeing. In the morning, she hikes up a narrow canyon to the top of a ridge with a view across the river to Avignon and the distant Mount Ventoux. At midday, she handwashes clothes and hangs them on the line to dry. Isabelle, our Airbnb hostess, is also in the garden, and they enjoy a friendly chat. Later, Anna sits at the table on the terrace and makes use of the art supplies she brought all the way from California. She hears the sounds of birdsong, of pencil on paper, of flowing water.
Meanwhile, Dave sets out on a solo mission to Isle-sur-la-Sorge and Bonnieux, with drive-by nods to Lacoste and Menerbes.
It is not the first time he has been to these towns; he visited often in the autumn of 1993, when he and his family spent a month in a sprawling old farmhouse in the hills above Apt. He has fond memories of shopping at local markets and plucking a freshly slaughtered turkey to roast for Thanksgiving dinner.
At a café stop in Bonnieux, he greatly impresses the barman and his cronies who mistake him for Anthony Hopkins.
Before returning to our mill house from his solo travel day, Dave stops to pick up provisions at the local grocery. The shop is excellent (Isabelle tells us that people drive all the way from Avignon to shop here), and since many restaurants are closed due to the Ascension holiday, the next two nights we cook for ourselves and dine informally—and more simply—in the garden.
During one such dinner, as we enjoy a bottle of Chablis from our dwindling supply, Dave is struck by a possibility: Why not return to Chablis for two nights, buy a case of our favorite (La Chablisienne 2019 Grand Cru “Les Clos”) and have it shipped to ourselves in the USA? Why not, indeed? We’d have to depart Provence two days earlier than planned, drop our rental car in Paris instead of Avignon, and trade a three-and-a-half-hour ride on the TGV (Train de Grande Vitesse, ie. High Speed Train) for a five-and-a-half-hour drive to Chablis. For us, it’s a no-brainer. As much as we love the peaceful setting of the Moulin du Four, we have had enough of Provence, and it is an easy matter to alert Isabelle of our early departure, cancel our train tickets and book an Airbnb in Chablis. And so once again, we swerve from our original itinerary and follow a spontaneous déviation.
On what has turned out to be our last day in Provence, we visit a place neither of us has been before: the startlingly beautiful and impressively preserved town of Uzès. Every elegant façade and even the paving stones are fashioned from creamy white limestone, lending a remarkable harmony and grace to this “city of art and history”.
We lunch at a café on the main market square in Uzès, La Place-aux-Herbes, and then head for the grand finale of our time in Provence, the ever-astounding Pont du Gard.
This remnant of Roman engineering—constructed without mortar, BTW—never fails to amaze. Anna can’t help but wonder if the people who designed and built it (most of whom were enslaved laborers) ever gave a thought as to whether or not it would still be standing more than 2,000 years later.
In anticipation of the drive to Chablis, our car—especially the bug-spattered windshield—needs a serious scrubbing. We find a lavomatique automobile, make our choice from a long, semi-comprehensible menu of cleanliness options, and then stand back to watch the show. (In automatic car washes in France, driver and passengers must exit their vehicle before the mechanized process can begin.) Fifteen minutes later, we come away with a gleaming car and an expanded vocabulary that we might, or might not, ever utilize again. (Who knew that pulverisation is the French word for “spray”?)
Our next unforseen adventure awaits on the road to Chablis, but we will save it for the next post!
We hadn’t originally planned to spend time in Lyon; we were going to spend three days hiking in the Alps. But wintry weather makes us think again. We worry that hiking will require snowshoes, and clouds will obscure the mountain views we were hoping to see. So, during dinner one evening in Burgundy, we hatch a new plan. Luckily, Dave has the foresight to always book places that allow penalty-free cancellations up to 24 hours in advance, and he enjoys the challenge of finding new and interesting places for us to stay, so in short order he has cancelled our alpine reservation and replaced it with three nights on an island in Lyon. But first we visit Pérouges, a walled village dating from around the 9th century and built with a mind-boggling number of individual stones.
Strategically located on the road from Lyon to Geneva, the village flourished through the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, becoming an important textile center known for the craft of its weavers.
Its fortunes dwindled in the 18th century, when a new road was built that bypassed the village, and new weaving techniques were developed using large, industrial sized looms.
At its height, the population of Pérouges numbered about 1,000 souls, but by the early 1900’s, businesses had shuttered, walls crumbled, and no more than 10 or 20 people remained. Structures were plundered for building materials to use elsewhere.
In 1911, horrified by the prospect of this historic jewel of a village being destroyed, a group of concerned citizens formed an association whose members each bought a house in Pérouges and rebuilt it. The association grew, and house by house, the village was restored. Today it is living replica of a medieval village, all signs of the modern world hidden from view, inhabited by artisans and tradespeople.
We arrive in Lyon in the late afternoon. Built on forested hills around the confluence of the Saône and Rhone rivers, Lyon and its environs impress us as a vibrant and attractive place to live.
Besides being considered the capital of French gastronomy, it is one of the largest metropolises in France, and the second most important business center (after Paris), with numerous regional headquarters and financial institutions.
Our rental apartment is on L’Île Barbe (or Insula Barbarica—the wild island), in the middle of the metropolis, but a world apart. Once a site of druid worship, in the 5th century the island became the site of one of the earliest Christian monasteries in France. Endowed with a wondrous library by King Charlemagne, the abbey withstood attacks by Saracens and Protestants in the 1500’s, became a facility for elderly or infirm priests in 1741, and was finally sold and dispersed during the French Revolution. Today, except for a small public park and playground, the island is private, the land and buildings owned by a small community of residents. The vestiges of its long and tumultuous history are reflected in the architectural mash-up of ancient ruins, medieval remnants, and subtle modernization, all blending into an enchanted hodge-podge of a place lost in time.
To reach our accommodation we make our way across a rickety, single-lane bridge (more often used by cyclists and pedestrians than cars), enter a code that unlocks an ornate iron gate and turn into a narrow lane that leads past the remains of a long-ago cloister.
Our host Bénédicte is a cheerful, outgoing young woman whose family has lived on L’Île Barbe for five generations. We follow her up a winding staircase and she explains that the building, once a monk’s refectory, was used by her ancestors to store junk. She recounts how she and her brothers had to clear out three stories of dusty rooms crammed floor to ceiling with centuries of cast-off furniture, art, textiles, books and memorabilia in order to create three holiday rental suites.
Bénédicte leads us into our top floor suite through a small foyer and tall, mirror-paned doors into a cavernous main room. The luxurious sitting area, dining table, kitchenette and doors leading to a small terrace are definitely more space than we need, but it is the only room available, the price is reasonable, so here we are, and we aren’t complaining. (Also, the internet is reliable and fast.)
Palladian windows look down onto a peaceful garden where remnants of the Romanesque abbey church are still visible: a ghostly archway embedded in the wall of a converted cottage; a subterranean entrance to an ancient crypt; and an interior wall of the abbey church, now an exterior façade.
It’s time for our first meal in Lyon, fabled foodie’s paradise. We walk across the river to Pistou, a nearby restaurant recommended by Bénédicte, and enjoy a meal so delicious that we wish we could return every evening of our stay. Unfortunately, the staff is going on a week’s holiday the next day, so the best we can do is count ourselves lucky we managed to catch one meal here. Dave swears that his entrée is the freshest, most refined tuna tartare and vinegar-infused rice he has ever experienced (and that is saying A LOT), and Anna can’t help but exclaim over the burst of flavor with every bite of her cod, white asparagus and nutty cereal risotto bathed in frothy caviar sauce. So far, so good on the gastrono-meter.
There are no shops or restaurants on the island, so the next morning we make the short journey across the bridge to the nearest bakery, a fragrant, bustling establishment offering not only a vast selection of baguettes but also an array of tartes, brioches, croissants, sandwiches—in short, any breakfast pastry or picnic fixings our hearts might desire. We stock up while we can; the bakery will be closed for the next two days.
A brief note about opening—and closing—hours in France: In Paris, one can always find an open bakery, shop or restaurant, but in provincial towns and villages, even a big city like Lyon, opening days and times are sporadic, and sometimes seem downright capricious. Advance planning is essential, unless one enjoys running out of milk and skipping meals.
We set out to explore the Old Town of Lyon, but after twenty minutes of shouldering our way through swarms of chattering teens, tourists, extended families and baby carriages, we realize that Sunday afternoon on a three-day weekend (which most French will stretch to four days, and some simply taking the entire week off) is probably not the best time for a relaxed stroll around narrow winding streets.
About holidays in France: The French are notorious for “bridging the gap” between weekends and holidays, and because Wednesday, May 1 is French Labor Day, Wednesday, May 8 is VE day, May 9 is the religious Ascension Day holiday and businesses are closed anyway Sunday, Monday and/or Tuesday, many people simply take the first two weeks of May off. We admire the French sense of work-life balance, but traveler be aware.
To escape the crowds, Dave retreats to The Smoking Dog Pub for a beer. To his delight, he finds a cold IPA and a Sunday afternoon playlist of All Beatles All The Time. Anna hikes to the top of the nearest mountain and finds views more reminiscent of Italy than France.
A visit to Lyon would be incomplete without a meal in at least one of the seven (7!) Paul Bocuse restaurants scattered around the city. (Who is Paul Bocuse? He is one of the founding fathers of French nouvelle cuisine, aka the Pope of French Gastronomy.) Each of his Lyon restaurants offers a different atmosphere and menu, and the largest, the casual Brasserie L’Ouest, is very convenient to where we are staying. It is a SCENE. At least five different wait-staff attend our table, and the restaurant is filled to the brim with families, couples and friends. Dave orders a classic steak tartare avec frîtes and salad, while Anna enjoys a three-layer concoction of rice, marinated beets and seared salmon in a light sorrel sauce.
Instead of ordering Chablis to accompany our meal, we decide to try a half-carafe of white wine from southern Burgundy. (What were we thinking? Henceforth we will come to our senses and return to drinking Chablis.) The backdrop of our meal is the constant back-and-forth of service and a large open kitchen where cooks wearing tall white chef’s hats scurry between stations. The head chef communicates with his minions via microphone and his instructions are audible to the entire restaurant. It is not an intimate dining experience, but it is definitely entertaining, and not to be missed.
In the part of town known as La Croix Rousse, formerly a silk weavers district, we make sure to visit the huge trompe l’oeil painting that creates a 3D illusion of neighborhood dwellings, shops and street life on what is actually a large expanse of blank plaster wall.
After each sojourn across the water into town, we are happy to leave busy city streets behind and return to our island refuge. Intriguingly, a high, locked gate blocks entry to the other end of the island. Anna attempts some iPhone espionage, but what lies beyond remains a mystery.
Two great meals, one to go. On our last night in Lyon, we find a friendly restaurant and a menu with unusual and delicious choices at Copains Copines sur la Colline (Friends on the Hill), a small “bistronomique” restaurant in the Croix Rousse district. Anna orders an entrée of tandoori chicken breast with onions, cucumber, coriander with raïta sauce topped with a teaspoonful of coconut curry sorbet. Her main course is steamed yellow monkfish with wok-fried vegetables served over ramen noodles and drizzled with a light coconut-lemongrass-coriander sauce. Dave orders a main course and a dessert: Truffle risotto with ham, parmesan and hazelnuts, followed by mojito sorbet with morsels of buttery pound cake and mint sauce.
And so ends our time in Lyon. If our short visit is any indication, the appellation “gastronomic capital” is true.
Five days in, and we have recovered a few IQ points lost to jet lag, though most mornings, our brains still feel smothered in cotton wool. Could it be the wine? Surely not.
The day we depart Chablis, we rendez-vous for lunch with Anna’s brother Lon and his friend Kate, who also happen to be in France. The four of us enjoy a leisurely meal and are very pleased indeed to share time together in France. After coffee and dessert, we go our separate ways and as soon as we get a few miles down the road, we kick ourselves for not taking a photo of our reunion. For the record, we met in the village of Collanges-la-Vineuse, southwest of Chablis in an area of tree-lined roads, vine-covered fields, and the occasional cherry orchard.
We continue southeast into the region known as La Côte d’Or (golden hillsides). Repeating patterns of vines cover the hilly green terrain like patchwork. Red tile-roofed houses cluster around tall church steeples. The soil changes from the pale chalky clay of Chablis to a loamy dark caramel. Lilac blossoms—white, lavender and deep purple—seem to decorate every roadside hedge and garden. In one tiny village we come upon a collection of antique chauffrettes (metals pots that are filled with slow-burning paraffin to keep the vines warm against frost), arrayed on top of an old stone wall.
Our destination is Domaine des Volets Bleues in Orches, a rental house in a secluded hamlet consisting of about a dozen dwellings tucked into the lee of a steep cliff. We will stay here five nights, per Anna’s request for this trip to be less peripatetic than previous travels, and we are both looking forward to staying in one place and embarking on day trips to explore the region.
A narrow lane with a steep hairpin turn leads to the house. Uncertain where we should park, we stash our car around the corner a few meters away and walk to the front door. As we approach, a short, wiry woman with close-cropped grey hair steps into the road, draws a quick puff off her cigarette and tosses it to the ground. She grinds the cigarette butt with her foot and barks, “Where did you park your car?” We presume she is our host, despite the lack of friendly preamble. (No “Hi, you must be Dave and Anna?” Not even a “hello”?)
Never mind. As soon as we follow her into the flagstone-floored entry, the brusque greeting hardly matters. The house dates from the 16th century, and has been carefully renovated to retain period details such as exposed stone walls and soaring ceilings supported with beams the size of entire oak tree trunks. Modern conveniences have been thoughtfully added: well-appointed kitchen and bathrooms, a washer/dryer and super-fast internet. Furnishings and décor are artfully curated and convey a comfortable yet stylish “lived-in” feel; it is obviously someone’s home, not just a rental unit.
Our host gives us a quick tour, thawing only slightly when she realizes that we are not strangers to France (or to England, where she is from) and so she won’t have to explain all the basic ins and outs of local culture (such as shops closing for lunch and restaurants often closing on Mondays). We soon discover that she is not the owner of the house, but the property manager, who, along with her husband, oversees about 24 properties. (Thus explains—sort of—her gruff welcome.)
The owner of the house, Alex Gambal, is an American who moved to France with his family 30 years ago to become a winemaker. He has written a book recounting his experiences, “Climbing the Vines in Burgundy” and has left a copy for us to browse. The book could use some editing, Dave says, but is nevertheless a fascinating read.
We wake up our first morning at Domaine des Volets Bleues to find the internet down due to a system-wide network outage. A weak phone signal means tethering to our phones is not a viable option, and First World Problems ensue: We can’t read the New York Times, send or receive emails, edit photos that upload to the cloud, research our sightseeing plans or even check the weather forecast. Anna can’t post to her blog or attend her British Book Club via Zoom. However, we are still on holiday in France, so it’s not all bad. Besides, internet outages are usually sorted within a few hours, right? (Wrong. Spoiler alert: We remain offline until we depart, four days later. This is unexpected, and a bit inconvenient, but it does not dim our appreciation for the lovely house and region. And, we remind ourselves, one of the requirements of travel is a willingness to cope with the unforeseen.)
We head to Beaune, a prosperous town known as the epicenter of Burgundy wine, park the car and explore the old town on foot. The famous Hospices de Beaune with its magnificent Burgundian tile roof lives up to the hype of its being a masterpiece of medieval architecture. Founded in 1443 as a hospital for the poor and orphaned, the hospital remained in continuous use through World War I, when the nuns cared for injured servicemen.
While in Beaune, we enjoy a delicious bistro lunch of seared tuna salad (Anna) and steak tartare avec frîtes for Dave.
Another day, we have booked a “tasting workshop” at Dufouleur Frères in Nuits-Saint-Georges. At the appointed hour we drive through the gate and meet our energetic young host, Jean Dufouleur, one of the many cousins descended from generations of winemakers. The family name—Dufouleur—he informs us, comes from the word for a person who stomps on the grapes to make wine—un fouleur—grape crusher. We learn how he came to be an oenologist—a scientist of wine and winemaking—and about his vision of an environmentally-sustainable future for his family’s winery. On a large map, Jean points out the region’s different vineyard plots (called climats), and explains that white Burgundy wines depend as much on the producer’s methods and intentions than a given terroir. Dave is familiar with various winemaking techniques, but Anna is interested to learn that while terroir supplies the raw materials, the élevage (aging and finishings processes) can make—or break—great wine.
Most mornings, Dave finds a new boulangerie (bakery) to sample, and we manage to squeeze in at least one more wine tasting.
One lunchtime, Dave is tempted by a restaurant whose menu lists about 15 varieties of pizza. “I’d love a pizza”, he says. Anna has her doubts, but the menu also offers a couple of salads, and so she agrees to give it a go. The look on Dave’s face says it all: pizza, like many things, is different in France.
It might seem like all we are doing in France is eating and drinking, but we also spend plenty of time exploring, on foot and by automobile.
Obviously, we spend a bit of time making photos. Dave prefers the challenge of composing landscape shots; Anna is drawn to details.
Finally it’s time for the “Anna Roots Tour”. She has fond memories of living in a large apartment above the stable block of the Chateau Dracy-les-Couches, preparing a fleet of bicycles and getting to know her fellow bike tour guides. She has always thought she might visit again someday. But on this cold, rainy afternoon 35 years later, the place only looks vaguely familiar, and Anna feels no nostalgia, rather a sense of contentment to have “been there, done that”, and to now be in a different place and time of life.
On our last evening before departing our blue-shuttered domain, we dine at Le Bistrot des Falaises (the cliffs bistro), in the nearby hamlet of Saint Romain. Our meal is a revelation of fresh seasonal ingredients and inventive combinations. Anna chooses an Entrée + Plat of herring, beet and radish salad, followed by grilled octopus and braised endive in a reduction sauce. For Dave, Plat + Dessert: steak tartare and garlic roast potatoes, followed by rhubarb tart in an almond crust, garnished with a cream sorbet.
The next morning, we wake to the sound of a cuckoo calling. It is a rare and charming sound, a gentle reminder that it’s time to pack up and move on to a new destination. (Hopefully with internet access.) We’re going to stay three nights in the capital French gastronomy, Lyon. Will it live up to its reputation, and will our stomachs be up to the task of finding out?
Anyone who knows Dave will probably know that his favorite white wine is French Chablis, a succulent marriage of flinty citrus and floral notes that is made with 100% Chardonnay grapes, but is miles away, geographically and stylistically, from bold, buttery Napa Valley Chardonnay.
Terroir (soil, climate, topography) matters. The chalky soil, cool, wet climate and an aging process that takes place primarily in steel tanks is the alchemy that creates the uniquely refreshing yet complex Chablis wine.
Despite Dave’s reverence for Chablis wine, he has never made the pilgrimage to the place from which it takes its name—until now. The small, unpretentious town is something of a hidden treasure, quiet streets lined with well-kept stone houses and shops, at least two world-class restaurants, a tempting selection of wine tasting rooms, and not a tee shirt or souvenir shop in sight.
With his usual care for location, comfort and charm, Dave has booked us a cottage on the river, aptly named Riverside Lodge. Our hosts are a British couple; Julia, formerly a chef of some renown, and John, a sommelier by trade who is also an accomplished musician. The Chablis region had been their vacation destination for many years before they decided to retire and move here full time. They spent four years transforming a run-down residence, abandoned outbuildings, and wasteland of concrete and weeds into a peaceful home, a guest cottage and garden.
John accomplished most of the building work by himself (a book of photos in our cottage attests to his ambitious feat) while Julia oversaw the tasteful interior furnishings and decoration. She equipped the spotless kitchen with items that Anna always wishes to find at rented accommodation but usually doesn’t: tongs, sharp knives that actually slice, poultry shears, an adequate selection of pans, dishes and glassware, and useful condiments such as oil, lemon juice and spices.
After settling in, we join John and Julia for a glass of “village” Chablis (ie. not a Grand or a Premier Cru). The supposedly “ordinary” wine nevertheless epitomizes the characteristic freshness and mineral-infused flavors that we love, and that are characteristic of wines made here. We note the vintner and the vintage (2022 Raoul Gautherin & Fils) and resolve to buy a few bottles before departing Chablis. Between appreciative sips, we chat with John and Julia about their life here, about where they lived in England (not far from us), and about music, inspiring John and Dave to perform an impromptu duet on piano and guitar of Elton John’s “Your Song”.
A short walk across a stone bridge leads us into town and to Au Fil du Zinc restaurant, a bright, elegant room situated in an ancient mill looking out over the river. It is the sort of place where diners can choose between either a 5 or 7 course meal, with or without wine pairings. We choose the 5-course option with pairings. Describing our dining experience in words hardly does justice to the precise and inventive combinations of flavor and texture of the Japanese-influenced cuisine. But we’re going to do it anyway. To start, we are served three bite-sized amuse-bouches: scallop sashimi, escargot puffs, and—our favorite—sorrel infused purée topped with a raw quail egg nestled in a curl of carrot ribbon.
Next, white asparagus spears poke out from a bed of green pea, coconut and wild garlic mousse. This course is paired with a 2021 1ère cru Chablis, which, unexpectedly, tastes rather pallid compared to the more “everyday” Chablis poured with the appetizers. Our sommelier explains that 2021 was a tricky year, with early frosts destroying much of the harvest. No matter, we are ready to move on to our next course: seared Shiitake mushroom vélouté garnished with Shiso leaf and a chewy dollop of black pudding.
Course portions are petit and we still have room for the penultimate offering: a tender filet of local brook trout layered atop slivered rhubarb, green beans and almonds dressed with warm miso sauce. A forgettable red wine accompanies this course. Perhaps we would’ve been better off simply ordering a bottle of Chablis to go with our meal, but the joy is in the discovery, and besides, by now we have become friendly with our sommelier—a young Frenchman who has spent quite a bit of time in San Francisco, and surprisingly, Petaluma. When it’s time for the last course, Dave warns him, “My wife doesn’t eat dessert.” He replies without missing a beat, “That’s good, neither does our chef.” Indeed, a light concoction of fresh Provençal strawberries, crème sorbet, wafer-thin almond galette and citrus-herb marinade leaves us sated but not stuffed. We shake hands with our sommelier and walk home in the lilac-scented night.
The next day is market day in Chablis. We stroll up the main street past stalls selling local honey, rounds of fragrant cheese and charcuterie, fresh strawberries, several varieties of apples, pullover sweaters and summer dresses (wishful thinking, because the weather is unseasonably cold and cloudy). Dave stops to try on a jaunty straw hat. It suits him, and he buys it on the spot. The bearded merchant smiles. “Perhaps a straw hat will bring us sunshine,” he remarks, handing Dave his change.
Purchases at several more stalls supply us with provisions for dinner: a roasted game hen, a pint of waxy, golden potatoes soaked in drippings, fresh leeks, ripe tomatoes, and a small bushel of spinach.
For lunch, we have a reservation at “Chablis Wine Not”, a bustling, trendy wine bar we never would’ve gotten into without booking ahead. The menu offers a selection of small plates and we share a raw squid and radish salad, turkey-pistachio terrine, cauliflower tempura, and trout sashimi with seaweed crisps.
Wine enthusiasts will understand the thrill of what we do next: We drive to the top of an east-facing slope, park the car and walk through a grove of pine trees to the oldest—and most esteemed—vineyards in Chablis. No walls or fences contain us; we are standing amongst the vines. Dave gazes around in awe. “It all comes from right here!”
The mix of limestone, clay, cool climate and exposure to rain and sun on these hillsides is ideal for making great wine, even in difficult years. Cistercian monks made wine in this area as early as the 12th century, and since 1938 the wine produced from grapes grown on these 260 hilly acres—a scant 2% of Chablis vineyards—has officially been classified as Grand Cru. (It is important to note that in Chablis, Grand Cru outranks 1ère Cru, the opposite of the rating system used in Bordeaux. Not trying to be confusing, promise.) The specific vineyard names are unknown to Anna, but Dave recognizes them all: Blanchots, Preuses, Bougros, Grenouilles, Valmur, Vaudésir and—the oldest, and arguably the most venerated—Les Clos.
By now Dave has a mighty thirst, and it will only be quenched by sampling some legendary Chablis. We head back into town to La Chablisienne, a well-known local wine cooperative, and are treated to a free dégustation (tasting) of several Grands Crus. Needless to say, we come away with a few bottles. (Stocking up for the rest of our time in France—we still have several weeks ahead, and we depart Chablis tomorrow!)
In the evening, we spend a peaceful hour sitting outside on our private terrace overlooking the river. Pale pink clematis flowers climb across picket fencing and white lilac scents the air. Church bells sound from across the water. If we had any expectations about Chablis, they have been exceeded. We booked two nights here, but could’ve stayed a week.
Next we will travel deeper into the Burgundy region, an area we have both visited before, and where, 35 years ago, Anna worked as a tour leader for a small bike tour company. How much will seem familiar, all these years later? Will the nostalgia of visiting familiar places be as compelling as the excitement of new discoveries?
Then we arrive in Paris, and the answer is clear: As our location shifts, so does our perspective. We find ourselves in a perpetual state of “beginner’s mind”, experiencing everything as if for the first time. Even though we’ve visited countless times before, everything feels new, and we feel more alive (albeit minus a few IQ points, thanks to jet lag).
We check into our hotel, stash our luggage, and step outside to wander the cobblestoned streets of Montmartre. The non-stop sensory input is like a jolt of electricity that jump-starts our sleep-deprived brains.
Scooters zip past, narrowly missing car fenders and heedless cyclists. Cafés and restaurants overflow onto the sidewalks. Dogs of all shapes and sizes (a surprising number of them off-leash) trot obediently beside their humans. Bewildered tourists stand on street corners staring down at their phones. A police siren bleats a dissonant Doppler-bending wail.
A brisk hike up the countless stairs to Sacré Coeur brings our legs and lungs back online.
To my relief, the lilting intonation of native French all around us unlocks the dusty mental closet where fully formed sentences and obscure vocabulary words have apparently been waiting to spring forth as needed. How odd that these semi-intelligible sounds function as language, but what a blessing to understand and be understood.
We manage to stay awake for an early dinner of mussels and frîtes (French fries) for Anna; oysters, frîtes, and a simple green salad of the ilk found only in Paris for Dave. To celebrate our first night here, we raise a glass of effervescent Billecart Salmon (rosé) champagne. On our way back to the hotel, we pass the Moulin Rouge windmill, a familiar (“not anymore!”) landmark that is looking rather unfamiliar since mysteriously losing its arms the day before. (Probably Inspector Clouseau is on the case.)
The following day will be our last in Paris until we return for a week at the end of our trip. We decide to spend part of it learning about the history of French architecture at an exhibition currently on view at the Cité de L’Architecture et du Patrimoine. Unexpectedly, much of the exhibition consists of floor-to-ceiling reproductions of Romanesque pillars, statues and doorways. Luckily, our tickets also grant us entry to a fascinating exhibit about the construction of the Paris metro system, a poignantly expressive mural showing the damage to Notre Dame after the April 2019 fire, and scenic views of the nearby Eiffel Tower.
We have booked a lunch reservation at Ardent, a newish restaurant that features grilled dishes made with fresh seasonal ingredients. Unprepossessing from the outside, perhaps, but deliciously surprising inside. We thoroughly enjoy our lunch of smokey marinated artichoke hearts garnished with caper sherbet, bacon-wrapped turbot and charred endive (for Anna); and “crying tiger” (spicy Thai marinated beef), carrots vinaigrette, roasted herb-infused veal, pearl potatoes and root vegetables (for Dave).
At the Arc de Triomphe, we cannot resist resting on a bench and watching the never-ending spectacle of traffic zooming around the giant whirlpool of the étoile. Also, our legs and feet are tired. And so we sit for awhile, mesmerized by the continuous flow of cars, motorcycles, busses, scooters and cyclists all jockeying for position as they merge from 12 grand avenues into the circular flow of traffic. We witness several narrowly missed collisions and then hear a loud thump and the sound of scraping metal. Traffic slows, and Dave jumps up to see what happened, but an instant later the frenetic pace has already resumed. He returns to our bench and fondly recounts his 1977 solo drive through Paris in his dad’s new Mercedes, navigating with a paper map spread across his lap and somehow making it around the étoile without a scratch. He laments that we haven’t rented a car or a scooter to experience the wild ride again. But there is a workaround. A few blocks away we hail an obliging Uber driver who barges into the mêlée of the étoile as easily as pulling into a parking lot. He threads his way through the throng of vehicles with alternate bursts of speed and slamming of brakes and eventually delivers us safely to the other side.
In the evening, we scour the immediate neighborhood around our hotel for the sort of brasserie we like: not too modern, not too crowded, not too brightly lit. Eventually we come upon Le Sancerre, where we enjoy a casual dinner of croque monsieur (ham and swiss melted on hearty bread) for Dave, and seared salmon (or mi-cuit, as they say here) with a side of frîtes for Anna. Dave will return to the same café the next morning for breakfast and then we’ll head to Chablis, white wine Mecca for those of us who revere crisp, mineral-driven Chardonnay.
Our trip is bookended at the start and finish by a week-long stay in a familiar, well-loved place: Paris on the front end, and now, as our travels draw to a close, the English countryside where we used to live.
We find roses at every turn, the only real thorn being the wistful nostalgia we feel that we no longer live here.
Rose: En route to our final destination, we revisit some of our favorite haunts in the Cotswolds. (Snowshill, Upper Slaughter, Lower Slaughter, Broadway, and the Daylesford Cafe near Kingham, to name a few.)
Rose: Being welcomed at the front door with a glass of champagne when we check in for a one night’s stay at the magnificent—yet intimate—Abbots Grange.
Rose: Our ground floor suite is cool and comfortable, stocked with every amenity, and conveniently located near the honor bar. Dave’s booking choices continue to impress!
Rose: Five nights at “Tyringham Small”, a converted barn adjoining the 17th century Tyringham Hall, in the village of Cuddington. Dave has done it again; the AirBnB he has booked for the last week of our trip surpasses the standard he already surpassed!
Rose: Reunion dinner with friends in “our” village, and it’s as if we never left.
Rose: For Anna, attending a village Book Club meeting in-person instead of via Zoom.
Rose: A cosy, delicious dinner and catch-up with friends at the Sir Charles Napier, a favorite restaurant.
Rose: A day of tennis (and champagne) at Boodles, a grass court “warm-up” tournament before Wimbledon.
Rose: Sunday morning walk, coffee and cake with friends.
Rose: A last afternoon in the village, visiting with as many old friends as possible.
Rose: For Dave, a pint and a chat with the vocalist and the drummer from his fabulous British band, “Innocent Bystander”.
And now it’s time to pack our bags and take our leave, though in our hearts, a part of us always remains.
“And we ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough.” —Thornton Wilder, from The Bridge at San Luis Rey
Rose: The wild beauty of Wales speaks for itself.
Rose: A three-night stay in a cottage in Capel Curig, a few miles outside of Betws-y-Coed, ground zero for hikers, climbers, campers and sightseers in Snowdonia National Park.
Rose: Dinner out at a friendly local pub called Tyn-y-Coed.
Rose and Thorn: Our townhouse in Crickhowell is stylish and comfortable, but it turns out to be only a few steps from a busy roadway. We become aware of this fact only after we go to bed and are kept awake by the din of passing lorries.
Rose: Lots of lovely footpaths and places to walk.
Rose: Pilgrimage to Tinturn Abbey, in memory of Lowell, who loved visiting here. Scaffolding and fencing blocks large sections of the ruins, but the setting, in a wooded, isolated valley, and the magnificent remains still stir the soul and the imagination.
Rose: The road beckons us ever onward, especially since we have saved the best for last: we will spend the final 5 days of our 5 week trip visiting people and places we know and love.
Our route takes us southwest, through scenic hills and valleys (a.k.a. “dales”), picturesque villages and market towns (Thornton-le-Dale, Pickering, Helmsley and Grassington, to name a few). Our pace is leisurely. We stop for walks, for picnics, and to light candles in parish churches. Sometimes we stop for ice cream. We pass solitary farmhouses built of gray stone, sheep grazing in green fields bordered by hedgerows or stone walls, and once, we encounter a tractor parade. As always, we find many roses and only a few tiny thorns along the way.
Rose: The eerie beauty of Rievaulx, a ruined Cistercian abbey hidden in an isolated river valley.
Rose: Three nights at the Durham Ox, a gastropub/hotel in the quaint hamlet of Crayke. The “cottage” Dave has booked consists of a ground floor sitting room, spacious modern bathroom, small fridge and sink, and two bedrooms upstairs. Our room price includes dinner and breakfast in the historic pub/restaurant with low, beamed ceilings, a huge walk-in fireplace, carved wood-paneled walls and flagstone floors. The pub is open all day every day, and is located just steps from our cottage door. Very convenient for takeaway pints.
Rose: A visit to the parish church in Crayke. After settling in at the Durham Ox, Anna sets off with candles and matches to see if the church door is unlocked. (Sometimes village churches are open, sometimes they aren’t.) As she starts up the hill, a white-haired gentleman exits his garden and begins walking in the same direction, at the same pace, on the opposite side of the single lane road. They walk abreast for a few minutes, and finally exchange a glance. “Going my way?” the man asks, a smile in his blue eyes. Anna laughs and explains where she’s headed. The man, whose name is Eric, produces a sizable skeleton key from his pocket. It looks heavy, and very old. “I’m just on my way to lock up the church for the night. I’ll show you around.”
A half hour later, Anna has not only learned about St. Cuthbert’s church (established as a sacred resting place in 685 for St. Cuthbert on his journeys between Lindisfarne and York), she has also learned about Eric’s two aunts who live in Arizona, the history of the uninhabited medieval castle at the top of the lane, how Eric and his wife moved to Crayke after they retired, and even the salacious fact that when scientists analyzed the exhumed remains of monks, a large percentage were found to have had syphilis. Perhaps Henry VIII’s rationale for the dissolution of the monasteries as corrupt had some basis in truth beyond his desire to sanction his divorce(s) and remarriage(s) and confiscate monastic wealth.
A Rose That Some Might Call A Thorn: A rainy day. Absolutely bucketing down. A perfect day for an indoor tour of Castle Howard, the immense 18th century stately home where the hugely successful 1981 TV production (and a later, movie version) of Evelyn Waugh’s novel “Brideshead Revisited” was filmed. Home to the Carlisle branch of the Howard family for more than 300 years, the rooms are full of priceless furniture, sculpture, paintings, and other relics, including sections of Roman mosaic tile.
Roses and Thorns: The rain stops in time for a walk before dinner. Anna consults her OS map and embarks on a circular walk. After fifteen minutes of joyful, easy walking along a flower-lined footpath, she hears the whirr of a strimmer, and comes upon a man in the process of clearing the path, which has disappeared into a mass of weeds. “Should I turn ’round?” she asks, “Or can I get through?” He shrugs. “You should be all right. It gets better a little further on.” But it doesn’t. Anna thrashes through stinging nettles and thigh-high grass for what seems like the length of a football pitch. The foliage finally gives way to a wheat field bordered by chamomile flowers, and so she carries on, her trousers drenched and legs stinging as if they’ve been attacked by a swarm of wasps. Past one field, then another, until an unmistakable odor signals that she has arrived at a field oozing with freshly spread manure. The stench is off-putting (to say the least) and the footpath seems to have petered out. So much for the idea of a circular walk. Best option is to turn around and head back to the pub for a well-earned pint of Guinness!
Roses from York: Before we even enter the historic section of town, Dave sees a barbershop, and can’t resist getting a trim. Did he need one? Debatable; he looks good either way! After a beer in the garden of the Fat Badger, we stroll atop the wall surrounding the medieval part of the city. From this vantage point, we gaze down at gardens and across rooftops to the towers of York Minster. It is one of the most important cathedrals in England, but it pre-dates the word “cathedral”, which came into use after the Norman Conquest, thus it is called a “minster”, as important churches were known in Anglo-Saxon times.
Inside the ancient monument, we admire its airy gothic interior, its rebuilt crypt, and especially, the recently restored Great East Window, the largest expanse of medieval stained glass in the country.
Culinary Thorns and Roses: Our expectations are too high for our meals at the Durham Ox. (Obviously, we have been spoiled by our meals in France and Edinburgh!) The breakfasts are delicious (choices include scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, avocado toast, eggs-over-easy, bacon, sausage, toast, marmalade), but the dinner menu and wine list are uninspiring. Anna solves the problem by ordering the same dinner—mussels marinière—three nights in a row, but Dave tries something different each night, and each time is disappointed. Fingers crossed we’ll have better luck in Wales, where we are headed next.
But first, our last stop in Yorkshire, the largest, best preserved and probably the most well-known monastic ruins in England: Fountains Abbey. Anna has vivid memories of coming here 50 years ago, on a family holiday. Since then, a visitors center has been built and the parking lot expanded, but the abbey ruins seem little changed, and remain as impressive as ever.
After two days in Edinburgh, we rent a car and cross the border to England, the land of Very Interesting Place Names. We begin compiling a list: Hartburn. Sheepwash. Wideopen. Haltwhistle. Once Brewed. Ladypark. Netherthong. Fatfield. Mold. Not making these up!
Rose: The sunny, warm weather persists. Rather unusual for the northeast coast of England, and almost annoying (but not really!), because the raincoats, fleece vests and waterproof boots we packed have been taking up space in our luggage.
Roses and Thorns: Dave has booked a one-night stay at a pub with rooms in a coastal village called “Seahouses”, reputed to be scenic and picturesque. It’s not. Dave takes one look at the dingy huddle of houses, shops and pub and says, “Let’s find somewhere else.” A quick internet search leads us to a lovely country house hotel where we manage to check into the last available room. But when we take our luggage upstairs, the room is stifling. Hot sun is pouring in, sunset isn’t for another five hours, and the large window only opens 3 inches. “It is never going to cool down in here,” says Dave. “Even if we borrow an electric fan. (A bit of back-story here: the unseasonably warm weather has meant lots of stuffy bedrooms and fitful sleep, and we are hoping for a good night’s rest.) Feeling limp from heat, hunger and thirst, I am inclined to surrender and make the best of the situation, but Dave perseveres. “Wait here,” he says, and disappears downstairs to Reception to see if there is a suite or something we can upgrade to. But it is not to be. “There are no other rooms,” he informs me when he reappears. “I’ve checked out and gotten our money back. Let’s go.”
By now it is after 6 pm, and I am hoping that we won’t be spending the night in our rental car. A short drive along a wooded lane leads to another country house hotel. This one has recently been refurbished and actually has an air-conditioned room available on the ground floor with a terrace overlooking a green field. And it costs less than the hot, stuffy place. Heaven! Way to go, Dave! Sometimes it pays to be tenacious.
Rose: Our picnic lunches continue in various locales, always convenient; sometimes scenic. Afterwards, Dave typically seeks out a shot of espresso, easily done in France, but here, not so much. Until one day we stop for gas, and in drowsy post-prandial desperation, Dave buys a macchiato from a machine dispensing Costa Coffee and discovers it tastes exactly the way he likes it. Available at petrol stations all over England, Dave will enjoy many such automated Costa Coffee macchiatos, and he will never be disappointed
Rose: The serene countryside setting of Swinburne Castle, where Dave has booked us a two-night stay. Worn stone steps lead upstairs to our rooms in a converted stable block dating from the 17th century. Our bedroom windows look out over a seemingly endless expanse of parkland, majestic copper beeches and oak trees.
After settling in, Anna heads out for a walk, and is immediately accosted by Millie and Daisy, the resident mutts, who vie for her attention. After administering a belly rub to each dog, Anna sets off again, only to meet up a pack of beagles and their two handlers, approaching from the opposite direction. The dogs politely keep their distance while Anna chats with the men. It is a hot day, and one of the men explains that they’ve just taken the dogs to the “burn” (river) for a dip. “May I pet them?” Anna asks. “If you let one near, they’ll ALL want to know ye,” the handler answers, and indeed, as soon as Anna invites one hound to come closer, they all take turns leaping up, tails wagging. Pure joy, both canine and human.
Thorn: Weak, spotty internet during our stay at Swinburne Castle. We have great difficulty accessing regional maps, the weather forecast or even email, and Anna loses an afternoon’s worth of work. Perhaps it is the price we pay for a tranquil setting: the more remote a location, the less connectivity.
Roses: Roman ruins of Corbridge and Housesteads, a walk along sections of Hadrian’s Wall and The Sill, an impressive escarpment along part of the wall. We never fail to be awe-struck by the extent of the Roman empire, and the remnants that still exist, two thousand years later.
Rose: Passing through Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, we make a slight detour to Gateshead in order to visit a landmark piece of public art, the “Angel of the North”. This 65 foot-tall metal statue is as much a part of this region’s identity as the Statue of Liberty is to New York. It is also instantly recognizable to fans (like us) of Vera, the curmudgeonly detective played by Brenda Blethyn in the long-running British television program of the same name. Designed by sculptor Antony Gormley, the statue is made of Cor-ten steel, and stands on the former site of colliery pithead baths. According to Gormley, the angel has three functions: to remind us that below this site coal miners worked in the dark for two hundred years, to illustrate our transition from the industrial to the information age, and to provide a focus for our future hopes and fears.
Rose: Coastal village of Staithes, birthplace of Captain Cook, the son of a butcher who decided he preferred life at sea, so he joined the navy and eventually discovered Australia, New Zealand, Hawaii and many other small islands in the Pacific. He also brought new diseases that wiped out almost half the populations of the places he visited, but that’s another story.
Rose: “Devereaux House”, our stylishly decorated and comfortable accommodation in Whitby. Dave calls it “Skyscraper House”, because the rooms are spread out over five floors: ground floor kitchen, first floor salon, second floor bedroom, third floor bedroom, fourth floor sunroom/bar with a view of rooftops and a glimpse of the ruined abbey. We definitely get our “steps” in, during our three nights here.
A Few Thorns From Whitby: The culinary tyranny of Fish & Chips. Precious few restaurants offer any alternative, and they are fully booked. The harbor reminds us of Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco, teeming with tacky shops, crowded seafood restaurants and tourists of all shapes and sizes, some dressed as if attending a vampire’s ball. We later learn that Whitby is a goth magnet. Twice a year, it is the site of Goth Weekend, a music festival for the gothic subculture.
Rose: The stupendous ruins of Whitby Abbey, perched on a headland far above the hubbub of the harbor. Founded in 657 by Anglo Saxons, the abbey was abandoned after Viking raids in the 9th century and then re-established by Benedictine monks in 1078. Suppressed by Henry VIII in 1539, the Benedictine abbey ruins are what remain today. Bram Stoker spent his holidays in Whitby in 1809, and the setting inspired many elements of his novel “Dracula”.
Rose: A visit to Robin Hood’s Bay, a “chocolate box” coastal village south of Whitby.
Our travels flow seamlessly, like water, each day unique, yet blending into the next. We continue our lunchtime picnics and parish church pilgrimages, seeking out scenic places and lighting candles for loved ones along our way. We unpack and repack, again and again replaying the perpetual game of concentration that is required to find stuff in our luggage. Our lovely, capable and multi-talented house and dog carer, Jeanine, sends daily missives and “proof of life” photos of our dog, Woofus. He seems quite happy without us. This is both a rose and a thorn, of course!
After a restless night spent in noisy, airless room at an airport hotel in Nantes (forgettable or unforgettable, depending on your point of view) we board a Ryanair flight to Edinburgh. Two hours later, we land in Scotland and check in to a modern, spacious apartment with super-fast internet. Our flat is located in New Town (“new” being a relative term, as this part of Edinburgh was built between 1767 and 1850 so that the more well-to-do residents could move out of the over-crowded slums of the medieval Old Town) and within walking distance to restaurants, shops and pubs, including a friendly, well-stocked watering hole that we dub “our local”. Well done, Dave!
Rose: Besides booking all our lodging, Dave has also researched places to eat, and one of his recommendations is just around the corner from our apartment. We poke our noses in and enquire about dinner reservations but they are fully booked. However, the kind lady tells us, there’s plenty of room for lunch. The clock has just struck noon; we are hungry; we decide to stay. Bird in hand. Our meal rivals any that we enjoyed in France. Scotland a Foodie Paradise? Who knew? Will all our meals in the UK live up to this high standard?
Rose: Plenty of walking. We walk most everywhere, and especially enjoy a visit to the National Trust property at 7 Charlotte Square, considered one of the finest examples of Georgian architecture in the city. Furnished to show how it would have looked when John Lamont and his family lived here from 1796-1815, each room contains a fine collection of period furniture and objects illustrating the clothing, social habits, and lifestyle of the time. Despite my entreaties, Dave refuses to get a kilt, preferring a Georgian hat.
A Rose and a Thorn; Two Notable Impressions of Edinburgh:
1. Everyone we meet, from taxi drivers to bartenders to restaurant staff, seems helpful and friendly; genuinely interested in our welfare.
2. The traffic lights are inordinately long. “A person could die waiting for the light to change in Edinburgh!” Dave comments to a taxi driver, who laughs heartily and agrees.
Rose: A tour of the 413 foot Royal Yacht Britannia, decommissioned in 1997 after safely carrying the royal family on 968 official voyages. It is an undeniable—if slightly voyeuristic—thrill to view the royal family’s private quarters, the vast engine room, the 24-hour laundry facility, the old-fashioned sick bay, the officer’s quarters and the almost inconceivably cramped crew quarters. The hierarchy of social class and naval rank is almost painfully evident in the contrast of accommodation and privileges afforded naval officers and members of the royal family versus lower tier officers, other staff and regular seamen.
Rose: We continue our candle lighting tradition, seeking out churches and taking note of the history of each one. We are not religious, but nevertheless feel a sense of reverence and awe in these ancient, sacred places.
Rose: A surprisingly delicious dinner at Le Dôme. We choose the restaurant in order to experience the opulence of its interior, but find we are equally impressed by the excellence of its cuisine. Scotland’s reputation as Foodie Paradise is upheld! At least in Edinburgh; a small sample size, to be sure, but it’s all we have, for tomorrow we drive to England.
During our dinner at Le Dôme, a man approaches from a nearby table and asks if we would like to see the photo that he has just snapped of us. He is American, from Sacramento, California. At first we feel mildly intruded upon, but it is interesting to see the candid photo, and the man doesn’t seem to have any ulterior motives aside from friendliness. Dave returns the favor by taking a photo of him with his wife and son. Such small encounters season our travels the way salt and pepper season our meals.
Little do we know, the most beautiful treasures of Brittany await us in the forested interior and along the southern coast. Also the loveliest accommodation yet. Dave’s winning streak continues!
Click on any photo to enlarge.
Rose: Our stay at the Hôtel les Empreintes, in the Manoir du Moustoir, halfway between Quimper and Concarneau. In the Middle Ages, this fortified manor house was a knight’s stronghold; now it is a hotel with just the right balance of modern luxury, casual comfort and artistic flair. The setting, at the end of a tree-lined drive on twenty wooded acres, feels intimate, peaceful, and imbued with a sense of history. Climbing roses frame the stone arch of the doorway to our tiny apartment and original art hangs in every room. We sleep and wake to the sound of birdsong. A slice of heaven on earth.
Rose: A solo walk for Anna in the woods surrounding the Manoir du Moustoir. She follows a track that leads across a little bridge over a pond and up a little rise before disappearing into the undergrowth. She steps carefully over fallen trees and brambles and ducks under low-hanging branches. The path is damp, overgrown, and absolutely beautiful. A light rain begins to fall, but she only knows this because she hears the tap of raindrops on leaves overhead. Her umbrella is hardly necessary, the forest canopy is so thick. She walks for an hour in softly falling rain and returns to the manor refreshed. Dave too is refreshed. In her absence, he has been napping!
Rose: Locranon, a beautifully preserved stone village that has rightly earned the moniker of “Un des plus beaux villages de France” (one of the prettiest villages in France).
Rose: A detour to visit Keroscoët, a “discovered” but still unspoilt thatch-roofed settlement.
Rose: Kerdruc, a small scenic port where we find a shady picnic spot and a friendly auberge for a post-lunch espresso.
Thorn/Rose: We are underwhelmed by Quimperlé itself, but pleased to discover a farmer’s market in progress where we can replenish our picnic supplies.
Rose: Even though the picturesque mill town of Pont-Aven (“pont” means bridge, and an “aven” is an inlet from the sea) has long been a magnet for artists and tourists alike, it retains much of its charm.
Rose/Thorn: A trip to the village of Poul-Fetan, located on a hillside overlooking a steep valley and accessed via a dead-end road. The settlement originated in the 1500’s, and over the centuries, the population dwindled as agricultural methods modernized and peasants migrated to larger towns and cities. By the late 1970’s Poul-Fetan was virtually abandoned, its buildings falling into ruin. The local township stepped in, applied for a grant and with the hard work of many volunteers, restored the village and gave it new life as a living history museum. Our visit coincides with a sheep shearing demonstration, and we watch a sweet black lamb losing its fleece for the first time. We are surprised at how docile the lamb remains as the shearer wields a pair of old-fashioned shears. But when the shearer attempts to trim the lamb’s toenails, the yearling struggles and the shearer’s hand comes away smeared with blood. The sharp shears have somehow nicked the lamb’s lower lip. We turn away, heartsore to witness the animal harmed.
Rose: The ancient chapels and parish churches that dot the French countryside. We begin seeking out these sacred places and lighting a candle for loved ones who are going through challenging times. The daily ritual enriches our journey.
Rose: The town of Josselin exceeds our expectations. Strolling the narrow, cobbled lanes lined with half-timbered houses and stone edifices feels like going back in time. The pièce the résistance is a classic chateau overlooking the canal linking Brest and Nantes.
Rose: The location and convenience of “Longère Bretonne”, our rental gîte in the countryside outside the charming village of Malestroit, where two rivers meet and the Nantes—Brest canal passes through. Set near an old millstream, our cottage windows look out to views of fields and trees, and we can hear the soft rush of water flowing over the weir. It is a good time and place to take a “day off” from driving, sightseeing and dining in restaurants. We use the washer and dryer to do a couple of loads of laundry, take a long walk along the canal, and then watch Iga Swiantek beat Karolina Muchova in the closely contested women’s final of the French Open tennis tournament. We cook our own dinner (with assistance from a nearby farmer’s market): a fresh, spit-roasted chicken, tiny golden potatoes cooked in chicken juices, collard greens and salad.
Rose: On our last day in France, we have a lunch date with old friends, and on the way, we have time to visit Rochefort-en-Terre, another place that has earned the title “one of the prettiest villages in France”. For good reason. It is by far one of the loveliest villages we’ve seen. Winding, cobbled streets lead to a chateau and chapel on a hill overlooking the town and surrounding countryside.
Rose: Lunch in the garden with Lionel and Françoise, their daughter Gladys Kirsten and friend Dominique, at their home in La Baule. Anna met Lionel and Françoise while working in France over 30 years ago, and they have kept in touch ever since, periodically meeting up in various corners of the world. Reuniting is a pleasure we always look forward to.
Rose: Dave continues to bat 1,000 on lodging choices. Each place we stay during our time in Brittany is exactly where we want to be. Our spacious and beautifully appointed room at La Meffrais, a manor house located a few miles outside of the historic half-timbered port town of Dinan, offers a gracious country refuge. Tall casement windows look out over a view of a tree-shaded back garden and two horses in a paddock next door.
Rose: Apératif on the terrace of La Meffrais. The evening is warm, the garden is peaceful, the champagne is Bollinger. A chat with the owners, Samantha and Philippe, reveals that they quit their jobs in accounting and finance four years ago and purchased La Meffrais. They spent a year repairing and redecorating and were ready to welcome guests just as the pandemic closed everything down. But they are not daunted; they had a good year in 2022, and they expect 2023 to be even better.
Rose: Outdoor dinner at Le Poisson Ivre (The Drunken Fish) in the port of Dinan, with a view of the harbor. Sardine salad and oeuf mayonnaise for Dave; and for Anna, filet of sea bass, preceded by a very large, very tender, artichoke. (To her great joy, since when traveling, vegetables on the menu are often few and far between.)
Thorn: A “Lunch Problem”. After a morning hike to Fort de la Latte and back, it’s time for lunch, except we’ve left it too late and the few restaurants we come across are no longer serving. Also, it’s Sunday, and all village shops and even the supermarchés are closed. (We should have known better! This is not our first French rodeo!) Never mind. We snack on cherries and apricots from the Rennes farmer’s market and plan our evening meal.
Rose: Dinner! After our midday fast, we treat ourselves to bavette à point (steak medium rare) and Crozes-Hermitage (a delicious red wine from the northern Rhône valley) at Le Cantorbery, a traditional restaurant in the historic quarter of Dinan. The white-clothed tables are placed close together, and we strike up friendly conversation with a young Australian couple next to us. Like us, they had to cancel a European trip due to the pandemic and are just now making the trip. Also like us, they are tennis fans, and they try to convince us that we must complete our own personal Grand Slam by attending the Australian Open. Highly unlikely, but we play along.
Rose: The “Lunch Problem” is easily solved by purchasing picnic supplies: baguette, cheese, apples, sliced ham, paté forestier, cornichons, a bottle of rosé, a wine opener, two plastic glasses, two knives, and a packet of paper napkins. Freedom! We can now stop whenever and wherever hunger pangs strike.
Rose/Thorn: So many interesting villages and restaurants; so little time!
Rose: The discovery of Tréguier, a vibrant and well-preserved village of stone and half-timbered houses, artisanal shops, cafés, a central church square, and a small estuary harbor.
Thorn: We had been looking forward to seeing the so-called fjords of northern Brittany, but our timing coincides with low tide, and so instead of leafy, tree-lined waterways and boats bobbing peacefully at anchor, we find rivers of mud and vessels stranded in the mire.
Rose: The restored, thatch-roofed hamlet of Menehan, wind-swept and wonderful.
Rose: The view from our apartment in Morlaix. A winding ascent of 60 stairs (Dave counted) leads to our spacious apartment in the Duc de Bretagne Apart-Hotel, and the climb is well worth the view of the viaduc and main square.
Rose: Apératif and dinner at Le Grand Café de la Terrasse overlooking the Place des Otages (Hostage Square), named for the 60 citizens of Morlaix who were rounded up in retribution for French resistance attacks on the Nazis. The hostages were briefly held in the square before being deported to concentration camps. Reading the memorial plaque and standing on the spot where it happened, history feels very close indeed.
Rose: Simply being here, in this place where wildflowers, ferns and foxgloves decorate the roadsides, wheat fields give way to woods, and white sand beaches hide among fantastical mounds of boulders along the many-fingered coastline. No doubt about it; we are falling under Brittany’s spell.
On a Friday morning, we depart Paris for the countryside (along with many other travelers fleeing the city) on the westbound TGV (Train de Grande Vitesse). We disembark in Rennes, a university town and gateway to La Bretagne, aka Brittany. (Not to be confused with La Grande Bretagne, which is Great Britain, aka England.) Notable moments (Roses and Thorns) from our time in Rennes include:
1. Rose: Dave is the Best Travel Planner ever! He spent weeks refining his choices of places to stay on this trip, and our Rennes accommodation lives up to the precedent set by our Paris flat. Centuries old and super stylish, it is located in the medieval section of town and is surrounded by half-timbered houses, picturesque squares, ancient churches and inviting cafés.
2. Thorn: Rolling our heavy suitcases over cobblestoned streets leading to our apartment. But never mind! This is why we come here!
3. Rose: Our dinner at Coquille, and the jolly chef who mingles freely with his clientèle. He approves Dave’s main course choice of fresh pasta, ham and asparagus, assuring us that he made the pasta himself that very morning. My appetizer of baby artichoke and seiche (a squid-like fish) bathed in ink black sauce tastes as exquisite as it looks, and Dave declares his dessert “One of the best I have ever tasted!”
4. Rose: Our visit coincides with the weekly Farmers Market on the historic Place des Lices, reputed to be the second largest in all of France. A bold claim! True or not, the jumble of stalls selling flowers, fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, and baked goods fills every available inch of the large square and even spill over onto adjoining sidewalks. We visit early, before the aisles become crowded with queues of shoppers, and cannot resist buying fresh cherries, strawberries, apricots, and of course, a classic pain au raisin.
5. Rose: We pick up our rental car and I make a new friend, Stéphanie, our agent at the Enterprise car rental counter in Rennes. She verifies our paperwork, directs Dave to go pick up our car, (located a 15-minute walk away in a remote parking garage) and suggests that I stay behind with her and with our heavy suitcases. Accordingly, Dave sets off on foot, and I maneuver our suitcases and hand luggage into as unobtrusive a pile as possible. Stéphanie is friendly and chatty, and we find lots to talk about. A half hour passes easily. But then I begin to wonder where Dave is. I check his whereabouts on my phone, and he appears to be on his way back, though temporarily headed in the wrong direction because he is winding his way through a maze of one-way streets. 15 more minutes pass before Dave finally arrives and Stéphanie helps us load our baggages into a (thankfully) spacious trunk. She looks rather bereft as we shake hands and say good-bye. “À une prochaine!” (See you again!) she says, and although the chances of us meeting again are slim to none, I return her hopeful farewell. And then we are off, happy to be traveling under our own steam (so to speak) and on the open road.
Hemingway’s moveable feast is also a visual banquet. “Everywhere you look,” says Dave, “there’s something interesting to see.”
Art and artistry seem to infuse every detail of daily living.
The weather is perfect. During our five days in Paris, the temperature rises to over 80 degrees, and I am grateful for the sandals, shorts and sleeveless dress that I threw into my suitcase at the last minute.
No two ways about it: Paris is a city like no other. Dave and I have been coming here, separately and independently, all of our adult lives, and it is reassuring to find that post-pandemic, life here seems much the same, French joie de vivre and savoir faire intact.
We arrive on a Sunday afternoon, and EVERYONE is out and about.
Our apartment is a rare gem. One of Dave’s best finds ever. On the top floor, facing north, we have a distant glimpse of Sacré Coeur, close-up views of rooftops and a lovely church dome, topped with a dainty spire.
The slow-witted, scratchy-eyed effects of jet lag cause a few silly missteps, but no major catastrophes. When Dave ducks into a café bar on the Rue Saint Antoine for a quick espresso and pays with what he thought were euros but are actually British pounds, the barmaid merely laughs. I nip across the boulevard to a convenient ATM and all is resolved with the proper currency. Later, I pick up a basket of cherries at an outdoor stall and present them to the cashier only to realize I have forgotten my wallet. The merchant grins and says, “Oh la la!” A useful Gallic exclamation that can signify mild surprise, disappointment, annoyance, or, in this case, commiseration. During a visit to Musée de Jacquemart-André, a 19thcentury mansion housing a special exhibition of works by Giovanni Bellini, Dave is overcome with a desire to take a nap. Surely this can be blamed on jet lag, not on his antipathy for 15th century iconography?
It is the season of Rosé! Also, apparently, of mussels and oysters. We had thought shellfish would NOT be in season, for according to the rule governing their consumption, they should only be eaten in months whose name contains the letter “r”. But somehow, les huitres and les moules are on the menu, even at the end of May. We eat beaucoup, and all is well.
“Our” waiter at Ma Bourgogne on the Place des Vosges recognizes us from our visits over the years. He is a little older and grayer now, but then so are we.
Lunch at Parcelles with Catherine, Anna’s friend since university days, is a rare treat. It is lovely to reconnect, and to have stayed in touch over the years
We view a retrospective exhibition of abstract art by Catherine’s father, Georges Noël (1924—2010), at the Galerie Gaillard (3 rue Chapon), and Dave feels a great affinity with his work. It is easy to spend an hour admiring and scrutinizing his canvases.
Later, Catherine invites us to visit George Noël’s former atelier, where we look through catalogues, drawings and canvases, trying to decide if there is something we can afford.
One of the highlights of our time in Paris is a day of professional tennis at the French Open on court Philippe Chartrier. Incomparable!
“…I find a rock with sun on it, and a stream where the water runs gentle, and the trees which one by one, give me company. And so I must stay for a long time, until I have grown from the rock, and the stream is running through me, and I cannot tell myself from one tall tree…My help is in the mountain, that I take away with me.”
—Nancy Wood, American poet (1936-2013)
The untamed beauty of the Pyrenees takes us by surprise. More lush and rugged than the tidy Alps, the green pyrenean valleys and mountainsides are backdropped by fantastical jagged peaks and replete with hiking trails, waterfalls, lakes, thermal springs, and historic pilgrimage sites.
We pass through Lourdes—a remarkable intersection of religiosity and capitalism—and carry on to the Hautes Pyrénées, where we have rented a cottage for four nights.
As we near our destination, Dave casts a worried glance upward. “I hope our place isn’t way up there,” he says, pointing to a spot on the mountainside at least a thousand feet above the valley floor. But he suspects that it is.
We start up the mountain, pausing to get our bearings at a tiny café in the sleepy hamlet of Saint-Savin. (Later we will wonder if the café only opens according to the owner’s whim, for it will be closed every time we drive past.)
We steady our nerves with juice and Perrier and then continue up a single-lane track with plenty of stomach-clenching features such as gravel-filled potholes, blind corners and steep drop-offs. Eventually we come to an unmarked fork in the road, and with no obvious place to turn around if we choose the wrong way, we phone our host. We are almost there, she assures us, and directs us into a narrow, rutted lane marked with a sign that says “Proprieté Privée“. (Nothing to indicate that it is an Airbnb. Does she expect her guests to be clairvoyant?)
Never mind. Tucked into the steep hillside, our stone cottage is rustic and remote, but has everything we need, including a pile of regional topographical maps and spectacular views across the valley.
Before arriving in the Pyrenees, we’d planned to drive some of the iconic climbs of the Tour de France bicycle race (such as Col du Tourmalet and Col d’Aubisque), but the drive from the valley floor to our AirBnB has proved hair-raising enough, and besides, we’d rather spend our days hiking.
Our “warm-up walk” turns out to involve clambering up a stoney path reminiscent of the Inca Trail in Perú.
Moss and wildflowers border the trail, and the weather feels almost summer-like.
After two hours of climbing we are tired and thirsty, but luckily (as usually is the case in Europe) a reward is in store.
Seated on a restaurant terrace perched beside an impossibly turquoise lake, we enjoy a cold drink beer and tarte aux fruits (Dave), and apple juice and Perrier (Anna).
In the evening, we retreat to our cottage and light a fire in the wood stove. While Anna prepares fresh trout, mushrooms, spinach, shallots and tiny yellow potatoes, Dave plans our route for the following day.
In the morning, we tackle a longer, but less steep, trek to the Cirque du Gavarnie, a massive wall of rock forming part of the border between France and Spain.
Our trail leads us through wide grassy meadows past grazing cows and horses, across streams and through groves of evergreens and deciduous trees, leafy and green even at the end of September.
We stop for lunch (salad for Anna, croque-monsieur for Dave) at a hotel restaurant overlooking the longest waterfall in Europe.
Water cascades down the rock face all year, fed by the glaciers that cling to the high Cirque.
We’ve come just in time, for in a matter of days, the hotel restaurant will close for the season.
Our time in the Pyrenees too, is about to come to an end, but first, a day out in Pau, capital city of the region. We lunch in one of the many bustling cafés offering a view of saw-toothed Pyrenees, stroll the historic center, and visit the historic castle, birthplace of Henry IV, King of France and Navarre.
Next we will head to Spain, for five days of Spanish classes (Anna) and five days of tapas and Rioja (Dave).
…when the cities have killed off the poets, this peaceful region of France will be the refuge and the cradle of the poets to come. —Henry Miller, writer (1891—1980)
If Paris energizes the mind like a jolt from a double expresso, the French countryside revives body and spirit like a long cool drink on a hot day.
We are heading south, to the Dordogne and Lot river regions, where we will spend five days exploring some of the most beautiful landscape and prettiest villages in France. But first, a side-trip to the hilltop village of Sancerre, at the eastern end of the Loire Valley, ground zero for one of our favorite white wines.
The grape harvest is in full throttle, and we dodge crates of fruit to enter the la cave—the wine cellar—of a local winemaker.
Anna translates a short lecture on terroir–some of the wines are from parcels of land with chalkier soil, others more flinty—and after sampling several (very small tastes; we have a long way yet to drive today), we purchase one of each and continue on our way.
We travel at a relaxed pace, avoiding autoroutes whenever possible in favor of smaller country roads, allotting two days to reach our Airbnb in the Dordogne and including a detour to the tiny village of Gargilesse, a place Anna visited almost 30 years ago.
Once the country retreat of writer Georges Sand, the town seems to have changed little over the years, still a hodge-podge of stone houses hidden in a remote valley, inhabited by artists and urban refugees and visited by relatively few tourists.
We have come too late in the season for the annual harp festival, book and craft fairs, and the narrow cobbled streets are sleepy and peaceful, but we find an open café, and enjoy a delicious lunch of fresh gazpacho, mixed green salad and local smoked ham.
Continuing south past Limoges, we enter the Dordogne river valley, whose limestone caves and gentle wooded hills have been inhabited by humans for at least 400,000 years.
We pause to get our bearings in Sarlat-la-Canéda, an impressively intact medieval city located not far from our Airbnb.
Definitely on the tourist trail—and rightly so—Sarlat was developed in the 800’s around a large Benedictine abbey and remained a prosperous town until the 1700’s, when it was almost forgotten for nearly 150 years, thus preserving it from modernization.
In the 1960’s, the crumbling historic buildings were restored by André Malraux, writer, resistance fighter and France’s Minister of Culture at the time.
Street after street winds away from the central square, each corner revealing a new page of an ancient book.
Narrow passageways and stairways beckon us on and on, until thirst impels us to stop for a “reward” (as Dave calls it): Perrier for Anna, espresso for Dave.
Then it’s time to return to our car and set out to find our Airbnb. Dave has plugged directions into his iPhone, and in due course we proceed up a chestnut-lined drive to a small collection of stone houses, several of which are obviously rental cottages. We follow the signs to acceuil and knock on the door. From inside, we hear the loud whirring of an electric sander. Nobody answers the door, and so we try phoning. Just as I begin explaining to the man on the other end of the line (who does not speak English) that we think we are at his house but perhaps we are mistaken, the noise stops and a tall man appears in the doorway, covered from head to toe in white dust. It turns out that our GPS directions have sent us to the wrong Airbnb, but the dust-covered man knows our host, and the place we seek is only two minutes further down the road. We depart with many apologies and revised directions.
Just down the road, as promised, an enchanting stone cottage awaits. Rustic on the outside, modern on the inside, it proves an excellent base for exploring the area.
With its temperate climate, forested landscape, and abundance of ancient stone dwellings, churches and castles, it’s easy to see why the region is beloved by French and foreign tourists alike.
Fortified castles dot strategic hilltops, evidence of the region’s feudal and embattled past.
Control of what is now southwestern France see-sawed between England and France for over 100 years during the latter part of the Middle Ages, with the ruling houses of each country fighting incessant battles over territory.
Towns regularly changed hands, forcing local inhabitants to swap allegiances according to the most recent victor.
Finally, in 1451, motivated by Joan of Arc, French forces ousted the English for good. (Until the 1960’s, when tourism brought them back.)
All roads seem to lead to an Office of Tourism, but in late September we have many picturesque villages largely to ourselves.
The pilgrimage town of Rocamadour, clinging to a steep cliff face, is one of the more well-known tourist sites, but Dave and I are much more taken with the villages of Domme, Saint-Cirq-la-Popie, and the tiny hamlet of Saint-Martin-de-Vers.
Dave starts each day with fresh bread and pastries from a local boulangerie, and with our Airbnb’s fast internet connection, is easily able to read the New York Times online.
The Dordogne is renouned for its gastronomie, and we enjoy some fine meals out during our week here, but our favorite meals are cooked in our well-equipped Airbnb kitchen with ingredients purchased at the local farmer’s market.
The weather starts out much warmer than usual for this time of year, with only hints of fall color in the woods, but then the leaves seem to change before our eyes, and one day we even enjoy a long walk in the rain.
When the time comes to depart, is is with reluctance that we pack up and bid our host farewell. Perhaps we’ll be back one day, but now we are headed to the Pyrénées.
“The Earth is Art, the photographer is only a witness.”
― Yann Arthus-Bertrand, from “Earth from Above”
As traffic on the péripherique slows to a stop, our Uber driver explains that public transport workers are on strike today, thus more cars on the road and heavier traffic than usual. The minor inconvenience seems a fitting welcome to France, where strikes and protests are a fact of daily life. (Note: The only yellow vests we will see in Paris are worn for safety reasons, not political protest.)
One of our favorite haunts in Paris is the Place de Vosges, and it is our first stop after checking into our hotel.
We stroll around the 17th century square to our favorite café, Ma Bourgogne, and once we are seated, at an outdoor table overlooking the park, we feel we’ve truly crossed the finish line of our transatlantic journey.
We order two glasses of Sancerre and share an exquisitely fresh salad of cucumber, tomato, chives and thin French green beans, followed by steak tartare and frites for Dave and steamed mussels for Anna. We linger over our meal, exchanging pleasantries with our waiter, and when we depart, we assure him that we will return in the morning for petit déjeuner.
In fact, we will start every day by walking to the same café, shaking hands with the same waiter, and enjoying the same breakfast of croissant, tartine avec confiture, coffee and hot milk for Dave; eggs à plat (sunny side up) and Ceylon tea for Anna.
Unseasonably warm weather brings Parisians outdoors like bees to honey, and the city literally buzzes with life. Cafés and sidewalks overflow, and everyone is smiling.
We wander down to the Seine and join a throng of picnickers, cyclists and pedestrians on the riverbank.
“This place is like a giant playground,” marvels Dave. Indeed. Created in 2016 by the mayor of Paris when she banned automobiles from the quayside roadway, this two mile long promenade has become a busy zone of pop-up bars, restaurants, picnic and play areas for all ages at all hours.
A friend of Anna’s lives nearby, and we meet her for lunch at “Pianovins”, a intimate restaurant in the 11th arrondissement. Owner and chef are passionate about offering creative seasonal dishes, and our meal is a gastronomic treat, just right for our first lunch in Paris. Highly recommended.
And then it is time for a pilgrimmage to Notre Dame. We stand in shocked awe and gaze across the river at the historic edifice shrouded in scaffolding and protective wrap. A wooden platform has been built above the burned section, and heavy wooden braces now reinforce the great flying buttresses.
Standing next to us, a grey-haired man in suit and tie slaps the railing and sighs. “C’est un catastrophe,” he mutters. He turns to me, ascertains that I understand French, explains that he is an architect, and then launches into a detailed—and passionate—report about how the limestone structure is still “in peril”, due to heat from the fire and water used to douse the flames. He leans closer, lowering his voice, and insists that the forest of 850 year old oak beams that supported the roof would have been extremely fire-resistant, and should not have burned so quickly. He is convinced that the fire was accelerated, and that facts are being hidden from the public. I turn the conversation to plans to rebuild the cathedral, but he would rather theorize about possible conspiracies, and so with a dispirited shrug he shakes my hand and turns away.
The weather continues warm and dry. We log 20,000 steps a day traversing the busy avenues, interspersed with frequent stops for Perrier and refreshing dips into the green spaces of the Tuilleries and the Jardin de Luxembourg.
A photography exhibit at the newly opened Henri Cartier-Bresson Foundation inspires us to attempt to take photographs that capture what Cartier-Bresson called the “instant décisif”—the decisive instant—ephemeral and spontaneous, where an image represents the essence of a single moment in time.
We also visit the Picasso Museum, housed in one of the largest and most extravagant Parisian mansions of the 17th century, finally open again after being closed for 5 years of restoration. From the stone vaulted cellars to the attic galleries with original oak beams exposed, we admire the surroundings as much as the exhibits.
Neither Dave nor I are huge fans of Picasso, but it is interesting to see how his cubist style developed, reflecting changing eras and the influence of other artists.
A quick half hour metro ride takes us to the Grand Arche of the Defense and an unforgettable photography exhibit by photojournalist Yann Arthus-Bertrand.
Many of his striking photos were made while floating above the earth in a hot air balloon, others in a studio, and all have something to say about the human spirit, and about the beauty—and fragility—of our planet.
Before we depart Paris for points south, we make a pilgrimage to Roland Garros, site of the French Open tennis tournament, where Dave pays homage to a particular patch of hallowed ground.
“The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.”
―20th century philosopher
Mexico is bigger than I thought. I have signed up for a week of Spanish language and culture immersion without realizing that it will take place in the southernmost state of Chiapas, and that a three-stage journey (a longish flight to Mexico City, then another to the tongue-twisting town of Tuxtla Guitierrez, followed by an hour’s drive into the highlands) will be required to get from my home near San Francisco to my destination of San Cristobal de las Casas.
During what turns out to be a two-day journey, I learn from first-hand experience how to say “my flight is delayed” (mi vuelo está demorado) and “my flight is canceled” (mi vuelo es cancelado).
I don’t mind the delays—all part of the aventura—and eventually I arrive and meet up with the other students (whose flights were also demorado). And so a week of discovery begins.
Our AirBnB house is rustic but artfully furnished and relatively spacious. The wifi connection is rubbish, but my bedroom window looks out onto a view of garden and mountains, and flowering jasmine perfumes the air.
The first evening, the valley echoes with the sounds of mariachi music, barking dogs, and exploding firecrackers. Things finally quiet down around 10 PM, but at 6:30 AM the next morning the neighbors start shooting off bottle rockets. Is today a holiday, I wonder, or is every day a fiesta?
One of the oldest colonial towns in Mexico, San Cristobal was founded by a Spanish conquistador in 1528, but known long before to local Tzotzil and Tzeltal tribes as “the place in the clouds.”
Home to a high proportion of indigenous peoples descended from ancient Mayans, everyday life is rooted in ancestral traditions of craft and folk art.
Our teachers, Margarita and Pablo, fill our time with Spanish lessons and sightseeing excursions in San Cristobal and the surrounding countryside.
One of the most interesting places we visit is a workshop and publishing collective called Taller Leñateros, where Mayan artists transform recycled paper and local plants into books, posters, prints, notebooks, and cards. The handmade paper products are embedded with flowers, colored with natural dyes, and printed with images inspired by traditional folk art.
Our van driver, Juan, a jolly young man from Tuxtla Gutierrez, ferries us to some of the farthest corners of the state of Chiapas. At first, his rapid-fire, heavily accented Spanish is incomprehensible (at least to me), but by the end of the week I manage to unscramble a tiny fraction of meaning.
One memorable day, he brings us to the remote, indigenous village of Chamula, and we tiptoe behind him into the San Juan Bautista temple. No photographs are allowed inside, and the scene is other-worldly.
We huddle together, and when our eyes to adjust to the dim light we find ourselves in a vast interior devoid of furniture, lit only by chinks of daylight filtered through high, narrow windows and thousands of flickering candles. A smokey haze fills the cavernous space, and pine boughs cover the stone floor. Groups of congregants sit or kneel on the ground, surrounded by burning candles. A chicken, soon to be sacrificed, flaps its wings against the bars of its willow cage. Most of the women are dressed in traditional fuzzy skirts of black sheepskin, giving then a raven-like appearance. They bow their heads and chant prayers to Mayan deities and the Christian god alike.
Another day, we visit a weaving studio in the hilltop village of Zinacantán. Here, women use their bodies as human looms, kneeling on the floor and wearing thick leather belts to tension the threads. Their Mayan-inspired textiles represent countless hours of work, all handmade—hecho a mano—with skill and pride.
Every day brings new experiences (and new vocabulary). We paddle a raft to the middle of a volcanic lake; spot alligators and spider monkeys from a speedboat in the Cañón de Sumidero; and sample molé and mezcal in local restaurants.
Traveling with a group can feel like herding cats (in fact, since everyone tends to talk at once, it’s more like herding bluejays), and the mental effort of trying to speak and understand as much Spanish as possible at all times—even amongst ourselves—sometimes makes me feel as if my head might explode. But in a good way.
Why bother to learn Spanish? For one thing, 40% of California’s population is hispanic, so it seems useful—not to mention neighborly—to have a least a working knowledge of a language that forms part of the culture where I live. If that weren’t reason enough, plenty of research attests that learning a foreign language heightens creativity and improves analytical and problem solving skills. It’s fun, too. Every time I manage to get my meaning across in Spanish—often by cobbling together a work-around phrase—I feel the satisfaction of solving a puzzle, or hitting a good tennis shot. So why not?
“We are all one river. Each particular lifetime is like an individual droplet in a waterfall; we think that’s all we are, until we reach the bottom and rejoin the river.”
–A Zen master who visited Yosemite valley and beheld the waterfalls
Yosemite Falls explodes into the valley like a non-stop firehose, plummeting a total of 2,425 feet to a rocky maw at its base.
Up close, in the stormy micro-climate created by the falls, clouds of spray drench our skin, and wind and water roar louder than we can shout.
After last winter’s heavy snows, the waterfalls are more plentiful than ever. And as ever, we are here to witness what springtime does to Yosemite.
We are here to be with family, to share the thrill of high Sierra snowmelt pouring into the steep-sided valley, to marvel at the delicate beauty of dogwood trees in bloom.
Dave has procured a choice campsite in Upper Pines, cleverly circumventing the notoriously difficult, nail-bitingly uncertain booking system in favor of an automated service (www.campnab.com) that scans for cancelled reservations in state and national parks all over the US and Canada. When a suitable spot opens up, aspiring campers are notified via SMS.
We retreat here in the late afternoon. Dave sits outside under Suzy’s awning and reads, Anna practices yoga, and we both watch the goings-on in our campground neighborhood.
A happy little gang of kids continually cruises past on their bikes, a young mum pushes a baby in a pram, and tired-looking hikers plod back to their campsites.
In the surrounding forest, flowering Dogwood trees glow with points of light.
At dinnertime, we host a barbecue at our campsite. Wood fire smoke, and the scent of roasting meat permeate the air. The bears must be salivating.
Each day the weather is fine, the surroundings sublime. One morning we hike to Vernal Falls, but getting around by bike is our preferred mode of transport.
Dirt tracks and paved trails thread alongside the roads and amongst the trees, leading past iconic views.
It’s an easy ride from our campground to the Ahwahnee (a.k.a. Majestic) Hotel, our source for the New York Times in the morning, a cold drink from the terrace bar, a meal in the dining room, or perhaps a nap in the sun on an outdoor sofa overlooking the meadow.
The sound of rushing water is ever-present. It lulls us to sleep at night and greets us every morning. And everywhere we go, water sluices down granite walls and tumbles through rocky gullies, each drop on a journey from frozen snowflake to Merced River.
Once merged with the Merced, the icy snowmelt flows out of the valley and then joins with other tributaries before blending into the San Joaquin River, meandering into San Francisco Bay, and eventually following the tide to the sea.
After three carefree days, we too head out of the valley and down the hill for home.
But we’ll be back in August. We’ve already booked our campsite. Through http://www.campnab.com, of course.
“. . . Making the day expand in your heart and return, you play a limited part in whatever life is, practicing for that great gift when enlightenment comes, that long instant when the tide calls your name.”
—Excerpted from Waiting by the Sea, by William Stafford (1914—1993)
In Port Angeles, Washington, we board a ferry bound for Vancouver Island, British Columbia. Suzy travels in the hold with other vehicles, packed together like sardines, while we join our fellow passengers upstairs in the spacious observation deck. A garbled announcement over the loudspeaker, a gentle, gliding momentum, and the ship is underway. For the next hour and a half, the only decision we need to make is whether to read a book or look out the window. The water slides by, and a sense of relaxation washes over us, almost as if a magic carpet were transporting us across the Strait of San Juan de Fuca.
Victoria, BC must be among the most idyllic cities on the planet. Clean and prosperous, with an enlightened mixture of traditional and modern architecture offering vistas across blue water to the distant peaks of the Olympic Mountain range, the city feels accessible, the quality of life high. We stroll along the quayside, explore neighborhoods and marvel at the miles of pristine public parks and shoreline.
The warm, sunny weather might be exerting a positive influence on our opinion, but Victoria seems like a fabulous place to live. At lunchtime we park on the waterfront, open Suzy’s sliding door, and picnic with a view across the harbor.
A parade of dog-walkers and pedestrians stroll past, and a man and a woman about our age pause as they come abreast of Suzy. They smile at us, and we smile back. And so begins an animated discussion about camper van models and the relative merits of life in Victoria. “We hope you move here,” they exclaim as we part. Somehow I doubt this will be possible (due to a minor issue called immigration law, if nothing else), but one can always dream.
As much as we are captivated by the fantasy of living in Victoria, the city does not appeal as a place to camp, and so we head north in search of a more rural locale. Along the way, we detour to Butchart Gardens, a botanical masterpiece and national historic site that Anna has been told is a “must see.” Not surprisingly, Dave suggests that instead of paying two entrance fees, he should stay behind and take a nap.
Created in the early 1900’s on the site of a former quarry and cement works, the expansive landscaped gardens now attract busloads of tourists every day. As I navigate the lattice of interconnected pathways, I decide that the park would be even lovelier in early morning or late evening, when fewer people swarmed its lush acreage.
A distressing number of visitors stop squarely in the middle of walkways, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they are blocking the path for everyone else. Never mind. Veni, vidi, vici.
Back at Suzy, energized after his nap, Dave has scoured the AirBnB website and booked us a mini-respite from camping. A cottage about an hour’s drive north, in a wooded neighborhood near Shawnigan Lake.
For two nights, Suzy sits in the driveway, temporarily abandoned while we luxuriate in a full size bed, a fast, reliable wifi connection, a washer/dryer, and ample floor space for yoga. The first evening, we roast salmon and vegetables in the well-equipped kitchen; the next, we treat ourselves to a Japanese meal in the village of Mill Bay.
The autumnal equinox approaches, and instinct now impels us to fly south. Reluctant to part from the watery world of the Pacific Northwest, we plan our journey to include as many ferry rides as possible, beginning with a short, early morning hop across Saanich Inlet, followed by a three-hour passage threading through islands in the Puget Sound.
Each time our ferry slips away from the dock, we surrender our fate to captain and crew, and wellbeing pervades our spirits. Nothing to do, except be.
And so we depart Canada. Long lines at border control have Dave fuming at the inefficiency of the system, but eventually we land in Anacortes, a waterfront town where we stock up on groceries and gas. Our next stop is Deception Pass, one of the most photographed sites in Washington state, a deep, slender slice of water dividing Whidbey and Fidalgo Islands. The channel is so narrow that it deceived early explorers into thinking it was a cul-de-sac, hence its name. Leaving Suzy safely parked in a layby, we set out on foot to get a good look.
In an attempt to capture the drama of the precipitous gap, we risk vertigo (worst case, our lives) by stepping onto a narrow catwalk, venturing out to the middle of the span and aiming our cameras into the void. The bridge trembles under our feet as cars and trucks thunder past no further than an arm’s length away. It seems imperative not to think about falling. Photos do not do justice to the long, sheer drop, or the velocity of water sluicing underneath.
Even driving across the bridge induces an uneasy feeling of vertigo. But it’s worth it to arrive at Deception Pass State Park, a place of extreme beauty where we have our pick of wooded campsites.
Time to catch our breath and regroup. A late afternoon walk in the rainforest and along the shore, and then we prepare dinner of fresh scallops, sautéed cauliflower and basmati rice.
The next day, we forsake the feathered ridgelines of Washington’s Cascade Mountains for the broad, fertile farmland of Oregon’s Willamette Valley.
South of Portland, we exit Highway 5 and head for Champoeg State Park, a heritage site, nature preserve and bluebird sanctuary offering three separate campgrounds and miles of walking and cycling trails. My kind of heaven.
Campsites are assigned on a first-come basis, with self-service registration, and we hope that given the time of year, we will find a vacant spot. But we have arrived too late in the day. We cruise past every campsite and all are occupied, or have a “reserved” notice tacked to a numbered post.
We are running out of daylight, and we are running out of options. Harvest Host doesn’t list any wineries in the area that offer overnight RV parking, and there are no other campgrounds within a reasonable distance. Simply pulling off the road to camp is illegal, not to mention unsafe. It’s time to improvise.
Shadows lengthen as Dave guides Suzy down a bumpy lane leading to a winery where we hope we can persuade someone to let us park overnight. The tasting room door is open, but the cavernous barn is empty. Our footsteps echo on the polished concrete floor.
A door opens and closes, and a petite blonde woman wearing jeans, a Led Zepplin T-shirt and a plaid jacket steps into view. Dave explains that we’d like to taste some wine, and also that we need a place to park our rig overnight. She frowns. “I’ll have to ask the manager. Would you like to try some wine while you wait?” She uncorks a bottle of Pinot Gris and pours us each a taste.
When the manager appears, a dark-haired, kind-eyed woman, she chats us up, presumably assessing whether or not we can be trusted, and after a time, gives us the nod, inviting us to stay. She also swears us to secrecy. While she is happy to do us this favor, she has no wish to set a precedent. We solemnly agree.
While we’ve been talking, we’ve been tasting—Pinot Gris, Syrah, Mourvedre, Pinot Noir—and out of sincere appreciation for both the wine and the place to camp, we buy a mixed case.
Dave parks Suzy on a level spot overlooking the vineyard. We unfurl our awning, pour a glass of Pinot and enjoy the sunset, all the while blessing our hosts for their kindness. We are alone, but we feel peaceful and safe in a way that we wouldn’t if we were trespassing in a random field, or stopped for the night on a lonely country lane.
At first light the next morning, we drive south to Eugene, then head southeast. We are following the path of the Willamette River toward a region we’ve always been curious to visit, the northeastern edge of the Sierra Nevada.
Our route travels through a rich riparian landscape of evergreen and deciduous trees, as well as mill towns whose economies have suffered from a decline in the timber industry. We wonder what new industries could sustain both the population and the environment.
In the late afternoon, our daily quest for a campground ends at Casey’s Riverside RV Park, a peaceful place where a river flows by and a rainforest cloaks the surrounding hills. There’s not much space between campsites, but occupancy is low, and we find a spot with no immediate neighbors.
Cradled by tall trees and the rustle of water, we might be tempted to stay more than one night, except we’ve reached a tipping point, the moment when instead of feeling invigorated by the discovery of new places, we’ve begun to long for the particular place we call home.
And so we make haste, wheels churning over pavement, landscape blurring past, hapless insects splattering our windscreen. Forested hills give way to a semi-arid landscape, and in Klamath Falls, a name that evokes evergreen trees and gushing waterfalls, we are disappointed to find a forsaken collection of nondescript dwellings on a barren expanse of ground.
We press on, through miles of monotonous landscape, eventually crossing the California border into the Modoc National Forest, an unexpectedly drab expanse of dun-colored grassland dotted with sagebrush and stunted pines.
Dave is at the wheel, and Anna reads aloud from “The Big One,” a New Yorker article about the catastrophic potential of the Cascadia subduction zone, a line of tectonic tension capable of producing an earthquake and tsunami big enough to wipe out everything west of Highway 5 from Vancouver Island to Cape Mendocino. A quiescent seismic monster, the Cascadia subduction zone only wakes up every 300 years or so—give or take a hundred—and as far as scientists can tell, it is overdue for another upheaval.
It is sobering to be reminded how profoundly vulnerable we are to disaster. But once we accept the underlying uncertainty of everything we hold dear, we turn our attention to appreciating the small joys of daily life, not to mention the larger miracle that we are alive at all.
We push on, driving through mostly uninhabited terrain until we come to Lake Almanour, a summer vacation and recreation area. A few of the RV parks are already closed for the season, and many do no accept short-term stays, but we manage to find a site for one night at a mom-and-pop campground that is about to shut down for winter.
The next morning, loud scraping and banging noises startle us awake. We peer outside to see a workman stomping atop the roof of a nearby bathhouse, wielding an electric saw, ripping into the shingled surface and flinging debris to the ground. End-of-season repairs, it seems, are underway.
Soon, we too are underway, ready for the long stretch of road ahead, and the deep satisfaction of returning to the blue bowl of bay and sky we call home.
Postscript: Soon after our return, unprecedented wildfires scorched California, and for two weeks, our corner of the earth remained shrouded in a toxic, murky pall. The simple act of breathing could not be taken for granted.
Rain finally arrived and the air cleared. Apocalypse averted, for now. Life goes on, even for those who’ve lost homes and loved ones, even as global warming gains speed and momentum. We do what we can, knowing that whatever small actions we take can multiply. We breathe in and out a thousand times every hour, and we no longer take anything for granted.
“And we pray, not for new earth or heaven, but to be quiet in heart, and in eye, clear. What we need is here.” Wendell Berry (1934— ), American farmer, poet, essayist, novelist, and environmental activist.
It is September. Schools are back in session, the weather has veered toward autumnal, and we expect to find plenty of available campsites on our journey to the Pacific Northwest. We have not made a single campground reservation, intentionally leaving our day-to-day travels unscripted, our fate as open as a wide blue sky.
In keeping with our theme of nonchalant spontaneity, we begin our journey with a relaxed, mid-afternoon departure and a side trip to Cloverdale, where we stroll around a vintage car show before checking into Thousand Trails RV Campground. The prime campsites, located within stone-skipping distance of the Russian River, are all taken, but after navigating a labyrinth of dry, oak-pocked hillside (the touted 1,000 trails?) we manage to claim a reasonably level patch of ground for the night.
Unseasonably warm weather (stifling, in fact), and road noise from a two-lane thoroughfare abutting our campsite inspire us to nudge Suzy into the shade, turn on the air conditioning, take a nap (Dave), and make kale and quinoa salad (Anna).
By dinnertime, the outside temperature cools enough to enjoy an al fresco meal of lamb chops braised in bone broth with white beans and fresh thyme. At bedtime, we fall sleep with windows open to the spicy scent of bay leaves, and any stray breeze that might find its way in.
The next morning we continue traveling north, exploring small towns along the way to Arcata, and the home of dear friend, artist and sister-outlaw (technically ex-sister-in-law), Anna.
She shows us around her house and recently completed art studio, strategically placed to preserve an existing garden shed and two mature Kadota trees. In fig season, Anna assures us, the trees provide abundant quantities of sweet, green-skinned, pink-fleshed fruit.
As Dave and I often do, we consider what it might be like to live in this part of the world. Seated around the dine-in kitchen table with Anna, we swap updates, share memories and imagine possible futures.
A glass of Zinfandel, a frothy, blue-veined goat cheese, seeded crackers, fresh peach and mint salsa precede a simple dinner of homemade corn chowder accompanied by a salad of organic greens so fresh they might’ve been harvested an hour ago. For dessert, Anna has concocted an irresistible peach and nectarine crumble. Later, despite her offer of a bedroom, we are content to sleep in Suzy, parked at the curb outside. This is a camping trip, after all.
Before departing Arcata, we make time for a marshland walk, a stroll around the main square, grocery shopping at the local cooperative market, and a cursory investigation of the local real estate scene. We gather impressions and file them away. We vow to return. Preferably during fig season.
Late morning, we regain the road and drive to Patrick’s Point, a forested state park perched above a breath-taking stretch of rugged coastline.
We’ve been here before and camped overnight, but today we simply enjoy a picnic lunch and a hike along the cliff trail.
Turning inland, Redwood Highway 199 takes us on a spectacularly scenic and also rather hair-raising ride along the Smith River. The winding route alternates between a nail-biting ribbon of road clutching the steep side of a gorge above a rock-churning maw, and a tree-shaded country lane overlooking the stillness of green river pools.
It is Monday, it is off-season, and we expect we’ll easily find a campsite for one night at Jedediah Smith State Park. “Sorry,” the ranger at the gatehouse informs us, “We’re full.” We drive on, our insouciance slightly dented, and a few miles later come upon a roadside clearing rather grandly named ‘Redwood Meadows RV Resort’. Plenty of vacancies. Less scenic than Jedediah Smith Park, and no footpath leading to the Stout Redwood Grove, but never mind. We secure a flat site and set off with Suzy to visit the ancient giants.
In their presence, we speak in hushed and reverent tones. A soft cushion of mulch absorbs our footfalls. Some of these trees have been here for over a thousand years, quietly growing since Viking ships roamed northern seas. The oldest have names: El Viejo del Norte, Aragorn, Elwing, Fangorn.
I bend backward, my gaze sweeping up wide girths and rough trunks, some rising more than 300 feet above the forest floor. It seems entirely possible that these trees possess soul, and that a shared field of consciousness envelops us all.
Finger-numbing cold greets us the next morning. Happily, Suzy’s Alde hydronic heating system is reliable, quiet and efficient. After a quick breakfast of muesli and banana (Dave), hardboiled egg and apple (Anna), we get off to an early start, rejoin Highway 199 and cross the border into Oregon.
Every road seems to run alongside a river, and every river flows swift and full, even as summer ends. Saffron and rust-tinted leaves brighten evergreen-clad hills, and in the valleys, apple trees line the roadside, their branches laden with fruit.
At Grant’s Pass, we merge onto Highway 5, a four-lane, north-south conduit packed with big rig trucks, RV’s and passenger vehicles. We travel for 100 miles on this road, through hills and valleys, past fields and farms.
Before we reach Eugene, clouds mass overhead, and rain pelts Suzy’s windshield, but the sun reappears by the time we reach the laid-back college town. Our first stop is an auto-supply store (Suzy’s digital dashboard began alerting us to a BlueDef fluid deficit about 200 miles ago), and our second is MacKenzie River Music, “one of the best vintage guitar shops on the planet”, attests Dave, at the same time promising that he isn’t going to buy anything; he’s merely popping in for a browse. Somehow, neither of us is surprised an hour later when he emerges with a sheepish grin and a new acoustic guitar. (For any guitarists reading this, it’s a Martin D41.)
Eugene makes a good impression. We take note of the generous number of bookstores, brewpubs and organic markets, the absence of traffic jams, and the prevalence of architecturally interesting buildings, flower and vegetable gardens. Perhaps we’ll return for a month in summer, escaping the season of fog and wind that compelled Mark Twain to declare that the coldest winter he ever knew was summer in San Francisco. Meanwhile, it is time to find a place to camp for the night.
Unwilling to repeat the previous day’s experience of being turned away for lack of an available campsite, we ring ahead to a county park eight miles north of town, pre-pay by credit card, and hope for the best.
Located on a shallow bluff above the MacKenzie River, Armitage County Park turns out to be a tree-shaded refuge offering all we could hope for and more. Most of the park is designated for daytime use, and when we arrive, an hour or so before daylight fades, we practically have the leafy acreage to ourselves. We unstrap our bikes and pedal alongside the river, carefree as kids at play.
The next morning we resume our northward trajectory, stopping along the way to visit another college town, Corvallis, home to Oregon State University. Rain mists quiet downtown streets as we cruise the central district. We park Suzy under a billboard featuring a (presumably) local poet, pull on raincoats and set off on foot to explore.
At the Corvallis Book Bin, a cooperative emporium of used and new books, we spend an hour combing through the stacks, and each of us comes away with an armful of bargain literary finds. At the outdoor Farmer’s Market, we buy fresh-picked kale and wild chanterelle mushrooms, nicely rounding out our sausage and potato supper plan.
Perhaps because its population ebbs and flows according to the academic year, Corvallis seems to teeter between downturn and upswing. Nevertheless, there’s something appealing about the scale and vibe of this place. Less liberal than Eugene, less hipster than Portland, and much smaller than both, Corvallis feels accessible, friendly. I wonder if liberals and conservatives manage to live side-by-side without conflict here, finding common ground in their shared humanity. I’d like to believe that they do.
Where shall we stop tonight? Each day we solve this puzzle anew, some days more successfully than others. In the wine-growing region north of Corvallis, we try our luck with Harvest Host, a phone app that identifies which wineries allow self-contained camping vehicles to park overnight.
A plum-lined lane leads to the family-owned Laurel Ridge Winery, and a cheerful young woman welcomes us into the tasting room. A handful of people, obviously locals, are gathered at the bar, sharing stories and sipping glasses of wine, and the atmosphere feels friendly, almost like a village pub.
The smiling woman introduces herself as the manager and vintner’s daughter, and when we explain that we are members of Harvest Host, she instantly invites us to park our rig overnight. We order an antipasto plate and a sample flight of wine (encouraged, but not required), and after tasting several varietals, we buy two bottles to take away, a Pinot Gris and a Pinot Noir.
A rogue cloud unleashes needle streaks of rain just as we climb back inside Suzy and slam the door. We stay warm and dry, but the storm sounds like a herd of panicked cattle are trampling the roof.
Eventually, the stampede diminishes to a sporadic tapping. A rainbow appears outside our windscreen, arcing across the valley. And then all is silent. Sleeping in a vineyard, we decide, is an excellent solution to the daily riddle of where to spend the night.
The next evening, we are turned away from three campgrounds (no vacancies) before we finally come to a stop at ‘Rest-A-While Campground—a misnomer if there ever was one—a slim strip of pavement separating Highway 101 from the Hood Canal. Rain spits at the windshield as we slot Suzy into a tightly packed row of bus-sized RV’s. On a positive note, compared to the mammoth rigs on either side of us, Suzy’s 24-foot chassis looks positively petite.
First thing in the morning, we head north along the filigree coastline of the Olympic Peninsula, searching for a campground where we might actually want to “rest-a-while”. We are looking for a place with access to walking trails, away from busy roads, and that does not require wedging Suzy into the middle of an RV sandwich. Our quest involves investigating and rejecting (or being rejected by) a handful of campgrounds before we discover Flagler County Park, 1,451 acres of shoreline and forest on the tip of Marrowstone Island, across the water from Port Townsend.
Here is a place, I think, where we can take time to enter the landscape, to move over the earth at a human pace, feet treading soil and sand, the natural world opening to meet us.
Fingers-crossed, we approach the gate and are relieved when the ranger assures us there are plenty of campsites. He also confirms that a cougar has been sighted in the park. “If you walk in the woods, you might see her,” he cautions. “Just make a lot of noise and act big. Whatever you do, don’t run away.” He shrugs. “You’ll probably be fine.” Maybe so, but I resolve to stick to the beach and bluff trails; no need to venture into the dense curtain of forest that is the lady lion’s domain.
We set up camp in a grove of trees near the beach. Birds swoop between tree branches like miniature trapeze artists.
I follow a footpath through a lacy border of Alder to a long curve of shoreline. Driftwood makes a comfortable seat, and a cloak of autumn sunshine warms my shoulders. Peace seeps into every cell.
The park occupies land used as a military base from 1899 until 1953, and a walk along the bluff trail reveals abandoned gun emplacements that once stood guard over the coast. Many of the disused structures are open to the public, but I do not pause to examine the artifacts of war.
I collect sea-washed stones, and gaze at clouds across the sound. I forage for fat, ripe blackberries, and eat them straight from the bramble.
I cross the open ground of a tawny field, woodland on one side, water on the other, and sense movement in the air overhead. A bald eagle, wingspan as broad as the tallest of men, glides past. I stop and stand where I am, solitary witness to the slow, weighted wing-beats, the bright, feathered head, the raptor beak. This is a gift. It is a blessing. The eagle disappears over a ridge of treetops, but I do not move until the sensory memory has reached into the soft, convoluted folds of my brain and left its mark.
Time spent in nature is as nourishing to the spirit as food is to the body, and after two days in Flagler County Park we feel replenished, ready to reclaim the road to Canada.
“This is the moment that bliss is what you glimpse from the corner of your eye, as you drive past running errands, and the wind comes up, and the surface of the water glitters hard against it.”
Robert Hass (1941— ), excerpted from his poem “September, Inverness”
A winding two-lane road delivers us into the Anderson Valley, a northern California wine-making region best known for cool-climate Pinot Noirs, Alsatian-style whites and champagne-like sparkling wines.
Big-name wineries compete for our attention, but a friend has recommended we sample the terroir at Toulouse, a small, peaceful vineyard heretofore unknown to us.
We like what we taste, and come away with several bottles.
Where the Navarro River meets the sea, we travel north along the coastline to the Mendocino Headlands.
Anna keeps well back from the edge, but Dave strides to the lip of the nearest cliff, enraptured by the view.
We spend the afternoon walking along the bluff and around the picture-book, chocolate-box town. And then it’s time to set up camp in Van Damme State Park.
To reach our campsite we must drive across a creek, but the bridge has collapsed, and so we must navigate a flimsy-looking, temporary span of concrete that looks barely wide enough to accommodate a compact car. A sign declaring “Proceed at Your Own Risk” does not inspire confidence. However, we survive the crossing, and soon Suzy is tucked into trees surrounding a large open meadow.
For dinner, Anna prepares one of our favorite camping meals: chicken molé tacos, carrot and cabbage slaw, sliced avocado and tomato salsa.
In the morning, we head the few miles up the road to Mendocino, where the cell phone signal is strong enough to check email and read the newspaper online.
Fog softens the light and adds layers of interest to the historic town.
On the way to Fort Bragg, we stop at Russian Gulch, a worthwhile side-trip.
“This coastline is unbelievably beautiful,” Dave keeps exclaiming.
Indeed, a new wonder reveals itself every moment.
At lunchtime, “Sea Pal Cove”, a seafood shack in Fort Bragg harbor, proves a perfect spot for a light meal, as well as a ringside seat of fishermen bringing in their catch.
Our next stop, the Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens, 47 acres of coastal woodland, prairie and cultivated garden (recommended by the same friend who pointed us to Toulouse winery), turns out to be a highlight of the trip.
While Dave elects to stay behind and scout real estate offerings in the area, Anna sets out to explore the four mile network of pathways leading to the sea.
A rustic gate (meant to keep the deer out) leads to the Dahlia garden, where the flowers are at the peak of their bloom.
It’s easy to lose track of time, hypnotized by the riot of color and form.
The afternoon’s visual feast is followed by an edible feast in the evening. A friend (yes, the same twice-afore-mentioned oracle) has recommended that we reserve a table at Wild Fish, an intimate restaurant specializing in locally harvested ingredients.
She has advised us well. We enjoy fresh oysters, sole filet (Dave), seared tuna (Anna), and finish with a lemon posset.
We sleep soundly in our Suzy, and early the next morning, we pack up and depart.
As we turn inland, the river reflects rose-gold light. Smoke from the Mendocino complex fire, 50 miles away, the largest wildfire in California history, has seeped westward. Nature at her most merciless still has a fierce beauty.
By the time we reach the Anderson Valley, an apricot haze envelopes the landscape. We send out prayers for the firefighters, and for all who suffer during this season of fire.
“The green reed which bends in the wind is stronger than the mighty oak which breaks in a storm.” —Confucius
DAYS TEN & ELEVEN: June 13 & 14: North Rim to Tehachapi to Richmond
I wake at 4:30 AM, as the sky begins to lighten and the birds begin to stir. Today we must vacate our campsite, but we have not decided on our next destination. My phone shows a tiny bar of cellular signal, and so I check for news of the wildfires in Colorado.
“Dave, are you awake?”
A muffled reply, “Now I am.”
“Another forest fire started in Colorado, and more roads have closed.”
Dave sits up in bed and pulls the duvet around his shoulders. “Given the information we have, there’s no clear answer.” He pauses. “We have to go with our gut, and make a choice.” Another pause. “If we drive to Barstow today, we could be home tomorrow afternoon.”
So be it. At first, we both feel deflated, but then, like a sailboat responding to a shift in the wind, we adjust our sails and set a new course. In the cool of early morning, we make our way through the gracious meadowland leading out of the park.
A herd of buffalo moves across open ground beside us, including several nut-brown calves, one so young—or so thirsty—that it continually stops to nurse. The lead bison pauses for mother and child to catch up, and then they all plod on.
When we turn onto Interstate 15, the busy, wind-wracked highway that will lead us through Nevada, Dave grips the wheel, and his shoulder muscles tense. Guiding Suzy in and out of turbulence on the crowded two-lane road is like steering a sailboat with a heavy weather helm.
As soon as my phone shows a strong enough signal, I take a deep breath and begin making calls to cancel reservations and plans we’d made for the next two weeks. Cutting our month-long trip short and missing out on visits with friends feels anti-climactic, and I have to remind myself that it’s no use dwelling on the road not taken.
At noon, we pass through Las Vegas, and Suzy’s outside temperature gauge reads 108 degrees. An hour later, when we stop for gas in Baker, I step out of the car and feel the soles of my shoes melt and my skin shrink closer to the bone. “Hell on earth,” says Dave. It is a frighteningly hot 113 degrees.
The good news is that traveling in Suzy, we can cover a lot of ground. No need to stop for food, drink or restrooms; everything is on board within easy reach. We average 18 miles per gallon of diesel fuel, and our solar panels supply all our electrical needs except for microwave (so far only used as a breadbox) and air conditioning. If we need to operate the AC without electricity, we can run our built-in, propane-powered generator. If cloudy weather prevents our solar panels from storing enough energy, the generator will fill in any gaps. In short, we feel quite self-sufficient.
After nine hours and 500 miles of sunbaked highway, we reach the oak and pine-covered slopes of Tehachapi Mountain. A steep cul-de-sac leads to a scattering of day-use picnic areas and primitive campsites, many of them closed or inaccessible. The place is deserted except for two lethargic young women sprawled at a day-use picnic table and a group of six men and women who have pitched tents and seem to be playing a rowdy game of Beer Pong. The sloping “park” has the seedy, slightly eerie feeling of a place that has fallen into disrepair and disuse, but it seems quiet (aside from the Pong Party), and all we care about is a good night’s sleep and an early start in the morning. So we settle Suzy into a shaded site, walk a half-mile down the road to the self-registration kiosk, seal an $18 camping fee into an envelope, drop it in a metal slot and then hike back up the hill, breathing heavily in the heat.
Back at Suzy, I pour water over my head and tie a wet bandana (purchased in Bryce for just this purpose) around my neck. Instant relief. Sipping an ice-cold beer helps too. For dinner, we cobble together a picnic of canned tuna, potato salad, a packet of Madras lentils, and reconstituted dehydrated broccoli. Camping rations, and they taste just fine. While we are washing the dishes, I smell smoke, and see that the Pong People have ignited a roaring campfire. Surely they saw the CAMPFIRES STRICTLY FORBIDDEN and HIGH FIRE DANGER signs posted at the park entrance? Dave and I gaze at the crackling flames and exchange a worried look.
Adding to our discomfort, a creeping parade of vehicles has begun cruising up and down the dead-end road. Windows down, music thumping, each vehicle slows as it passes and the occupants eye our rig. Perhaps they are simply admiring Suzy, but there’s a vague sense of menace in the fixed gaze. I go outside, alone, to empty a pan of water, and a dark gray sedan pulls off the road and stops next to our campsite. My scalp prickles. I call to Dave, who quickly appears, and the car accelerates up the hill. Even if all this activity is perfectly innocent, we won’t get a good night’s rest. Within five minutes, lawn chairs and bikes are back on the rig, dinner dishes put away, and we’re heading down the mountain. If you need to leave somewhere in a hurry, Suzy is your gal.
We escape to the Valley Airport and RV Park on the outskirts of Tehachapi, a mom-and-pop campground that is far more beautiful and infinitely more peaceful than the name implies.
The next day, a five-hour drive lands us on our doorstep with a renewed appreciation for the temperate climate where we live, and the natural wonders in our own backyard. We have learned that we love traveling together with Suzy; she is the right rig for us. Our next adventure beckons, but for now we’re content where we are, in this thin slice of the world.
“Adopt the pace of Nature: her secret is patience.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
DAYS EIGHT & NINE: June 11 & 12: Grand Canyon
Being on the road again after two nights at Bryce Canyon feels right and good, like a pair of shoes that have molded to fit our feet.
At lunchtime, we park at a scenic spot, avail ourselves of our in-house kitchen, and then resume our drive through a surprising and ever-changing landscape. A cliff face dripping with brick-red streaks looks as if Jackson Pollack has spilled gallons of rust-colored paint. Pink swirls of color embedded in the rounded contours of white stone bring a strawberry parfait to mind.
In the town of Kanab (or Kebab, as Dave likes to call it), we stock up on groceries at Honey’s Market, and then begin the 40-mile approach to the north rim of the Grand Canyon. The road leading to the national park entrance rolls like a long green hallway through a seemingly endless series of broad meadows bordered by pine and aspen trees. At the park gate, we wait in a brief queue and then show our pass to the ranger, who waves us through. The valley narrows and the trees march closer to the road, as if escorting us the final ten miles.
Eager for our first sight of one of the seven wonders, we bypass the campground and drive all the way to the lodge, perched, it seems, at the very edge of the world.
A small lobby leads to an observation lounge, and then, beneath and beyond us, we see the patient handiwork of the Colorado River.
A mind-boggling array of layered cliffs created by hard and soft substances eroding at different rates.
This place is like a staircase through time, a testament to the transformative power of incremental change.
After gazing our fill (for now), we make our way to our campsite, a gently sloping piece of ground shaded by slender aspen trees. Not a breath of wind ruffles their heart-shaped leaves, and the temperature pushes towards 90 degrees.
Dave positions our folding chairs in the shade, and we relax with a cold beer. I try to check the weather forecast on my mobile phone, but the signal is too weak. We know the occasional data blackout is to be expected—even relished; we are camping, after all—and so without the ability to check local weather, research the area, stay in touch with loved ones or keep abreast of current events, we do our best to surrender to the mercy of what we don’t know.
For dinner, Dave hooks up our portable propane barbecue in preparation for grilling steaks. He opens a bottle of Côtes du Rhone and pours us each a glass. I stand at Suzy’s two-burner stove, gratefully basking in the steam from simmering zucchini and farro. The high desert climate has left my skin feeling as withered as shed snakeskin, and as rough to the touch.
There are no bears here, and we are able to sleep with Suzy’s back doors wide-open, cool breeze on our pillows. Stars as bright as spotlights shine through gaps in the trees. I think of the long river of geologic time, the brief span of our mortal lives, and how glad I am to be here now.
The next morning, before the sun becomes uncomfortably hot, Dave rides his bike to the lodge for lunch, a little over a mile away. I elect to walk (better for building bone density), and prepare for the trek by dousing my long-sleeved cotton shirt with water. For about five minutes, I feel blissfully cool and damp.
After an hour, I return to our campsite covered with a thin veneer of trail dust, every cell in my body sucked dry. I pack a bike pannier with the requisite washing supplies and bicycle to the shower hut, only to realize I have forgotten the most vital ingredient: cash. Six quarters for six minutes. I cycle back to Suzy, grab my wallet, ride to the campground store, procure change for two dollars, and finally pedal back (uphill) to the shower house. Out of four stalls, one is occupied and two display hand-written signs declaring “OUT OF ORDER”. I scurry into the available cubicle, lock the door, and dutifully insert quarters into the coin tray. A short pause, and then the blessed sound of splashing water. The faucet is turned all the way to HOT, but the water temperature never gets past warm. Never mind. At least it’s wet. I quickly shampoo, condition and rinse my hair, finishing just as the water goes cold, and well before six minutes are up. The automatic shower keeps running, an unfortunate waste of resources, but there’s no way to shut it off.
Late in the afternoon, a text from a friend somehow crosses the data blackout zone. There are wildfires, she writes, road closures and poor air quality in the San Juan mountains of Colorado. This is where we are heading tomorrow. She includes a link to a news article that I cannot access with the minimal phone signal at our campsite. Seeking enlightenment, Dave and I hike to the campground store and join other tourists with heads bent to their phones, patiently attempting to use a public wifi signal about as speedy as the forces that shaped the Grand Canyon. Eventually we manage to find out some bad news about the fires. We also learn that temperatures in Denver and the Moab area are predicted to soar into the upper 90’s and 100’s. On a more inspiring note, we make the acquaintance of a seasoned canine traveler.
Back at Suzy, we weigh our options. We consider changing our route, but we’d have to go to Alaska or South America to find cooler temperatures. Or San Francisco, but the idea of cutting our trip short feels like giving up. Besides, we’re looking forward to pre-arranged meet-ups with friends in Moab and Denver. “We’re in the middle of HOT,” Dave says, punctuating his statement with a sip of chilled Chablis.
Both of us are enjoying the rhythm of the road, and yet if we carry on, we fear we will spend most of the next two weeks avoiding toxic smoke and punishing heat. For now, we defer making any decisions. It is our last night in the Grand Canyon, and in this moment all is well, and we have everything we need.
“Nature is ever at work building and pulling down, creating and destroying, keeping everything whirling and flowing, allowing no rest but in rhythmical motion, chasing everything in endless song out of one beautiful form into another.”—John Muir
DAYS SIX & SEVEN: June 9 & 10: Bryce Canyon
One side effect of crowded campgrounds is the opportunity to meet one’s neighbors. At Zion, we park next to a friendly retired couple and their dog, and they recommend a scenic route to reach Bryce Canyon, our next destination.
We follow their directions to the vibrant town of Cedar Creek, and then turn onto Highway 14, where we happily trade desert mesa landscape for the alpine scenery of Dixie National Forest. Temperatures cool as we climb to a summit over 9,600 feet, and we drink in the sight of evergreen and aspen trees marching up and down slopes of coral colored earth.
During the drive, Dave’s skill and experience behind the wheel saves us from mishap more than once: when a trucker swerves into our lane on a multi-lane highway, and later, when an oncoming SUV decides that a blind curve is a good place pull into our lane and pass a cyclist. Just before arriving at Bryce Canyon, we somehow manage to avoid colliding with a Northern Flicker, a large spotted woodpecker who flies at our windshield. I glimpse the flash of variegated feathers and cover my eyes, unwilling to watch the impact. But it never happens. “It veered away at the last minute,” Dave assures me.
Once we enter the National Park, we make a beeline for the lodge, where Dave has reserved us a room for two nights. It’s too early to check in, so we take a moment to admire the historic structure, especially the whimsically flowing pattern of roof shingles, before walking the short distance to the canyon rim.
Nothing has prepared us for what awaits: a natural amphitheater of time-sculpted rock formations that look like the dribble sand castles we made as children, only these fanciful creations glow with peach and salmon hues.
Also, there is no railing. Pale-breasted swallows glide past us and dip into the void. For any creature without wings, one false step guarantees a long slide to death or assorted bodily mayhem.
We inch closer to the brink, bewitched by the fantastical shapes and colors of the weird sandstone fins and spires called “hoodoos”, a term borrowed from folk-magic. We snap photos as long as we dare, until increasing ripples of vertigo compel us to back away.
After our initial flirtation with the abyss, we stick to the safety of prescribed paths.
Late afternoon heat eventually drives us into the hotel lobby, where the desk clerk, a fresh-faced schoolgirl, hands us the keys to our “room”, which turns out to be a storybook cabin.
Built in the 1920’s of rough-hewn logs, our cabin has a shady front porch, a high peaked ceiling and exposed log beams, and is equipped with two queen beds, good reading lights, a tiny refrigerator (perfect for chilling beer and wine), a table and chairs, a full bath, a separate dressing room with sink and vanity, and even a fireplace.
We have time before dinner for a bike ride, showers, and even a glass of wine on the front porch. A short walk leads to the lodge dining room, where we enjoy an expertly prepared meal of trout, roasted vegetables and herbed wild rice. Afterwards, we return to the canyon overlook, and in the gathering dusk, the columns of weathered stone glimmer like candles.
Early the next morning, I embark on a hike into the canyon, armed against heat and sunlight with a full water bottle, long-sleeved shirt, sunscreen, and hat.
Strictly speaking, Bryce is not a “real” canyon, because it is not carved by flowing water, but by a process known as “frost-wedging”. Temperatures fluctuate above and below freezing every day for almost seven months of the year, enabling melt water to seep into fractures during the day, only to freeze and expand at night. The ice exerts a tremendous force, and over time it shatters and pries rock apart. Rain, which is naturally acidic, plays a role too, slowly dissolving the limestone, rounding off edges and washing away debris.
The view from below the chiseled rock forms is just as magical as the view from above. As I follow the trail’s winding course, I pass loads of enthusiastic tourists, some wandering closer to the sheer drop offs than I care to, and most speaking to each other in languages other than English. I hear Mandarin, French, Italian, German, Japanese and many more that I can’t readily identify. I stop to chat with a French woman from Montpellier, and she informs me that she and her husband find Bryce so inspiring, they return year after year.
On the steep ascent back up to the rim, I pass tourists coming down wearing street shoes—even heels—as they navigate the gritty path. Some hug the side of the trail furthest from the void, but many walk right up to the precipice and pose for selfies. Just watching them makes me feel queasy.
In fact, a mildly vertiginous feeling in the pit of my stomach never entirely abates during our two days here. I’m not so much worried for myself as for the heedless child who scampers too close to the edge, or the brash tourist who loses his footing while focusing his camera. But surely my worries are unfounded?
At the top of the climb, I happen to pass a suntanned, gray-bearded gentleman wearing the uniform of a Search and Rescue volunteer. “Doesn’t it drive you crazy when people stand near the edge?” I ask. “Sure does,” he nods and smiles. “But only about three people fall every year. Out of three million visitors. Not bad odds, really.”
Suffice to say, I highly recommend a visit to the fairyland that is Bryce. But please take care. And no matter how much you want that special photo, stay away from the edge.
“In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.”—John Muir
DAYS FOUR & FIVE: June 7 & 8: Zion
It is not yet 6:30 AM when we pull into a parking space in the empty parking lot at the entrance to Zion national park. We were told to get here early, before the lot filled up, but perhaps we overdid it.
With Suzy’s spot secured, we focus on breakfast, conveniently at hand about an arm’s length away. Meanwhile, as if a faucet has been turned on, pedestrians, cyclists, cars and RV’s begin pouring into the park. Perhaps we didn’t arrive too early after all. We finish our meal, leave the unwashed dishes in the sink, fill a daypack with water bottles, cameras, snacks and sunscreen, and set off on foot to the shuttle bus stop. Where we join an already lengthy queue.
Following advice gleaned from fellow campers, we board the shuttle and ride all the way to the end of the line. From here, it’s possible to wade upstream to the Narrows, where the canyon’s red rock walls taper to only twenty feet apart, and soar a thousand feet overhead.
We opt to walk the path along the Virgin River, and gaze in wonder at impossibly sheer rock walls the color of persimmons and rubies. We did not expect to find such grandeur here.
“This place is like Yosemite,” observes Dave, “only smaller, with red rock instead of granite, and without the falls.”
For generations, this stunning gorge was a seasonal camping ground for the Paiute Indians. They called it Mukuntuweap, which translates as straight canyon, or straight arrow.
When Mormon settlers took over the area in the 1850s, they gave it a biblical name, Zion, denoting sanctuary, or place of refuge.
We find the place uplifting, in the same way a visit to Yosemite National Park elevates our spirits. I spot a red-breasted nuthatch, creeping up the bark of a pine tree, and glimpse countless birds flitting through the landscape. Do they migrate here every year, I wonder? Or do some species live year ’round in this magical canyon? Some enchanted lifetime that would be.
Hours later, an unforgettable walk in the canyon ends at the Zion Lodge, where we refill our water bottles and relax into rocking chairs, temptingly placed on the hotel’s shady veranda. Soon it will be too hot to remain outdoors. But now we are content to sit awhile, savoring a last view of Zion, and contemplating our plans for the afternoon.
We decide to ride a shuttle down the mountain, drive to the RV park, plug into shore power and turn on the AC. It is the only livable option.
By late afternoon, stepping outside is like walking into a pizza oven. I am tempted to cool off in the swimming pool, until I see it is a mosh pit of bobbing heads and thrashing limbs. Never mind. Suzy is our sanctuary.
Note to selves (and any potential visitors to Zion who might be reading this): Our campground for two nights, the Zion River Resort RV Park and Campground, is probably a great place for families, but it provides far more amenities than we need or use.
If we return to Zion, we’ll come in April or October, and we’ll stay in the town of Springdale, at the Zion Canyon Campground and RV Park, offering the necessities without the frills, and within walking distance to the entrance of Zion National Park.
“Look deep into Nature, and then you will understand everything better.”—Albert Einstein
DAY THREE: June 6: Lone Pine to Las Vegas
Today we will gain and lose thousands of feet in just over 100 miles, a long drawn out roller coaster ride through some of the most dramatic and inhospitable terrain on the planet: Death Valley.
It’s our third day out, and I feel we’ve begun to hit our stride. We know where things are cached in Suzy’s cupboards and crannies, we have a better understanding of how her systems work, and we bump into each other less often in her limited interior space.
“We have half a tank of gas,” Dave says, as we motor past the handful of shops and restaurants in Lone Pine. “We could make it.”
“Let’s fill her up,” I suggest. “Just to be safe.” I know what’s ahead, and prefer to err on the side of prudence. No argument from Dave, and we stop for fuel. The outside temperature has already inched above 80 degrees.
At first glance, Death Valley looks just as we expected: a vast, untamed environment of dry basins and barren, rocky slopes. We can’t help but feel rather dwarfed and insignificant—in a good way—like when you look at a night sky full of stars and feel the immensity of the universe.
We also feel a sense of urgency to get through the desert as expeditiously as possible. Place names like Stovepipe Wells, Furnace Creek, and Badwater Basin do not exactly inspire confidence. We obey the signs at the base of each climb that warn us to turn off our air conditioning to prevent our engine from over-heating, and with our windows rolled down, gusts of hot wind whip our hair and skin.
We pass through a rocky corridor whose walls glow with diagonal stripes of magenta, rust, slate and chocolate, and then come upon an impressive expanse of sand dunes. A pale gray lizard the size of a squirrel scuttles in front of us, stubby legs churning across the tarmac. Out loud, I admire the unexpected variety of textures, shapes and life forms found in the desert, on both grand and minute scales.
“Like fractals,” Dave rejoins, dredging up the definition from his storehouse of mathematical knowledge, “constantly replicating patterns whether viewed microscopically or as mountains.” Amazingly simple, yet infinitely complex, Nature’s exquisite structures hide in plain sight all around us.
The temperature fluctuates with our altitude, and we wait until we’ve reached the last of four summits before we pull over for lunch. While I prepare a kale and pistachio salad, Dave steps outside to photograph the canyon. He is standing at the edge of a cliff when the thrum of the wind is overpowered by the intensifying roar of a high-speed, low-flying aircraft. Chance favors the prepared photographer. Dave zeroes in with his camera and captures an image of a fighter jet as it streaks past below.
Suzy glides down a slow, straight, steady descent, and we watch her outside temperature gauge escalate from 95 to a mouth-parching 105 degrees.
Cooler temperatures are in store for us, we hope, at our destination for tonight, Fletcher View Campground, 2,000 feet above Las Vegas. Keen to avoid the heat in “Sin City”, Dave reserved a campsite weeks ago. “Supposedly,” he says, “we’ll be camping in the pines.” Auspiciously, we find the entrance in a grove of Ponderosa pines, and despite a sign announcing “DAY OFF”, the camp host descends from his fifth wheel to greet us. A smiling retiree wearing an Australian outback hat, dusty white singlet and denim shorts, he launches into a long explanation of the finer points of the tiny campground. “I’m Bob,” he finally concludes, gesturing at his trailer (presumably his wife is inside), “and my wife is Liz. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
It is late afternoon, and quite warm, even at 7,000 feet, but as advertised, our campsite is shaded by pine trees, and the temperature is quite pleasant. We level our rig and unfurl the awning, only to retract it a few minutes later due to sporadic gusts of wind. Dave enjoys a beer and a cigar, then brings out his guitar. I take a walk in the shady canyon, and then roll out my yoga mat on a patch of flat ground.
For dinner we heat up chili—another made-ahead-and-frozen-meal—and serve it with steamed broccoli and sliced avocado.
Later, after an evening stroll around the campground, we retire to Suzy and watch Albert Brooks’ classic comedy film, “Lost in America”, about a couple who decide to quit the rat race, buy a Winnebago and drop out of society to “find themselves”, only to have their plans go awry when the wife gambles away their nest egg in Las Vegas. A fable about delusion and fantasy, it is one of the funniest films of the 1980’s, and although some of the humor arises from how much societal customs and perceptions have changed since the movie was made, mostly we laugh out loud at the timeless foibles of human nature. We fall asleep still smiling, and plan to steer our Winnebago well clear of the casinos.
“The mountains are calling and I must go.” —John Muir
DAY TWO: Silver Lake to Lone Pine
We wake before seven and prepare our respective breakfasts: muesli and banana for Dave; miso soup, seaweed, hard-boiled egg and tempeh for me (don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it). Then, in no time at all (unlike the machinations necessary when towing the Airstream), we are underway.
Our first stop of the day is for a short visit to our family cabin. The unpaved driveway is steep, and obscured by low-hanging branches, so we park Suzy on the side of the highway and complete the pilgrimage on foot.
Mountains are a place where we go to refresh the spirit, a place we feel at home. And this particular place in the mountains is full of meaning and memories. We spent our honeymoon here, and long before that, spent days hiking, canoeing, cooking on the woodstove and bathing in the lake. Evenings sitting by the fire playing charades or monopoly or attempting to read by dim propane lamplight. Nights sleeping outside on the porch, lying on our backs gazing at the Milky Way and counting shooting stars. “Glorified camping”, is how Grandma Suzy used to describe summers at the cabin. Her ashes are resting here now, along with Carl’s, beside the path to the lake, marked by a smooth granite stone.
Dave and I pause for a moment and breathe in the memory-laden scents of this singular site on earth. The peace of the place surrounds us. Thus grounded and fortified, we hike back up to the road and carry on over Carson Pass, through Hope Valley, and along the East Carson River to Monitor Pass.
Suzy makes easy work of the 5.5 mile, 2,628 foot climb to the top, a wide open meadow bordered by Aspen trees just coming into leaf.
Once upon a time, (28 years ago to be exact), I rode a bicycle up this pass, down the other side and then turned around and pedaled back up and down again. Today I’m quite happy to travel in our sprinter van, with Dave at the wheel.
The descent snakes down 3,238 feet in 9 miles, a bit like a slow motion giant slalom course. By bike, car or campervan, Monitor Pass is a breath-taking ride.
Our route now heads south on Highway 395, the backbone of California, a north-south conduit than runs 557 miles from the Oregon border to the Mojave desert.
We’ve been looking forward to driving this section of the road, known for dramatic vistas of the eastern edge of the Sierra Nevada mountain range.
After only 15 miles, we round a bend and see that traffic has slowed and stopped. And then we see why. A semi-truck is sprawled across the highway, completely blocking both directions. Paramedics and highway patrolmen are on the scene, and bystanders are out of their cars, standing in the road and gazing at the crumpled giant, lying on its side.
A lean, middle-aged man approaches our window from the direction of the wreck and informs us that it could be at least three hours before the road is re-opened. While we consider whether to wait it out or seek out an alternate route, we step into the galley and make lunch. I do love traveling with a kitchen.
Dave finishes his turkey sandwich, executes a three-point turn and heads Suzy back the way we came, past a steadily growing queue of cars, trucks and motorhomes. He has found a work-around.
We expect our unplanned detour to pass through a flat, arid landscape, but instead we discover herds of Black Angus cattle grazing in spring-fed meadows against a backdrop of snow-painted peaks. I wish I could capture the sight in a photo, but there’s no place to pull off the road. I will remember. A black cow and her white-faced calf, standing chest high in a field of green grass and wild iris.
Eventually, we rejoin highway 395, and for the next several hours we drive through towns we’ve heard of but never visited: Bridgeport, Bishop, and Big Pine (not to be confused with Lone Pine, tonight’s destination and, to Dave’s dismay, another hour further down the road).
We have a reservation at Lone Pine Campground, in the shadow of Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the lower 48 states. Rising 14,505 feet above sea level, it is higher than Colorado’s tallest mountain by 66 feet.
By the time turn onto the narrow track that supposedly leads to our campground, we have been on the road for 8 hours. Suzy bumps through the sage-covered landscape, and we wonder where our campground could be. All we see is sand and scrub–brush and the steep upsurge of snaggle-toothed peaks.
Until the ground opens beneath us to reveal a dusty road descending into a shallow, hidden canyon (hopefully not a flood zone) and the Lone Pine Campground. Never mind that there is not a pine tree in sight, or, for that matter, much indication that anyone else is camping here.
A hand-written sign pasted near the camp host’s trailer announces DAY OFF. Another sign warns, “Entering Active Bear Area”. The dry, rocky landscape does not seem like prime bear habitat, but we resolve not to take any chances.
Our pre-reserved campsite offers a lumpy, half-paved strip of sand that makes it impossible to level our rig. Fortunately, there are other empty sites available. We inspect our options and swap our site for a creek-side corner ringed by granite boulders and sparse wildflowers. The only sounds we hear are the breeze in the cottonwoods and the soft rush of water. And our shared sigh of relief.
The weather is too warm for a campfire, and besides, it’s getting late. We heat up one of the two made-ahead-and-frozen-meals we have brought from home, Ropa Vieja (a sort of Latin goulash), and serve it with sauerkraut, potatoes and a glass of Mourvedre.
In hope of dissuading hungry bears, after dinner I wrap and stow all foodstuffs and dispose of our rubbish in a bear-proof bin. Dave somehow finds the energy to play guitar, but not for long. He soon follows me to bed and we sleep with our windows open to the sound of the creek. No bears disturb our dreams.
The Japanese school of Sumi painting says: “If you depict a bird, give it space to fly.”
In our quixotic quest for the “perfect recipe”, Dave and I sold our cute-as-a-button-but-less-than-nimble Airstream trailer and transferred our affections to an all-in-one Winnebago sprinter van. What can we say? We were seduced by her streamlined efficiency and easy mobility.
Our new rig has a name—“Suzy”—in memory of my grandmother, a backroads explorer, wildflower photographer, bird watcher, trout fisherwoman and maker of quite possibly the best homemade pickles ever. Dave and I will count ourselves lucky if we explore a fraction of the number of back country miles that she and my grandfather, Carl, logged in their lifetime.
We have mapped out a month-long journey to Denver and back, attempting to craft a timetable that leaves room for ease and spaciousness, what grandma Suzy would call “wiggle room”, and what the Japanese call “ma”: the pure, expectant emptiness that is present in the negative space in a painting, in the space between notes in music, and in the tacit understanding between close friends.
DAY ONE: Point Richmond to Silver Lake
Accordingly, when departure day arrives, we have no campground reservation for the night. Dave puts Suzy in gear and I verify our route with a quick search on my iPhone. We had thought to cross the Sierra Nevada mountain range on the Sonora Pass, a road neither of us has ever traveled before, but as we roll away from our house, I discover that the Sonora Pass is considered too treacherous for RV’s (that would be us). Let the improvisation begin.
Instead of risking our rig (and possibly our lives) the first day on the road, we set out for highway 88, a familiar and beloved path that leads to the forest service cabin purchased by Carl and Suzy in 1958 and now shared by succeeding generations of children, grand-children, and great-grandchildren.
By late afternoon we are ready to stop for the night, and we take a chance on the Silver Lake East Campground, a small, relatively primitive high altitude campground where campsites are offered on a “first come, first serve” basis.
On this Monday afternoon in early June, we practically have our pick of sites. After a brief reconnaissance, we settle into a secluded nook near a rushing stream.
Dave takes a walk and explores the nearby lakefront while I unroll my yoga mat on a piece of flat ground probably meant for pitching a tent, but ideal for practicing yoga, too.
Later, we carry our folding chairs to the granite slab beach and enjoy a glass of wine before dinner.
Dave sighs. “I’m so happy!” he smiles. “I love being near a river.”
We stay for a good long while, mesmerized by the flowing water.
Eventually, we adjourn to the campfire for a one-pan-supper of sautéed new potatoes, weisswurst, and fresh asparagus.
And then to bed, lulled by the sound of the river.
On the first day of our trip, a lack of plan has turned out to be a very good plan indeed.
Heading west from Phoenix on Interstate 10, we backtrack across the Sonora Desert through Basin and Range country, a honeycomb of broad, low-elevation valleys rimmed by parallel mountain ranges. Dave gazes out the windshield and I read aloud from the internet about the cataclysmic combination of geologic events that brought this landscape into being.
Once an extensive upland devoid of mountains, the terrain we see today began to form about 40 to 20 million years ago when volcanoes exploded with tremendous force, leaving behind extensive lava flows, ejecting ash-flow materials from long, thin fissure vents, and sometimes collapsing into large circular basins called calderas.
Meanwhile, below the earth’s surface, intense heat radiated upward, hot enough to melt and soften portions of the lower continental crust to the consistency of molasses stored in the fridge. Then—and here’s a unique and amazing bit—the west coast of what is now North America became attached to the edge of the Pacific Ocean tectonic plate and began to move northwest relative to the main continent, applying a stretching force that the viscous Basin and Range crust could not resist and so began to stretch apart in a giant geo-taffy pull! Think of what happens as you bite into a caramel candy coated with hard chocolate—the fluid caramel stretches while the brittle coating shatters—and you will get the idea. (And perhaps a craving for chocolate-coated caramel.)
Thus over millions of years, the entire substrata from northern Mexico across much of Arizona, California, Utah, and Nevada stretched 30 to 80 percent more than its original width, while the brittle crust above shattered into hundreds of long, thin segments. Narrower alternating segments tended to sink into the taffy, while alternating wider slices maintained more of their old heights. Virtually all mountains of the region were born in this way; this also explains the semi-parallel trend of the region’s mountains and valleys; they run perpendicular to the direction of stretching.
With all this geologic drama in mind, the scenery around us becomes even more compelling, and compared to the vast sweep of geologic time, the drive to Quartzsite passes in less than the blink of an eye.
A crossroads settlement in the middle of the desert, Quartzsite is a winter mecca for retirees, rock collectors, migratory sun-seekers and vehicular nomads of all ages. The modest summer population of 3,000 swells to 1,000,000 or more at peak periods of pilgrimage (such as the Snowbird Jamboree, Senior Citizen Pow-Wow, Rubber Tramp Rendezvous, and especially, the annual Gem and Mineral Show), when thousands of motorhomes carpet the surrounding desert floor. Luckily, we have timed our arrival to NOT coincide with any crowd-attracting events, and easily find an overnight parking place at the friendly and spacious Quail Run RV Park.
While Dave naps, I venture out for a walk around the neighborhood. As usual, we are the smallest house-on-wheels around. Most of the other occupants have arrived in bus-sized dwellings, many towing a passenger car, and they seem to have settled in for the season, embellishing their “patios” with potted cactus, outdoor carpet, lounge chairs, bikes and barbeques. One woman has festooned her awning with colored crystals that twirl and sparkle in the sunlight.
At the far back corner of the fenced-in RV park, I find an unlocked gate and slip out into the desert. A jackrabbit freezes in place. Still as a stone, it blends into the chalky gray of the desert floor.
Low sun casts the mountains in shadow. I feel thirsty, but didn’t bring any water. A quartet of quail race across a patch of open ground, their feather topknots bobbing in time with their quick-footed gait. I pick my way down into the sandy channel of a wide, dry wash. Standing here, my boots sinking into generations of pebbles and silt deposited by flash flood runoff, it’s easy to understand the two main reasons people die in the desert. Dehydration, of course, and drowning.
Behind me, I hear the high-pitched drone of an ATV (All Terrain Vehicle) engine, and soon a grizzled man wearing sunglasses and a tattered army flak jacket motors past, his dog sitting upright beside him.
I return to the trailer just before the sun goes down and the temperature plummets. Dave and I don coats and headlamps and set out on foot along the dark highway to the nearby Grubsteak restaurant. Three waitresses sit smoking cigarettes at a table near the entrance, and as we approach, one of them rushes toward us. “Sorry,” she says, exhaling a puff of smoke. “We’re sold out. No more food left.” It is barely six pm. Never mind. We have a “Plan B”. We retrace our steps, detach tow vehicle from trailer and drive to Silly Al’s, a pizza joint that was probably Dave’s secret “Plan A” all along. A local’s hangout, Silly Al’s is large and low ceilinged with a long bar, a billiards corner in the back, and dining tables clustered around a DJ booth and central dance floor. The place is packed, mostly with men between the ages of 65 and 95 who adhere to a strictly casual uniform of golf shorts and short-sleeved T-shirts.
Our waitress fits both the demographic and the dress code, wearing shorts and flip-flops and a voluminous flowered blouse. She frowns when we order two pints of IPA. “Nobody likes that beer,” she warns us. “It’s bitter.” Just the way we like it.
Tonight is Karaoke Night, and first up is a stocky, gray-haired man wearing the requisite shorts and T-shirt, plus a blue baseball cap emblazoned with five red letters: TRUMP. Background violin music swells, and with practiced, honey-toned-tremolo, he croons the country hit recorded in 1964 by Jim Reeves: Welcome to my world; won’t you come on in; miracles, I guess; still happen now and then… We don’t agree with his politics, but there’s no denying the guy can sing.
Several less memorable performances follow, and Dave and I are about to call it a night when a baby-faced, bearded fellow shuffles up to the microphone. He wears green khaki trousers and a long-sleeved plaid shirt, and looks more like a geologist than a pensioner. He nods at the DJ, and the unmistakable organ riff of “Like a Rolling Stone” fills the room. Applause breaks out, and he launches into a spot-on cover of the Dylan song, getting the cynical timbre of the chorus just right: “How does it feel? To be on your own, with no direction home…like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…” A more apt hymn to Quartzsite, I cannot imagine.
The next morning we pull up stakes and head for Joshua Tree. As we traverse the Mohave Desert, I keep reminding myself to drink water, even if I don’t feel thirsty, and even though the liquid in my water bottle (re-filled in Quartzsite) has a flat, alkaline quality that hits the tongue like chalk.
Joshua Tree RV Park is just as we hoped it would be, a rustic trailer park located far from the main road. Our campsite is secluded from other campers by Oleander bushes and offers a view of rocky hillside (a.k.a ancient lava flow). Best of all, it’s QUIET here. Except for the occasional birdcall.
We cook dinner in the trailer (bratwurst, red rice and kale salad) and then watch a movie, “The Big Sick”, on Dave’s laptop. The film, a happy-sad true story of love and culture clash, is told with understated humor and full of heart. Two thumbs up.
The next morning we pack a picnic lunch and drive to Joshua Tree National Park. At our first sight of an actual Joshua Tree, we screech to a stop and jump out of the car to take photos of the spiky specimen. Only to realize a bit further on that the park contains veritable forests of these mildly sinister evergreen trees, the largest member of the Yucca species.
The park also boasts weirdly dramatic piles of gold-toned granite rock formations. It’s easy to see why climbers flock here to practice their technique on the thousands of routes and countless boulder problems.
Well-worth a visit, this impressive corner of the planet comprises 1,235 square miles, and we spend the day exploring on foot and by car.
For dinner, we consult Trip Advisor reviews and dine at the incongruously named Sam’s Indian Food, Pizza, Subs and Burger. On a scale of 1 to 10, we give it a solid 4.5. Perhaps its favorable rating was relative to the other options here in Joshua Tree. Either way, we resolve to cook “in” more often.
The long days of driving are getting to us, but luckily we are only two hours from the suburbs of Palm Springs, our next destination.
Our first impression of the area around Palm Springs is abundant palm trees, green lawns and lush landscaping, even along the roadways. A man-made oasis tucked into the foot of steep mountains, it is undeniably scenic, but also seems a bit unnatural, if not irresponsible, given California’s perpetual drought.
Other impressions include fast food, fast cars, and repeating themes of shopping plazas and single-story homes. Except in Palm Springs proper, where we spend an interesting afternoon following a self-guided tour of mid-century modern and contemporary architecture.
Our next stop is Borrego Springs, directly east of San Diego. To get there, Dave and I consider driving though some of the settlements around the Salton Sea, a vast lake created by accident in 1905 when the Colorado River broke through an irrigation canal and flooded the area. At first, the newly formed inland sea attracted birdlife and commercial fishery, and then, in the 1950’s and 60’s, boating and sport fishing flourished, resort towns sprang up and land prices skyrocketed. But in the 1970’s, 80’s, and 90’s, agricultural pollutants, algae blooms and increasing salinity (currently 25% saltier than the ocean), began killing the lake. Dead fish washed up in mass quantities on the beaches, and the stench of decaying fish combined with the smell of the lake turned tourists and investors away. Today, most of the settlements are largely abandoned, and the sea itself is drying up. Winds kick up toxic dust from the receding shoreline, and the few people who still live here, mostly poor and Latino, suffer some of the highest asthma rates in all of California. A visit here would feel like rubber-necking at the scene of ruined dreams, and so we choose a different route through the Coachella valley. Instead dead fish and ghost towns, we pass miles of green, irrigated fields, orange groves, and palm tree plantations.
Rising out of the valley, we climb through desert hills that look like giant dried mounds of the mud that used to cake the soles of my Wellington boots after a walk through wet English fields.
In the distance, the long blue line of the Salton Sea is still visible, 236 feet below sea level.
Maybe we’ve been on the dusty trail for too long, but when we land in Borrego Springs, it feels like paradise.
For one thing, this is an RV RESORT, not to be confused with an RV PARK. (If we didn’t know about the distinction before, it now becomes clear.) Golf course, tennis courts, heated saltwater pool, mineral baths, fitness room, library, laundry room, and about fifteen squeaky-clean bathrooms and showers.
Unexpected bonus: At check-in we are told not to leave any outdoor lights burning at night, because Borrego Springs is a “dark sky” community, a place where residents and businesses do their utmost to limit light pollution. Stargazing in the desert has been one of my goals for this trip, but so far either ambient light or scattered high clouds have thwarted my plans.
The next two days, we golf, swim and explore the surrounding area to our heart’s content. At night we marvel at a multitude of stars. We even socialize with our neighbors—a rare occurrence for introverts like us—and meet new companions who feel like old friends. When we pack up to depart we almost wish we were staying a day or two longer.
Dave puts the Cayenne in gear and cruises away from our parking spot while I walk alongside, double-checking the connection of trailer to hitch. Immediately, a metallic scraping noise erupts from the trailer’s left wheel. We thought we fixed it in Barstow, but it’s back, louder than ever, and now it is accompanied by a rhythmic clanking.
Four hours and three mechanics later, we are parked in a sun-baked field in the desert, waiting for a diagnosis from Tito, a taciturn mechanic who is missing his left thumb and bears a striking resemblance to Fidel Castro.
Dave disappears, and I glimpse him standing near a pile of old tires, hands clenched at his sides. Later he tells me what he was doing. “I was telling myself to ENJOY the moment, even though it isn’t what I want. Enjoy what is; not what isn’t.” I smile and agree.
The verdict is in: the brake adjuster has sheared in two, and has been rolling around in the brake drum since Barstow. (Tito says this is unrelated to the loose shock absorber nuts. Unless the same factory mechanic neglected both items. We can’t help but wonder if anything else was overlooked.) It will take another day to get a replacement part, and the delay will cause us to cancel two days’ worth of plans, but if we had to break down somewhere, Borrego beats Barstow.
We check back into the RV resort and kick back to enjoy more time in the desert. Whether it be misfortune or serendipity, or the underlying force of synchronicity, we do as Buddha says, “be where you are, otherwise you miss your life.”
Or as they say in the RV world, “home is where you park it.”
There’s something liberating about the constraints of a small trailer. About letting go a perceived sense of need (or deprivation), mapping out what is essential, and packing the absolute minimum. Or so I tell myself, as I agonize over what to take, and what to leave behind.
And then it’s time to depart. We head south on Interstate 5, that long thread of four-lane highway linking the west coast of the continental United States from Canada to Mexico. We have allocated three days to get to Phoenix, where Dave is booked to play a gig. Fog shrouds the scenery (what little there is, in this rather bleak corridor of the central valley), offering only blurred glimpses of winter-brown hillocks and winter-bare trees. Further south, green groves of orange trees emerge from the mist, laden with bright fruit. Then the landscape reverts to type, a faded winter palette of brown and gray. Time passes; two hours, three hours, four. Road-weariness sets in. We pull into a rest stop and eat our packed lunches, our ‘rig’ overshadowed by a row of hulking giants. This trip will prompt us to think about scale. About how small we are, relative to the vastness around us.
About fifteen minutes shy of Bakersfield RV Park, we experience a minor hiccup. More precisely, a loud metallic scraping noise accompanies each tire revolution. We pull over onto the gravel shoulder and have a look-see. But nothing seems awry. Dave climbs back into the car, drives forward and backward a few times, and the noise stops. Maybe a sagebrush branch got stuck in the undercarriage and then fell away. What else could it be? We drive on.
Daylight fades as we check in at the RV office and find our designated slot wedged into a concrete-striped expanse of jumbo motorhomes and five-wheeled trailers.
Unremitting tule fog dampens and cools the air, and we reach for hats and jackets before unhitching and unpacking.
After we’re settled, connected to shore power and city water, we head out for The Crystal Palace, a bar, restaurant and western music hall built by country songwriter and musician Buck Owens.
Our waitress knows more about rodeo than restaurants, but never mind, perhaps that is as it should be in a wild west town. The food is better than we anticipate (BBQ ribs, cole slaw, mashed potatoes and gravy for Dave; plank-grilled salmon, ‘zesty cooked green beans’ and baked potato for Anna), as is the Sterling Vineyards sauvignon blanc. We are revived.
The band appears on stage wearing black Stetsons, and Dave gets a hankering for “one of them cowboy hats”. Country music is King here, and as soon as the band begins to play the audience swarms the dance floor, forming a line and moving in unison through a series of prescribed steps. I sway to the beat, tempted to join in, but know my technique would be conspicuously lacking, so for the good of everyone, I refrain.
Sated and ready for bed, we return to our slab of cement and lawn in the over-sized parking lot. The persistent fog lends a chill to the air even inside the Airstream, so we blast the heat a few minutes before settling down to sleep. It has been a good first day. We have traded the comforts of home for the uncertainty of adventure, and all is well.
Day two: we wake to another dim, foggy morning. We hook trailer to truck and make our way into downtown Bakersfield on a quest for gas, groceries, and a black cowboy hat. Empty streets and boarded up storefronts give the impression of a place on the down and out. At a stoplight, a lean man with a bedroll slung over his shoulder plods across the street. His weather-beaten face and grimy clothes make we wonder where he came from, and how he ended up here, sleeping rough in Bakersfield? He pauses on the opposite curb, peers into a rubbish bin, fishes out a cigarette butt and secrets it in a breast pocket. As he does this, he almost smiles.
We accomplish our first two errands, and then park our rig at the Emporium Western Store. In-store expert Rhonda assists Dave in trying on at least seven different brands and sizes before finding a hat that looks as if it was tailor-made for him.
“Now we need to find one for Anna,” Dave tells Rhonda, “which hat would a lady wear?” I protest, not sure I need a cowgirl hat, but Rhonda produces a likely prospect, and so I try it on.
Like a glove, it fits, and like the perfect pair of spectacles, it is the puzzle piece that completes the picture. Thus Dave and I both come away with big smiles and iconic headgear. One word says it all: Stetson.
Pleased with our morning so far, we climb back into the saddle (er…tow vehicle) and motor through fog-flattened landscape to the Tehachapi pass. At 3,000 feet, the mist seeps away, and it is a relief to see an expanse blue sky. Sunlight illuminates an assortment of scrappy pines and leafless oaks scattered over camel-colored hills, that soon give way to high desert plain.
We stop for lunch in Tehachapi, a name known to us from the trucker’s anthem, “Willin’”, written by Lowell George of Little Feat. (This song will remain stuck in my brain for our entire trip.) If you ever find yourself hungry in Tehachapi, check out the Adobada tacos and chicken enchiladas at Taco Samich, 211 East Tehachapi Road.
Around 2 pm, with three hours of driving still ahead of us to reach our campsite at Joshua Tree, we stop in Barstow for a coffee.
As we leave town, we hear the same loud screeching noise as we heard the day before. Dave pulls over and I dismount to walk alongside the trailer. The sound is definitely emanating from one of the back wheels. Metal on metal, and instead of going away, it’s getting worse. We find a place to park the rig, scramble onto the dirt and peer under the trailer. The axel and wheels look intact—but wait—the nut attaching one of the shock absorber arms is missing. It must’ve worked its way loose and flown off, presumably at the last intersection. We dare not drive any further for fear of harming something vital.
Broke down in Barstow, we consider our options. Dave taps into the twin miracles of internet and cellular signal, does some quick research and manages to contact Antonio, a local mobile mechanic. We relay our location at the corner of Barstow Road and Juniper Street (this causes visions of an ice-cold martini to flash in Dave’s brain, temporarily distracting him from the issue at hand), and wait for our savior to appear. It takes awhile. Eventually he shows up, a brawny, brown-skinned man with inscrutable tattoos on his arms and neck. He assesses the situation and then drives off in search of replacement parts. We sit tight, reminding ourselves that the unexpected makes travel even more memorable; it’s all part of the adventure. Besides, there are so many ways this could have been so much worse. At least we aren’t stuck on a forsaken stretch of road 150 miles from the nearest auto supply store.
By now it is too late in the day to continue our journey as planned, and we’re not even sure the trailer will be safe to drive, so while we’re waiting for Antonio to return, we phone and cancel our reservation at Joshua Tree RV Park.
The sun disappears below the horizon by the time Antonio reappears and installs new bolts on both shock absorber arms (the other bolt was loose too). We scrape together enough cash to pay for half the bill (having left home yesterday without stopping at an ATM—lesson learned) and he agrees to accept a check for the rest. We thank him profusely, wave good-bye and then make our way to a place we never would’ve found if it hadn’t been for our mechanical failure: Shady Lane RV Camp, just outside of Barstow. This modest, mom-and-pop trailer park caters to live aboards and single-axel campers rather than giant motorhomes, and we feel at ease. And grateful.
We need to get an early start in the morning to make up for lost time today, and so we keep the trailer hooked to tow vehicle, ready to roll at first light. I heat up chili and rice for dinner, fortuitously on board as our one prepared-ahead-meal. Afterwards, we venture outside to stargaze, but high overcast obscures all but a few faint points of light. No matter, we are safe and happy where we are, and that is no small thing.
Day three begins with coffee-to-go at Peggy Sue’s 50’s Diner, and then we settle into the seven-hour drive to Phoenix.
Our journey follows a ribbon of desert highway, sometimes narrowing to two-lane blacktop, bordered by miles of alkaline desert. A jigsaw of sharp-edged ridges, ancient lava flows and volcanic cones marks the horizon.
The climate and landscape might be harsh and forbidding, but there is also a sense of majesty and timelessness beneath this overarching sky.
We pass signs directing us to places called Ragtown, Caliente and Weedpatch, and also more surprising names such as Glasgow, Ludlow, Siberia, and Cadiz. Every settlement seems half abandoned, mere clusters of box-like dwellings, many with boarded up windows and surrounded by broken down trucks and trailers. “I don’t think people are meant to live out here,” comments Dave.
After three hours of driving, a swathe of green appears in the otherwise dun-colored vale. It is the Colorado River, and the dividing line between California and Arizona. We cross over the border, turn south and pass through a landscape of jagged rock formations rising like dark islands from a sea of sand and scrub. We have entered the Sonoran desert, where the elevation is lower and the average temperature higher than in the Mohave, and the only place on earth where giant Saguaro cacti grow. The classic silhouettes appear alongside the road and in the distance, towering like sporadic sentinels over acres of sand and salt bush. Some exist as lone spires, others stand with arms upraised as if to say “Hello there!” Or “Watch Out!” The largest and oldest cactus in the USA, Saguaro can grow up to 50 feet tall and live for 150 years or more.
A roadsign warns us that it is 58 miles to the next gas station. Our gauge reads 1/3 tank. We make some quick calculations and decide to take the risk.
It turns out fine. We arrive at the oasis, and Dave crawls under the trailer to check the shock nuts. They are still there. We fuel up and carry on, briefly traveling a section of what was once Route 66, the two-lane artery immortalized as “The Mother Road” by John Steinbeck’s 1939 novel “The Grapes of Wrath”, as the place to “get your kicks” by the 1946 rhythm and blues standard, and by the writings of beat generation nomads such as Jack Kerouac.
We arrive in Phoenix just in time for cocktails with the band, five musicians (and friends) who have been playing music together for no less than 30 years.
We swap stories, sip drinks and admire the lush surroundings of the Arizona Biltmore, an architectural gem designed by Albert Chase MacArthur, a Harvard graduate who studied under Frank Lloyd Wright. Dubbed “the Jewel of the Desert” when it opened in 1929, the hotel has been an Arizona landmark ever since.
Our Airstream occupies the bus parking lot during our two-night stay at the Biltmore, and each day I find reasons to visit our trailer. Longing for the familiarity of home, I suppose, away from home.
There’s more adventure ahead. Meanwhile, we rest in the liminal, between what was and what will be.
“…perfectly beautiful are these blessed evergreen islands, so numerous that they seem to have been sown broadcast…” —John Muir, Travels to Alaska
Our seaplane pilot, a slender, clean-shaven and short-haired young chap of few words, looks us over with a careful and—I hope—experienced eye. He assigns each of his five passengers a specific seat for optimal weight distribution fore and aft and side to side. The other female passenger and I are sent to the rear of the plane, in sling-back seats formed by the heavy canvas curtaining off the luggage. I clamber in and fasten my seat belt. Dave is assigned the place in front of me, a burly native man settles next to him, and the fifth passenger, another local man, slides into the co-pilot’s chair. The plane is so small that if I wanted to, I could reach past Dave and tap the pilot on the shoulder.
The engine ignites, earplugs are handed around to dull the buzz and drone, and before I know it, we are gliding down the liquid runway and rising into the sky. I don’t learn until later that our plane dates from 1957. Just as well.
Blue and green vistas open beneath us.
A slight yaw, as the plane gains altitude and passes over a mountainous island. I take a deep breath and focus on the beauty of the scenery, rather than how high up we are, or how likely we are to crash. I think of our stunt pilot friend in Sydenham, and his tales of flying small planes as a young man in South Africa, navigating by rivers and landscape.
A half hour later, the plane banks around a corner of Chichagof Island and cruises up the inlet to our destination of Tenakee Springs, population approximately 100. (Though in winter, this number shrinks to around 60 hardy souls.) Our journey, by car and three plane flights, has taken ten hours.
Gordon and Anne wait for us on the dock, silhouetted by evening sunlight. Dave and I have known them independently and together for almost 50 years, connected by an interlocking net of shared experiences and relationships that make them feel like family.
Arriving here feels like a small miracle, a happy convergence of people, time and place. New strands will be added to the web that connects us, including Anne’s sister and brother-in-law, Mary and Jim, who arrived here yesterday. We will meet them shortly. But first, we are escorted to our rental cabin.
We drop our luggage and walk to Gordon and Anne’s place, just a few minutes down the road. Mary and Anne have prepared a dinner of salmon, rockfish and crab (fresh caught by Gordon and Jim), accompanied by salad, squash, and ears of sweet corn Dave and I have brought from California.
Over dinner, we renew old friendships and make new acquaintances. We transition to “Tenakee Time”. Days are long in summer here, short in winter, at a latitude roughly the same as northern Scotland. We walk back to our rental cabin holding hands, in honeysuckle-scented twilight. Tenakee is known for its natural hot springs, and as we pass the bathhouse, echoed conversation drifts out the lantern shaped skylight. Since there is no shower or tub in our cabin, I predict we’ll try these hot springs sooner rather than later.
In the morning, Dave leaves early for a rendezvous with Gordon and Jim. They will take Gordon’s boat across the inlet and check a fishing line set yesterday. I take my camera for a walk along the beaten earth track that is the town’s only thoroughfare.
A weathered, haphazard collection of dwellings grouped along a lane, Tenakee Springs is inaccessible by road, and most residents prefer it that way.
People go about their daily business on foot, by bicycle, ATV, or boat.
The track I walk continues beyond town in both directions for several miles but eventually yields to the forest.
Access to the outside world is via seaplane or boat, weather permitting. A passenger ferry calls in twice a week, and the voyage to Juneau can take 4 hours or 14, depending on ports of call and weather. Most supplies arrive by boat or barge. Some would call it isolated; others call it peaceful.
From one side of the road, views of water and mountains across the inlet, from the other, glimpses into the Tongass National Forest.
A dense array of undergrowth borders both sides of the street, bright green berry bushes punctuated by fuchsia spears of fireweed.
I snack on thimbleberries, tart and sweet, so soft they must be eaten directly from their stalk, and firm, round salmon berries, so named, I imagine, for their resemblance to red salmon roe.
I walk for an hour, passing houses ranging from seemingly uninhabitable shacks to stylish vacation homes, and everything in between.
Now I am hungry. The Mercantile doesn’t open until noon, so I head for the bakery, where I enjoy spinach and mushroom quiche and hash brown potatoes to rival any in the lower 48.
All interested parties please take note: the bakery building and business are for sale, including all kitchen equipment, the well-appointed two-bedroom upstairs apartment, and fabulous views across the inlet. Only $380,000 (owner financing available) will buy you this piece of paradise and a thriving business opportunity. More details available at chrisdarius.home@gmail.com, or 907.736.2262. If I were 35 years younger, I would be tempted.
In the afternoon, we hike through the forest to a salmon stream frequented by bears. Gordon leads the way, a canister of bear spray affixed to his belt.
Ancient mulch underfoot softens the impact of each step. Ferns border our path. Cedar, hemlock and pine trees tower overhead.
We stick together, looking right and left, front and behind, eyes peeled for bears. When we near the stream, tall trees give way to berry bushes, and dark splodges of bear scat litter the trail. “That looks fresh,” remarks Gordon. Anne and I start up a dialogue of nervous chat, adhering to the cardinal rule: “Never startle a bear.” Five minutes later we step unscathed onto a bridge spanning a small expanse of shallow water. “Usually you can see salmon all over the place here,” says Gordon. “But not today. We might not get to see any bears.”
But Mary is watching the opposite shore with an intent look in her eye. “Bear!” She points to a bulky dark shape, rubbing its back against a tree. The bear gives itself a thorough scratch, then drops to all fours and looks straight at us, light brown snout, dark eyes, and round pricked ears clearly visible. Then it lumbers into the stream, where it glances about as if looking for salmon. A young sow, we decide, as she pauses and tilts her head up to sniff the air. We admire her classic Ursidae silhouette.
She crosses the creek and heads in our direction. Has she caught our scent? We are downwind, but a bear’s sense of smell is believed to be the best of any animal on earth; nine times better than a bloodhound’s, and 2,100 times better than a human’s. She has probably spotted us as well; it is a myth that bears have poor eyesight; evidence shows they see as well as humans in daylight, and their night vision far surpasses ours. Presumably she can hear us too; we are speaking at normal volume (on purpose), and a bear’s sense of hearing is at least twice as acute as ours.
The bear continues to approach along the water’s edge until without warning, she veers into the bushes. This is worrying, for now we are not sure where she is, and if she decides to linger and forage for berries, she will effectively cut off the path by which we came. I notice a chill lump in the pit of my stomach, and remind myself to breathe. A few tense moments pass. Then, movement in the bushes, and the bear reappears beside the creek, closer now, and still moving toward us. From this distance, I can easily make out her thick, curved claws as she steps almost daintily between stones. Gordon unclips his bear spray, and we all draw together in the middle of the bridge. The bear splashes through the water underneath us, and then, when she is quite close, turns and gives us a long, beady-eyed stare.
Then she turns away and ambles across the rocky stream. Her brown pelt ripples and shines as she picks her way over wet stones, moving upstream, away from us, and in the opposite direction of our route home. For this, and for the heart-stopping privilege of witnessing her wild being-ness, we are glad.
In the evening, we dine on fresh fish tacos made with halibut found this morning on Gordon and Jim’s long line. (They caught two, one weighing 50 pounds.)
After dinner and dishes are done, Gordon and Dave retreat upstairs to band practice, while the rest of us share thoughts and stories on the deck.
Just before bedtime, I grab soap and a towel and walk to the bathhouse for my first soak. Dave visited earlier this afternoon, and has instructed me in the simple protocol: leave your clothes and towel hanging on hooks in the spacious, wood-panelled changing area before walking through the door posted Nude Bathing Only. Inside the tub room, a cavernous, concrete structure built over a fissure in the earth, descend a few cement stairs to a six by nine foot concrete-ringed pool set into the floor. Inhale the mild scent of sulphur and shampoo, soap up, and rinse by scooping water from the pool into a plastic jug and pouring it over yourself. Sit on the wide concrete rim of the bath and slide into the water, heated to 106F. I sit on one side of the pool and stretch my legs across to the opposite side, immersed up to my chin. Small bubbles rise from the depths, evidence of the constant flow—7 gallons per minute—of piping hot mineral water rising from steep rock cleft. The tub room’s high ceiling and concrete construction create an echo chamber of sorts, and sound reverberates to such an extent that it is difficult to carry on a comprehensible conversation. Just as well, for after a few moments in the hot water, body and mind melt into profound relaxation.
Friday night, the whole of Tenakee Springs, plus out-of-town guests, gather to celebrate Ben’s birthday. A local resident, he has been dead several years. But that’s no reason to stop throwing the party.
A potluck supper precedes live music, and in the afternoon I prepare my contribution: a three-bean salad accompanied by fresh lettuce and garnished with nasturtiums. Olive oil, fresh lemons, and canned beans purchased from the Mercantile; fresh lettuce, basil and nasturtiums all harvested from our front porch garden.
Rain sets in as soon as the supper begins, and guests cluster under makeshift awnings. Dave and I fill our plates and find a place to sit with Anne, Mary, Gordon and Jim. Moisture pours off the tarp suspended above our picnic table, punctuating our dinner conversation with periodic waterfalls. We don’t mind; after all, this part of Alaska is a coastal rainforest.
Soon the music starts up, and people begin to dance. It’s important to note that Dave and Gordon played rock n’ roll music together in a band when they were in high school. To be reunited 45 years later, in this amazing and remote place, well, words fail me, but I think they both feel the significance of the moment. I certainly do.
“The power is in the juice,” chants the crowd. A bearded man hands me a jumbo-sized plastic jar full of vodka, lemons, sugar and water. Anne has forewarned me about this. I give the container a vigorous shake and then take a tentative sip. Very sweet indeed.
Darkness settles in around 10 pm, but the band plays on until midnight. (I learn this later, for I depart a few songs shy of the last number.)
Cloudy skies allow neither moon nor starlight, and I have no flashlight, so I walk by braille, feeling the pebbles and uneven ground with the soles of my feet. Occasionally, I depress my camera shutter halfway to activate the pre-flash, thus illuminating a few feet of path ahead. A bit like driving on a dark road at night; you can never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way. I keep up a constant patter, telling myself the bears are surely asleep. (And if they’re not, they’ll hear me coming.) Moving in 3D darkness feels good, like a return to the senses, until I am suddenly startled by a near head-on collision with an anonymous cyclist. After that I activate the pre-flash more often. Eventually I reach the main part of town, lit by sparse streetlights, and from there it’s an easy stroll home.
Before coming here, both Dave and I felt somewhat daunted at the prospect of adventure in this out-of-the-way place. But it hasn’t taken long for us to become captivated by this rustic paradise with its natural hot springs and mild climate (for Alaska); its relaxed, quiet, crime-free and diverse community; its evergreen forests, abundance of fishing and hunting, spectacular vistas across water to distant mountains, and its relatively low cost of living. (There is no property tax, no state income tax, no sales tax besides a 2% tax local to Tenakee, and arguably little to spend money on.)
Time takes on an elastic quality. We make a daily pilgrimage to the bathhouse—separately—according to the different posted hours for men and women. We walk or bike everywhere, and nowhere we need to go is particularly far away. It feels good and smells good to be outdoors, even when it’s raining. I love this. It reminds me of village life in Sydenham.
We flirt with the idea of living here, though I’m not sure we are quite rough and ready enough for this frontier town.
Year-round would be a challenge, but perhaps a seasonal escape from San Francisco’s summer wind and fog? But Alaskan summers can be grey too, and August is the second rainiest month of the year. We shelve the idea. For now.
On our last day, Gordon takes us to his workplace, accessible only by water. Spray flashes off the bow of his fishing boat as we cross the wide elbow of the inlet. “This is my commute,” he shouts over the noise of wind and motor. Several years ago, Gordon and his son, Sterling, negotiated permission with the US Forest Service to establish a sustainable timber company, selectively harvesting old-growth trees in the Tongass National Forest. Gordon and Sterling choose their trees carefully, and mill the wood themselves, in a structure they built on a small parcel of forest rented from the government. They sell the fine-grain, high-quality yellow cedar to boat builders and artisans. To do this work, Gordon has invested in a fleet of vehicles: log pullers, earth movers, hauling trucks, and the like. He and Sterling keep the old logging roads they use in good repair, and sustain five employees, including themselves. It is a small operation, but it is the largest business in Tenakee Springs. And it is important work. Tongass National Forest is the world’s largest remaining old-growth coastal temperate rainforest, and clearcut logging puts it at risk. Razed forest grows back slowly into dense thickets of young trees that are nearly impenetrable to wildlife, and abandoned logging roads fill salmon streams with erosion and block the way for fish. There is a better way to sustain both the land and the economy here, and that is Gordon and Sterling’s aim.
We round a small point, enter a cove and glide up to a floating dock. Tree-clad peaks rise steeply from the deep, glaciated valley, slopes scarred by clearcut logging. In the distance, a bear moves on the beach. We tie off the boat and walk up the ramp to where about twenty pickup trucks seem to be rusting in place.
“This is the LTF,” says Gordon with a wry smile. “That’s a government acronym for Logging Transfer Facility. I’m the only one who has a permit to park here,” he says, “the rest are renegades.”
Gordon has brought his rifle, and Dave takes practice aim. The gun is our insurance policy. If our truck breaks down and we have to walk out of the forest, we might meet a bear or two.
For the next two hours, we tour the Tenakee Logging Company’s domain. The intention, the perseverance, and the sheer hard work involved in this operation impress me greatly. So does the landscape they are trying to protect. Some of these trees have been here since the Middle Ages. When Samuel Pepys wrote his diary, and plague and fire raged in London, the old trees had already been growing for 500 years.
On the morning of our departure, I wake to the thrum and drip of rain and the whirr of a hummingbird outside the window. If the weather permits, we will soon board our seaplane and begin our journey back to the little town in the vast metropolis where we live now. I wouldn’t mind if we were delayed.
The rain softens to a drizzle, and a patch of blue sky appears overhead. We fly to Juneau as scheduled, and I come away with deep admiration for Gordon and Anne and their family, for what they’ve done, and how they are living here.
In Juneau, before we board our flight to Seattle, we have time to see the Mendenhall glacier. In 1934, you could walk up and touch the glacier from where we now gaze at it across a body of water. So much of the stuff I worry about seems unimportant when faced with the immensity of glaciers, and the pace of climate change.
As we say good-bye in the airport, I try to express to Gordon how I feel about our visit, but I can’t find the words. This wild place, and our experience here, inspires awe as it defies description.
“There is nothing you can buy, achieve, own or rent that can fill up that hunger inside for a sense of fulfillment and wonder.” —Annie Lamott 
On the recent Bank Holiday weekend (there are eight such legal holidays here; Brits take vacation time seriously), Dave and I traveled to the midlands for a walking holiday in the Peak District National Park. Not to be confused with the Lake District, the Peak District comprises 555 square miles of rugged upland between the densely populated urban areas of Sheffield and Manchester. Before arriving at our B&B, we made a side trip to Calke Abbey, a large Baroque mansion dating from the early 1700’s. An impressive example of the English country house in decline, the vast edifice and stable complex appear untouched since the 1880s. 
Stuffed to the gills with former owners’ furniture and relics, from taxidermy to timepieces, cutlery to chamber pots.
And everywhere, the patina of time.
Well pleased with our detour to experience a slice of history in its natural state, we departed Calke and followed a scenic route through green hills cross-hatched with miles of tumbledown stone fencing to Alstonefield Manor B&B—recommended by a business associate of Dave’s—our home away from home for the next three nights. 
From the moment we peered through the garden gate and found our way into the entry hall, our stay proved a treat for the senses and a balm to the spirit. Anna especially loved the commodious Boot Room—an element currently missing at Long Barn—featuring a long, comfortable bench to sit on when taking shoes off and on, and plenty of space for boots and brellies, coats and hats. 
Our hosts Jo and Robert Wood, both professionals in the design world, have lavished their expertise on the interior of their home, decorating each room with muted colors, antique furniture, artifacts and flowers, and creating a series of tableaux worthy of the pages of House Beautiful and Interior Design. 
Each morning at 8:30 sharp, a tray with two china cups, milk, sugar and a pot of tea appeared outside our door, accompanied by a cheery voice announcing “Morning tea!” A half hour later, we made our way downstairs to breakfast in the wood panelled dining room. We shared one long, candle-lit table with the six other guests in residence, and though the company was charming, the ambiance and food delicious, the communal aspect of the meal prompted Dave to later confide in me: “I don’t like having to make conversation with a group of strangers first thing in the morning.” For me, the compulsory socialising was less onerous than the enforced timetable, but either way, morning is time of day when we prefer to gently ease back into the world at our own pace—especially when on holiday. So…self-catering accommodation, from now on? 
Despite driving wind, chilly temperatures and intermittently wet weather, we bundled up and walked each day, determined to get some exercise and enter into the landscape. 
Anna was thrilled to spy a ‘sheepfold,’ a circular, dry stone (ie. no mortar) fenced pen, one of the most ancient types of livestock enclosure known, in use as early as the 1100’s.
The first evening, we dined at the gastropub in Alstonefield, ably managed by Jo’s sister, Emily. Only a ‘short stumble’ from our bed at the manor, The George proved cosy and inviting, with wood fires warming both rooms. So impressed were we with the pub, the food and the wine selection that we returned the next two nights. 
When we weren’t walking, eating or drinking, we were visiting historic monuments. We avoided nearby Chatsworth, often named as the UK’s favourite country house, in favour of several smaller, lesser known places, in hopes of eluding holiday weekend crowds. 
Our strategy worked (the inclement weather might’ve helped) and we wandered through Haddon Hall, a fortified medieval manor house dating from the 12th century, virtually by ourselves.
Owned by the same family since 1567, and possibly the most perfectly preserved such place in England, Haddon Hall was shut up for 200 years, from 1700 until the 1920’s, thus sparing it the ravages of warfare, family misfortune and changing fashions. 
Even the Elizabethan gardens are mercifully intact. 
Next we attempted a visit to Wingfield Manor, the reputedly impressive ruins of a palatial medieval manor house and one of the sites where Mary Queen of Scots was housed (ie. imprisoned) during her peregrinations. But it was not to be. A sign informed us that the ruin is now privately owned.
But this is England, where historic sites are thick on the ground, so we didn’t have to drive far to find Hardwick Hall. Actually two halls, one in ruins, the other exquisitely preserved. The ‘new hall,’ begun in 1590, was built to impress by Bess of Hardwick, a.k.a. Countess of Shrewsbury. Her initials, emblazoned in silhouette along the tops of six towers—E.S. for Elizabeth of Shewsbury—are the first thing we notice as we approach the grand home.
We also marvel at the size and symmetry of glass-paned windows making up the stately facade. In fact, Hardwick’s glittering array of window glass inspired the rhyme, “Hardwick Hall, more glass than wall.” Architecturally stunning, though by all accounts, a terribly cold and draughty place to live.
On a warm summer evening too delectable to go indoors, Isabelle and I retreat to the conservatory, where the twilit garden and the silver sky surround us. Isabelle is a neighbour from the village, and she is eight years old. We share the particular bond of being born on the same day—albeit a sobering 50 years apart. We settle back into pillows on the couch, and chat of this and that. Dusk eases into the corners of the room, softening the outlines of things we know.
An odd sound repeats in the garden. A persistent sort of snuffling noise.
“Do you hear that?” I whisper.
Isabelle nods. “Something is moving in that bush.”
We creep to the open door, crouch on the sill and peer into the herbaceous border directly in front of us. No hint of breeze, yet an unseen force is jostling the low shrubs. The rapid sniffing has grown louder.
“Let’s get a closer look,” Isabelle suggests, poised to step onto the grass.
“Wait.” I motion her to stay. “What if it’s something scary?” (Though what that could be I have no idea.)
Isabelle flashes a hopeful smile. “I think it might be a hedgehog.”
We keep watch from our post in the doorway. The loud breathing noises continue, rife with mysterious purpose. Leaves tremble and flowers sway as if an unseen snuffler were pacing back and forth. We decide it must be a hedgehog. Probably foraging for food, snails and grubs and such.
Minutes pass. The snorfling stops, but the bushes are rustling. By now it is nearing ten o’clock at night, in the month of July, at a latitude of 51.7 degrees north of the equator, thus not quite dark yet. Isabelle and I remain riveted to the doorstep, eyes straining in the dim light, waiting to see what happens next.
“Look! It is a hedgehog!” Isabelle points to a small, plump shape with a distinctive spike-tipped hairdo, scuttling along the edge of the lawn. The hedgehog zigzags around the birdbath, stops to snack on bread crumbs scattered for the birds, and eventually disappears into—where else?—the hedge.
I am feeling fortunate indeed, to have made the acquaintance of this charming nocturnal guest, when Isabelle gasps and points again. “There’s another one!” A second mound of spikey fur waddles into view, pauses, and then trundles off in the opposite direction from its companion. Isabelle and I have been trying to keep quiet, but now we burst with excited whispers. Encountering two hedgehogs in one evening is quite unexpected, and feels almost magical.
Adding to the thrill, online research later reveals that we very likely witnessed a mating twosome. Usually solitary creatures, hedgehogs only pair up to procreate, and foreplay consists of—you guessed it—the male circling the female while making loud snuffling noises. And after the deed is done, they go their separate ways. Perhaps they are too prickly to cohabitate, but what a wonder they are.
“…Both joy and sorrow swell in the magnifying glass of the dew. We do not actually know it, but we sense it: our life has a sister vessel which plies an entirely different route.”
From “The Blue House” prose poem by Swedish poet and Nobel laureate Tomas Tranströmer (1931— )
The hedgerow is in shadow, but late afternoon sun illuminates the fields behind Long Barn, spotlighting a small herd of cattle. Some caramel-colored, some white, some black, they stand with heads bent to the grass, peaceful as statues. I am looking out the window above the kitchen sink (such an important place in a house; such an important place for a view), absent-mindedly observing this tranquil slice of world where we live.
I am thinking about the choices we make in life, the unpredictable path that led us here, and about loved ones far away. Dave and I feel ‘at home’ here in the UK; we love the place (yes, even the weather!), the people we’ve met, and the way of life we’ve found, and yet there is no denying that family and friends dear to us no longer live near to us. I worry about the separate orbits of our daily lives, about missing holidays and milestones, and about being absent in times of need. I tell myself that proximity doesn’t define closeness, and that the magic of Skype keeps us connected (surprisingly well, in fact), but the human tendency to worry, to scan the horizon for what’s wrong, or what might go wrong, keeps a sense of separation bobbing and floating on the surface of my awareness. How much of this low-grade worry is adaptive, a legacy of ancestors who survived because they paid attention to what caused pain and harm? Neuroscientists say that we have developed a ‘negativity bias:’ our brains are primed to spot potential threats, and our instinctive memory preferentially imprints the negative stuff of life, so if we are to fully inhabit our time on earth, we must remain vigilant to beauty, open to delight.
Unexpected movement draws my eye to the field outside the kitchen window: two fawn-colored, long-legged calves are chasing each other back and forth across the pasture. To and fro they run, moving in gawky splendor, gold-toned flanks catching the day’s last light. In and around they weave, disappearing and then reappearing among bushes and placid cows, propelled by some inner impulse to movement, to motion, and, I like to think, to bovine joy. I savor the sight, and the feeling it engenders in me. I imagine the elasticity of running free, the synchrony of mind, body, and breath. I relish this vicarious exhilaration until it becomes part of me, a bright, indelible thread in the fabric of my being.
Yes, distance imposes limits. But it also creates possibility. Living far away crystallises our sense of what is important as it expands our field of shared experience, so that the nature of the time we now spend with family and friends—whether we visit them in California or they travel to Long Barn—is even more cherished, certainly more concentrated, and arguably richer and more intimate than before.
The sun has left the field now; the calves have abandoned their game. My gaze turns to the persimmon painted walls of our kitchen, my thoughts to the evening meal. I pull scissors from a drawer, open the back door and step into the garden. The long blue hour of twilight has begun. A blackbird perches on a treetop, proclaiming his rights in flutelike song. I snip the herbs I planted last summer—chives, mint, parsley—already greening in anticipation of spring.
Later, Dave and I will sit down to dinner, and as we always do, we will recall the roses and thorns in our respective days. Thorns, we notice, arrive with plenty of neural fanfare; roses require presence of heart. I will tell him what I witnessed out the window above the kitchen sink, what I would not have seen if I hadn’t been in a receptive frame of mind. I will describe how the beauty of the light, the green field, and the unfettered aliveness of the calves made me feel full, and whole, and part of everything. How, at such a moment, even though we live far away, everyone we love seems very near indeed.
“The bud stands for all things, even for those things that don’t flower, for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing…” Excerpted from “Saint Francis and the Sow” by Galway Kinnell (1927— )
The weeks tick by, the long winter recedes, and we witness another English spring: tiny green fists on bare branches, and then the slow unfurling of broad fingered leaves.
Once again, the heart irresistibly lifts at the sight of lambs in the field; the gaze brightens at the metamorphosis of muddy ground to a green and flowering sea.
We find Bluebells in the Beech tree woods, birdsong everywhere,
and twice, a surprise visitor in the back garden:
Shelley, a very clever, and very pregnant pig who realizes the electric fence around her pen has lost power and she can sneak out unscathed. She works her way through the dense hedgerow dividing our land—probably in search of the apples I often lob into her yard—and it is only with the assistance of several neighbors and continuous food bribes that we are able to lure her back through the hedge to her side.
After her second great escape, Shelley gets a new pen, now contained by wooden siding instead of mere strips of theoretically electrified wire. Just as well, for the countdown has begun to the birth of her piglets, and according to the “rule of hoof” for porcine gestation—three months, three weeks and three days—the blessed event should occur any minute now!
Meanwhile, as happens every year on the first weekend in June, our village hosts a traditional Fayre.
A real community undertaking, everyone pitches in to help, setting up and staffing a variety of stalls, pouring tea, baking cakes, and organizing a variety of games, raffles and prizes.
A live band plays on the green, featuring Dave on lead guitar, impressing villagers who had not yet realized that he is a musician and rock star.
The sun shines all day and plenty of ale flows at the pub.
A chance for old and new friends to meet, the Fayre offers diversions for adults and kids alike, from face painting to Pimm’s Cup, to plate smashing to football in the toilet. (Sounds worse than it is.)
There are real bargains to be found at the book stall, Bric-a-Brac, plant sale and jewelry table, and spectator sports include ferret racing, a tug-of-war contest and a karate demonstration.
From all over the county, visitors arrive early and stay late. We dance until midnight, the band still going strong.
Mark your calendar: same time, same place next year. Until then, Piglet Birthday Update available upon request. And here’s the rest of the poem:
“…though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as Saint Francis
put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,
down through the great broken heart
to the sheer blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing
beneath them:
the long, perfect loveliness of sow.”
“If history were taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten.”
—Rudyard Kipling (1865—1936)
On a blue sky Sunday morning, Dave and I set off to discover historical sites in southwest England. We begin by making a familiar pilgrimage.
Flowering magnolia trees line the approach to Chartwell, Winston Churchill’s beloved country house. We stroll around the expansive brick-walled kitchen garden, some of the masonry accomplished by Churchill himself, and soak up the atmosphere of Churchill’s library and study, before taking our leave, for we have a full day ahead, and are certain to be back again.
A local deli provides a roadside picnic of chicken, cheddar and cucumber sandwiches and then we resume our drive through woodlands carpeted with daisies and bluebells. Our next stop is only a few miles down the road, but hundreds of years backward in time.
In 1320, life in late medieval England was still fraught with danger, but gradually becoming less so, and thus a gentleman of means no longer needed to build a castle in order to protect his family; he could do with a moated manor house. Ightham Mote is one of the few such surviving structures. Secreted away in a leafy hollow of a green, secluded valley, this perfectly preserved house is described by historians as one of the most beautiful and interesting in all England. That is saying a lot, but Dave and I agree; from first glimpse to last, we are enchanted by the place.
Ranks of brick chimneys stand at attention above half-timbered walls and a fortified entry of gray Kentish stone. Overhanging bay windows allow for residents to drop fishing line and baited hook, and the entire vision seems to float on the tranquil waters of the moat.
Built around a stone courtyard (the 30,000 cobbles were painstakingly re-laid as part of the impressive restoration by the National Trust), the four wings include a soaring great hall, an oak paneled billiard room, a Jacobean staircase, airy 20th century sitting room and library, and 16th century chapel. The paintings on the chapel’s unique barrel-vaulted ceiling commemorate the marriage of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon. We love this place, and depart determined to return.
A rambling ride through gently rolling farmland scattered with the region’s distinctive red brick “oast houses,” or hop kilns, takes us across the border from Kent into the shire of East Sussex, and to another wondrous survivor of the late Middle Ages.
Surrounded on all sides by a moat large enough to qualify as a small lake, Bodiam Castle’s watery location is probably what saved it from being later dismantled for the value of its stones.
How did men of the time construct such a massive, architecturally sound structure out of incredibly heavy materials? As Plato said, “necessity is the mother of invention.” Persistence over time helps too. Bodiam, begun in 1385, was completed in 1388.
I am impressed. But I can’t help wonder, once the stone block walls were in place, how did they keep the place even marginally warm in winter?
And what did they eat? The outline of the great hearth and kitchen ovens are still visible, so presumably there was a lot of cooking going on. But I’m still glad I was not born yet.
The wind picks up and the day winds down as we head to the coastal town of Rye.
An important shipping port beginning in Roman times through the Middle Ages, today Rye’s chief industry seems to be tourism. The town’s economy began to falter in the 13th century when violent storms changed the course of the river leading to the sea and local landowners gradually reclaimed the surrounding marshlands, reducing the tidal-flows that were supposed to keep the harbor free of silt. Today, dilapidated boats rest on their keels in the mud. Steep cobblestoned streets and crooked, half-timbered houses impart authentic, if faded, old world charm.
Our destination for the night is Hastings, the seaside town of Foyle’s War fame. (BBC WWII period murder mystery series.) In contrast to Rye, the old town of Hastings feels like it’s on the road to gentrification: historic fishing village meets Coney Island meets Valencia Street in San Francisco’s Mission District.
Still an active fishing port—the only one in England without the slightest protection from the sea—the town boasts a tiny fleet of small but sturdy craft, adept at racing in and out with the tide, and a cluster of 17th century “net huts,” tall, narrow box-like structures jutting upwards to heights of 25 feet.
Covered in clapboard siding and painted black to mimic the tar originally smeared over the wood, these so-called “huts” provided shelter for fisherman to repair, store and dry their fishing nets, ropes and sails.
A bit further along the gold-toned pebble beach, a burned out pier extends into the surf, devastated by fire in 2010 and scheduled to be rebuilt and reopened by 2015. Carnival rides, slot machine palaces, cotton candy vendors and Fish n’ Chip stands clamor for tourist dollars along the waterfront.
But the vibe changes completely just a block away.
Arty antique and second-hand shops, interior design storefronts, used bookshops, avant-garde galleries, coffee bars, quirky pubs and restaurants line the narrow streets. Everybody seems to have a tattoo, a dog, and at least one piercing.
Overall, we find the mood of Hastings up and coming, if still a tad ragged around the edges.
We spend the night at what must be the best Bed and Breakfast on the whole south coast, a treasure found by Dave. Swan House is a haven of comfortable, eclectic shabby-chic style in an historic half-timbered building. A fire smolders in a great open hearth and a well-stocked Honor Bar hides in the bookshelf. Our bedroom, a former bakery flour loft, has been modernized and decorated to a high standard. Cloud-like pillows, linens and mattress, plus fresh flowers, a carafe of water and good reading light on both sides of the bed. Original artwork, artisan soaps, and a hand-made shell mosaic on the side of the built-in bathtub are just some of the artful details that make me wish we could stay more than one night.
But we have a date with destiny. After a breakfast of sophisticated comfort-food—corned beef hash with poached egg and homemade baked beans, scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, seasonal fruit salad, home-made granola or muesli, Greek yoghurt, bagels and whole grain bread, to name just a few of the items on offer—we depart for Battle. This is where, on a crisp October day in 1066, the military engagement known to every British schoolboy as the Battle of Hastings took place, with dramatic impact on the history of England.
Dave and I pause on a smooth gravel path, cellphone-sized audio guides held to our ears, while we listen to a recorded voice describe the long ago battle. In one day, thousands of men died in the peaceful green meadow we gaze upon. I try to imagine wearing a heavy suit of armor and carrying a weighty shield plus weapon (double-headed battle-axe, sword, lance or bow), while climbing up a hill, all around me the noise and confusion of archers on horseback and thousands of foot soldiers engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Thousands. The scope and method of carnage boggles the mind. As do the simple logistics of arriving at the battlefield on time. The Norman invaders had to navigate the channel in a flotilla of sailing boats loaded with horses and gear. Led by William the Bastard (spoiler alert: he would soon be known as William the Conquerer), they advanced past the town of Hastings until they arrived near where Dave and I now stand on a grassy hillside dotted with daffodils. The defending Anglo-Saxon army, led by King Harold, waited at the top of the hill. Exhausted before the battle even began, Harold’s men had just fought off a fierce Viking invasion in the north and then speed-walked 200 miles in 5 days to arrive here. Medical and hygiene queries aside, what did they find to eat during their long march south? Surely there was no time to butcher and cook enough chickens and lambs to feed everyone. I find myself hoping they had perfected some early form of energy bar, perhaps mixing oats, honey, dried fruit and nuts?
Legend tells us that after a day of bloodshed, Harold died with an arrow shot through his eye. (The Bayeux Tapestries back up the story, though some say the stitching could have been altered to fit the tale.) Thus the Norman rule of England began, and apart from the slaughter, some say we are better off because of it. Life in Anglo-Saxon England was not much fun, and the slightly more modernized Normans probably inched standards up a notch or two. Linguistically, the Anglo-Saxon and Norman tongues gradually merged into the half-Latin, half-Teutonic hybrid we speak today.
After this sobering contemplation of the long-ago fight for the right to rule the land, Dave and I walk to the top of the hill, where Pope Alexander II ordered William to build a monument as penance for the many lives lost. Accordingly, William oversaw the construction of an impressive Norman church, the first of its style to be built in England, with the high altar marking the exact spot where Harold met his demise. Only the outline of the church foundations remains, but we explore the partial ruins of the adjoining abbey complex, including the vast and impressive vaulted stone ceilings of the novices’ common room.
Our last stop is unplanned, a serendipitous add-on discovered while deciding the best route homeward. A small red symbol on the map, cross-referenced in a guidebook, turns out to be Rudyard Kipling’s home, a place on my mental “to visit” list ever since hearing about it during a poetry circle meeting. Dave readily agrees to the small detour, and it turns out to be one of the highlights of our weekend.
Rudyard Kipling and his American wife Carrie came across Bateman’s, a Jacobean stone manor house and walled gardens, while on a motoring tour of the English countryside, and fell in love with it on the spot.
They purchased it in 1902 and lived here until Kipling’s death in 1936. When Carrie donated the house to the National Trust, she left many of the rooms as they were when Kipling lived there.
Such as his study, where he wrote the well-loved poem, “IF,” containing the resonant lines engraved above the player’s entrance to Centre Court at Wimbledon:
“If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same”
On that thoughtful note, we make our way home, already planning our next adventure.
For anyone interested, the full text of Kipling’s poem follows, written in 1909 as advice to his son, inspired by the achievements of a man betrayed and imprisoned by the British Government – the Scots-born colonial adventurer Dr Leander Starr Jameson.
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
’
Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!
Now that English spring has well and truly arrived, it’s time to forage for nettles. They grow wild just about everywhere around here, including along the verges of the farm lane next to Long Barn. I love being able to simply walk outside my door and harvest such a useful plant. High in iron, potassium, manganese, calcium and vitamins A and C, nettles are also a decent source of protein. As a medicinal herb, nettles are used to treat arthritis, anemia, hay fever and kidney problems.
Collecting nettles is a fairly simple endeavor: the key is to wear protective clothing (thick gardening gloves, long-sleeved shirt, socks, and jeans) over every bit of exposed skin, to seek out the youngest plants—less than knee-high—and to pick only the tender top leaves. In no time at all, I have a basket full.
Back in the kitchen, I discard the stems and wash the leaves. Then I submerge the nettles in a pot of water and simmer for about 5 minutes, until the leaves are wilted and I’m sure they are fully cooked. (It’s not toxic to touch or even ingest an uncooked nettle leaf, but I suspect it would be quite unpleasant.) After draining the cooked nettles through a colander and pressing out any excess liquid I’m left with a small batch of what looks like vivid green spinach, though the taste will be less astringent, more floral.
This first harvest becomes a delicious soup. Simple and satisfying. Here’s the recipe:
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 carrots, peeled and diced
3 leeks, white part only, washed and finely sliced
1 large potato, peeled and chopped (I used an orange-fleshed sweet potato)
6 to 8 cups vegetable or chicken stock
4 cups washed stinging nettles (I cooked mine in advance, which worked fine)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
a squirt of anchovy paste
a squeeze of lemon juice
1/4 cup heavy cream or crème fraîche (optional)
In a large soup pot over medium heat, warm the olive oil. Add the carrot, leeks and potato and cook for about 10 minutes, until the vegetables start to soften. Add the stock and the anchovy paste, bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer and cook for 10 to 15 minutes, or until the potato is soft. Add the nettle leaves and simmer for a few minutes. Remove from heat. With an immersion blender or in a food processor, blend the soup until smooth. Return to the pot and season with the salt and pepper (add a little more to taste if necessary), then stir in the heavy cream if using, or serve garnished with a dollop of crème fraîche.
The Next Nettle Adventure is already planned: Cooked nettles blended with crushed garlic cloves, pine nuts, olive oil and parmesan cheese—Pesto. Can’t wait!
“…We shall not cease from exploration/and the end of all our exploring/will be to arrive where we started/and to know the place for the first time…”
From The Four Quartets, by T.S. Eliot (Little Gidding)
1. Politeness and Courtesy have not gone out of style. The most obvious examples occur behind the wheel, and they happen all the time, as if everyone is vying for some tacit national award of Most Considerate Driver. For instance: It’s five o’clock rush hour on busy cross-town surface streets. You signal your intention to turn across a long, slow-moving line of oncoming cars, expecting an interminable delay. Except that very soon, an anonymous driver stops and briefly flashes his headlights in invitation for you to go ahead. You acknowledge his courtesy with a smile and a wave—or a reciprocal headlamp flick—and zip in between the endless string of cars you didn’t have to wait for. This is no anomaly; it is standard code of behavior, and it elevates driving to a cooperative human endeavor.
Speaking of zipping, merging traffic is another thing that works really well here. Everybody takes his or her turn, slotting into place like teeth in a giant zipper. UK motorists seem to come out of the womb knowing how to do this. Nobody pretends they don’t see you just so they won’t have to let you in. In contrast with the American character of Rugged Individualism that can morph into an ethos of “Every man for himself; you snooze, you lose”—the British culture seems infused with a sort of Rugged Solidarity, an attitude of “Best just get on with it, and for goodness sake be civil about it.”
2. The English countryside is Canine Paradise, and the next best thing to having a dog of our own is borrowing Timber, the neighbors’ friendly Chocolate Labrador Retriever. Eager to please, impervious to mud, wet, or cold, and friendly to every man, woman, child and beast he meets, Timber is the perfect walk-mate, and he accompanies me on many a ramble through wood and field. He also enjoys doing yoga. His favorite pose is Pigeon.
3. Opportunities for Amateur Sheep Herding Abound. Returning across the field from a morning walk, Timber and I come upon two black-faced sheep grazing in the open meadow behind Long Barn. Dark heads bent to the sweet grass, they act as if they own the place. But I know better. Lamb Chop and Mint Sauce—named for their shared destiny—are not “free range;” they belong to our neighbor and have somehow escaped their pen. But before I can even think of how to lure them back through the hole in the fence they’ve slipped through, the two turn fluffy tails and bolt down the lane.
Timber gives chase, thwarting any slim chance I might’ve had of redirecting the errant grazers. But he, at least, returns to my side when I whistle and call his name. (Amazing what a thimbleful of raw meat can accomplish.) Chocolate lab safely stashed in Long Barn, I hop on my bike and pedal out the driveway in pursuit of Chop and Sauce.
As if waiting for me to catch up, the wooly ones are loitering on the sidewalk. I croon instructions back to their fenced enclosure, which motivates them to break into a gallop in the opposite direction.
Spinning on two wheels, I pursue them onto the Village Green. A neighbor catches sight of us whilst washing runner beans at her kitchen sink. She rushes outside to help, clutching her mobile phone and calling for reinforcements.
Meanwhile, Lamb Chop and Mint Sauce are on the move. The are trotting down Brookstones Lane toward open fields. Perhaps they sense the presence of kindred sheep spirits grazing there. One thing is certain, if they aren’t rounded up soon, things will get a lot trickier. Luckily, the grass must be exceptionally tasty on the verge of the lane, because the two fugitives have pulled over to sample a few mouthfuls. I see my opportunity and glide past them.
Once in the lead, I let my bike fall to the ground, then turn back and stalk the sheep on foot, arms outstretched with palms facing forward. To my surprise and relief, this maneuver actually works. The startled twosome reverse direction and scurry back the way they came, right into the waiting arms of neighbors and villagers summoned by cell phone. Five humans execute a pincer movement and herd the two animals through a farmyard gate. It takes another half hour to coax the shy but nimble creatures into a temporary holding pen. Then we all go back to whatever we were doing—sheep to grazing, villagers to daily routines. In the evening, the grateful owner of Lamb Chop and Mint Sauce treats us to a pint at the pub.
3. Continuing Glossary of British English:
Hosepipe vs. Hose: As our neighbor reasonably explains to me: “hose” means ladies’ stockings, thus a different word is necessary for the long tube that relays water from faucet to garden: ergo the term “hosepipe.”
Homely vs. Homey: If a British person says your house is “homely,” it is not an insult. It means they find your place comfortable and cosy, what might be described in the U.S. as “homey.” (Not to be confused with the American inner city vernacular referring to a young male residing in the ‘hood.)
Flu Jab vs. Flu Shot: When flu season looms, there’s no need to make an appointment with your doctor, no need to stand in line, no need to fret over a fear of needles. Simply request a quick flu “jab” at your local Boots pharmacy.
4. BBC Radio offers an astounding wealth of listening options, from concerts broadcast in their entirety, to in-depth analysis of world and local news, to the annual butterfly census. Interview programs such as “Private Passions” and “Desert Island Discs” keep me entertained while on the elliptical trainer or doing housework, and I’ve even downloaded a four-part special called Farmland Guide to Birds, complete with examples of bird calls. And I’ve only begun to tap the online archive of “In Our Time” a program about the history of ideas; so far have listened to discussions about the ethics of Plato and Aristotle, the Victorian poet Christina Rossetti, and the age of the universe. And then there’s the “Shipping Forecast,” a meteorological mantra of offshore weather presented in a distinctly soothing, abbreviated format (“…Faroes, Fair Isle, southeasterly gale, variable 4, perhaps gale 8 later, occasional rain, moderate, occasionally poor…”), a daily ritual for fishermen, sailors and general public alike.
5. No matter what one’s religious affiliation or lack thereof, the ancient stone churches—from country chapels to soaring cathedrals—inspire awe and reverence for the creative spirit which enlivens us all.
6. Each season brings a change in life’s rhythm, like a changing tempo in music. Winter is a fierce and stately hymn of praise. For the way bare branches reveal twig-sewn bird nests, secrets kept since springtime. For the way heated towel racks and on-demand electric heaters are standard in every bathroom. For hoarfrost, crystalline landscapes of white coated cobwebs, sugar spun shrubs and ice-glazed fields. For the way the wind blows through the keyhole and whines in the woodstove flue, but we stay warm in Long Barn. For the lucky cognitive dissonance—or selective attention to units of temperature measurement—that allows 28 degrees fahrenheit to seem downright balmy, since zero (centigrade, but never mind) is freezing. For the way winter light stays low, deep and clear all day long. Even for the way the sun slides toward the horizon at 3:30 p.m., because you never miss a sunset, and each one is a heart-catchingly beautiful ending. And of course, a beginning.
“…And the end and the beginning were always there /Before the beginning and after the end. /And all is always now…”
From The Four Quartets, by T.S. Eliot (Burnt Norton)
From Village Newsletter: Dog Worrying Livestock
An out-of-control dog chased and attacked a calf in Patrick Blount’s field. The herd took fright and charged, demolishing two fences and injuring another calf. Patrick shouted at the dog owner who eventually got his dog under control and left hurriedly. Patrick then had to spend his afternoon attending to the calves and repairing the fences. He has asked for all dog walkers to keep their dogs under control and on a lead if necessary while walking through fields with animals present. He is prepared to and has a right to shoot a dog if it is worrying livestock.
Life is never dull in the countryside. For farmers and livestock, it is never easy.
Early one spring morning we wake to Farmer Blount’s cows bellowing from the field behind Long Barn. It’s not the first time we’ve heard such bovine roars, but today’s groans sound particularly distressed. Something is not quite right, I think.
The pained noises continue after Dave has gone to work. I wonder if a cow is giving birth.
I hang a load of wash on the line and still the cows continue their plaintive mooing. The last time Blount’s cows complained so long and loud, a fox was in our neighbor’s henhouse, killing the rooster and all the chickens. Before I can talk myself out of the impulse, I pull on my Wellingtons, stride out the front gate and up a grassy lane to the cow pasture.
Glad of my tall boots, I wade through the meadow, dew-wet stalks swishing in my wake, and make my way to the pasture boundary. I skirt a thicket of stinging nettles, Hawthorne and Elder until I find a gap in the hedge big enough to peer through. And there, right in front of me, a large, caramel colored cow. She’s lying on her side, and nestled against her belly, I can just make out the black and white hindquarters of a calf.
The caramel cow stares at me and then lumbers to her feet. She bows her head and licks her calf’s damp, matted flank. I angle closer, straining to see the calf’s black and white ribcage rise and fall. Instead, I see its coal black head, and its lifeless eye. The mama cow looks at me as if to say, “I’ve done all I can.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. What else can I do?
This is an isolated corner of pasture, separated from the rest of the herd, and I’m afraid it might be days before the farmer finds the stillborn calf. I scan the field’s perimeter and catch sight of a man repairing a section of fence. He is too far away to hail, so I make my way along the bramble and barbed wire border until I am opposite him, then call and wave my arms. But he’s finished his task, and instead of noticing me, he leaves the field.
I hurry back to Long Barn, hop on my bike and pedal through the village to the snug brick bungalow where I know Farmer Blount lives. His wife answers the front door, and I explain about the dead calf.
Now I’ve done all I can. Or have I?
I remember the calf’s sleek black head, its white dappled flank, its neat hooves and dark, sightless eye. I think about how its mother wanted it to live. I cycle home, and write this epitaph.
“Starting here, what do you want to remember? … Will you ever bring a better gift for the world than the breathing respect that you carry wherever you go right now?”
William Stafford (1914—1993), excerpted from “You Reading This, Be Ready”
A few early observations of life in a small village in the English countryside:
1. People “Pop Round.” Face-to-face visits are preferable to calling someone on the phone. Almost daily, a knock at the door of Long Barn heralds the arrival of a neighbor come to offer information, bring a gift of homemade jam, inquire whether I’ll be attending the next Women’s Institute meeting, or just to say hello.
2. Offering Tea is the Right Thing to Do. No matter who arrives—the next door neighbor, the workman come to replace the broken window, the exterminator to eradicate the wasp nest found in the garage, the gardener to mow the lawn—an offer of tea and biscuits will be gladly accepted. Almost expected, in the friendliest sort of way.
3. Strangers Wave at Each Other. The country lanes are so narrow that vehicles are always pulling over to let oncoming traffic by, at which point the drivers exchange a wave to acknowledge the courtesy. So very polite and civilized.
4. Dryers are Rare. Despite the damp climate, people routinely hang their washing to dry. At first I was skeptical that clothes would ever progress beyond damp, but they do. Now, one of my greatest and simplest pleasures is walking out into the garden with a basket of clean laundry and pinning shirts, sheets and towels onto the line. If there’s no sun, the wind is sure to dry them, and even if it rains, everything eventually dries out.
5. Wimbledon is Important. Everyone knows about it, everyone cares about it, and everyone can attend. Advance tickets are sold out long in advance, but anyone can queue up and gain entry to the grounds and a chance to buy inexpensive resale tickets. Which we did! On the first day of play, 2012.
6. Fresh Eggs are Prized. And they are not refrigerated. Even in grocery stores, they’re just sitting there in cardboard cartons. The best eggs I’ve ever tasted are available from a large plastic tub outside our neighbor’s house on the village green. Lift the lid, deposit coins in the dish and take as many eggs as you’ve paid for.
7. The Honor System is Alive and Well. As with buying farm eggs, so it is at the grocery store. A hand-held electronic scanner allows you to scan each item as it goes into your basket and then check out without a human ever verifying your purchases.
8. Gardening and Flower Arranging are National Pastimes. I’m doing plenty of both. My latest endeavor is a kitchen herb garden. I’ve always wanted one, just never had the right patch of ground before. Now I have a fine selection of fresh herbs at my fingertips.
9. British English is a Foreign Language. I remain mystified by the helpful M40 road sign alerting me that “Spray Is Possible.” And I’ve yet to see a large-billed sea bird crossing the road at a “Humped Pelican Crossing.”
10. Weekends are for Walking. Dave and I have happily joined the ranks of people of all ages, shapes and sizes who, rain or shine (and we’re having a lot of the former), don hiking boots and plastic coated map pouches and explore the network of footpaths and bridleways criss-crossing the land. Such outings include at least one pub stop.
“Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.”
—Rainer Maria Rilke (1875—1926)
Hard to believe it’s only been three months since we landed here. Seems like much longer, partly because the process of uprooting and then resettling involves so much more than the mere physical transfer of goods and self; partly because the friendliness of our little village makes us feel as if we’ve lived here for ages, and partly because the surrounding countryside has undergone such change in that short time—from winter-bare branches to full-throated blooming—like some giant secret garden, pulsing to life.
In April, fields of bright lemon Rapeseed illuminate the landscape. 
In May, Bluebells hover in the woods like mist rising from the ground. 
Hawthorne comes into flower, white and pink lace in the hedgerows.
Lowell and Marj arrive at Long Barn in time to marvel along with us at the wonders of an English spring.
Their presence is a baptism of sorts for our new home, and we are deeply grateful they have crossed the Atlantic to visit. If only they could move in next door!
The solstice approaches. Every tree clothed in every imaginable shade and hue of green, every shrub and vine vying for the prize of most exotic bloom. Grass swirls thigh-high in the meadows and our lawn seems to grow three inches in a day.
Dawn filters through the bedroom curtains at 4:30 a.m., and daylight lingers long after dinner. 
Silva, Isabelle and Elsa arrive just before the longest day.
Knowing they’ve breathed in this place with us makes our life here more complete.
Now it is July. Elderflowers appear in the hedgerows, delicate blossoms the color of pale butter. I wade through the field of tall grass behind Long Barn and harvest enough flower heads to make two jars of Elderflower liqueur.
A way to remember this summer, when winter comes to Long Barn.
“One loss folds itself inside another,” says the poet Jane Hirshfield, “It is like the origami, held inside a plain sheet of paper. Not creased yet. Not yet more heavy. The hand stays steady.”
Ghostly shapes emerge from dense fog along the banks of Los Gatos Creek. We’ve arrived early for our rendez-vous, and now we sit for a moment in the truck, Basil in his spot on the bench seat between us. All of us stare out the windshield at the deserted parking lot and the mist-drenched landscape.
After months of getting used to the idea, then more months of searching for the right people, what we are about to do still feels unreal. Moving as if half-asleep, we walk Basil around the creekside park until cold seeps through the soles of our shoes.
We fly home today. I will miss the Beech tree woods, a “still point in the turning world.” Their complexion has quite changed since our arrival; where once was a mass of green-gold russet leaves, now great swathes of sky show through.
Dave and I will both miss the conviviality, convenience and ease of the quasi-communal life we’ve been leading here in the flat adjoining Phil and Jenny’s house. I’ll miss leaning out the open window every morning, mug of tea in hand, gazing across our view of pasture and woodland, inhaling the damp leafy odor of the garden. Dave will miss the “vroooom” of Phil’s Audi S4.
We’ll both miss the hedgerow-lined lanes leading to impossibly picturesque villages, the mere sight of which fills us with contentment and continuity, as if all has somehow been made right in the world. Half-timbered houses, walls bulging with age, tile roofs squiggly and sagging. And how every dwelling has a name: “Vine Hill,” “Shepherd’s Croft,” “Robin’s Nest,” “Beech Manor, and “Rose Cottage (there must be thousands of these).”
Dave will miss “popping ’round to the pub” for a pint of bitter. In the workplace, he’ll miss the camaraderie and the intensity; the laser focus on doing a good job while having a good time. He’ll miss the uncensored communication style; the ability to speak one’s mind freely without overemphasis on a tightrope of political correctness. We’ll both miss British humor—funnier, sharper and more ironic than its American counterpart.
I’ll miss the way everything feels like a new adventure, even grocery shopping and doing laundry. I’ll miss the way villages and towns are discreet entities, surrounded by vast green fields and woods. I’ll miss riding the train to yoga class at Julie Bealey’s gracious home in Amersham.
I’ll miss the way Brits young and old seem to take real pleasure in socializing and being together with family and friends, more so than we time-pressed yanks who seem to be more interested in our autonomous selves and achievements, even if only the latest iteration of our “to do” list.
I’ll miss learning new colloquialisms such as “bog-standard,” “with knobs on,” “bubble and squeak,” and “feeling peckish;” along with place names like “Lower Oddington,” “Buttocks Point,” “Beacon’s Bottom,” “Happy Bottom,” “Bishops Itchington,” “Foul End,” “Great Snoring,” and “Hogpits Bottom.” (I did not make these up.)
Before we close this post, a disclaimer of sorts: our impressions of Britain and the British—our thin slice of the people we’ve been fortunate enough to encounter and the places we’ve been lucky to stumble upon—reflect our personal bias; our particular state of mind filtered through our accumulated personal experience at this particular moment in time.
From “Where We Are (for Edward Field),” by Gerald Locklin
“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”
—From “Paradise Lost,” by John Milton, Alumnus of Christ’s College, Cambridge
Faithful followers of Thin Slicing the World will remember Barry and Virginia from the Yosemite post of the Scotty Odyssey. At that time, Dave and I had little inkling we would have the good fortune to visit this engaging couple a mere two months later at their home in the UK.
“At home” is exactly how we feel from the moment Barry and Virginia open their front door and welcome us into their art-infused house. A pleasing sense of light and color pervades every room, bookshelves brim with appetizing titles and ample windows frame a well-tended garden planted with a variety of shrubs, trees and flowers. Two remarkable lives merge on walls covered with a gallery of paintings, drawings, mementos, and smiling photos of family and friends. At first it’s difficult to put my finger on what makes this place so appealing until I realize: this house is full of love. The space is so inviting that for a moment, I want nothing more than to curl up in one of the many comfortable chairs and simply take it all in.
But that pleasure will have to wait. The four of us pile into Virginia’s maroon Ford and drive a short distance to the airfield at Duxford, site of the largest collection of vintage aircraft in the world. We duck to enter the low door of a Concorde, marvel at its cramped cockpit wallpapered with an array of inscrutable instruments, stand back slightly shocked at the sight of a B-52 Bomber whose wingspan stretches across an entire hanger, and crane our necks to examine various helicopters, cargo planes, early passenger jets and WWII Spitfires and Hurricanes suspended from the rafters overhead.
Long before our curiosity is sated, our stomachs begin to rumble with hunger. We regretfully abandon the airfield and return home, where a nourishing meal awaits. Barry has prepared homemade borscht and Virginia beautifully fills in the gaps with a salad composée, whole grain bread, smoked salmon and mackerel, marinated olives, and a selection of cheeses, accompanied by platters of laughter and sympathetic conversation.
Replete, we glance at the clock and sigh; barely an hour of daylight remains. We bundle up in hats, coats and gloves and embark on a brisk walk around the village of Whittlesford, a small settlement about eight miles south of Cambridge. (Here’s an interesting fact: English town names ending in “ford”—Oxford, Burford, etc.—are so-named because the town was originally known as a good place to ford a river or creek. In the same way, towns with the suffix “bridge”—Cambridge, Knightsbridge—denoted the site of a bridge over a water course.)
We stride past thatched and half-timbered houses, across the common green and along a footpath to the village church, whose oldest part dates from 1217, though a church is thought to have stood on the site since Norman times.
Twilight seeps into the fields and we make our way home. Now is my chance to sit and savor as we spend an hour or two curled up on the couch and in comfy chairs sharing photos, music, and stories of respective travels and families.
Over dinner in a low-ceilinged pub, discussion ranges across a variety of theological, ontological, psychological and political topics. (And more that I’m sure I’ve forgotten.) We touch on the power of the mind, the benefits of spiritual faith, and the possibility—or impossibility—of giving ourselves over to that which is greater than ourselves.
Sunday morning before breakfast, I pad downstairs and practice a few yoga stretches on the living room’s soft, creamy carpet. Barry is busy in the kitchen slicing fresh oranges and brewing coffee. Virginia soon appears and then Dave, and we all sit down together for a continental breakfast of oven-warm croissants, butter, jam and hearty homemade bread. (Oh, how they pamper us!)
The morning stretches out ahead, ripe with promise about to be fulfilled. Virginia departs to manage the musical program at her church, while Barry, Dave and I embark on a very special tour of Cambridge.
Cambridge…the place name conjures images of punting on the Cam; of the famous foot race around Trinity Courtyard reenacted in the film Chariots of Fire; of Watson and Crick’s discovery of the double helix structure of DNA; of Milton composing poems under a mulberry tree.
Our first stop is St Catharine’s College, where Barry served as Master from 1984 until 1993. A renowned economic historian, he also served as academic faculty at both St Catharine’s and Christ’s Colleges, and now retains the social privileges and title of Fellow (in his case Honorary Fellow), without the obligation or right to play a governing role in either College.
As we stand in the Porter’s Lodge (official entrance), Barry explains that each college has at its physical core (and usually in its main—and original—courtyard) a Master’s Lodge, a Chapel, and a Hall—reflecting the historical, communal functions of administration, worship, and meals—as well as student living quarters, Fellows’ offices, and the facilities of a moderately large community. The photo below shows the Master’s Lodge where he and his wife resided during his years as Master of St Catharine’s College.
Below, the “chapel” at St Catharine’s—not as small a place as the name might lead one to imagine.
Fellows at Cambridge colleges are provided housing and meals by their college, as well as access to a Common Room and other special meeting rooms. As we tour these exalted chambers, Dave and I are very aware of what a rare honor it is to see inside these private places.
Below, St Catharine’s dining room. (The Fellows High Table, on a dais at right angles to the long student tables, is outside the frame of this photo.)
Fellows at Cambridge colleges have another interesting privilege: the right to tread on college lawns. These well-tended patches of green are strictly off-limits to students and the general public. Unless accompanied by a Fellow. Luckily, as Dave learns when he innocently walks across a forbidden square of grass in pursuit of a better photographic angle.
We depart St Catharines and make our way to Kings College, emblematic for many of Cambridge University, and home to a chapel the size of a cathedral.
Finally, we are treated to a visit to Christ’s College, founded in 1437—before “America” was even a gleam in Columbus’ eye. Barry procures a key from the guardian of the gate that will unlock access to very special places indeed. We pass into the intimate first courtyard and he points out the three essential elements: Master’s Lodge, Chapel and Hall.
Dave squeezes my hand as we enter the Great Hall. Darwin trod the black and white stone floor beneath our feet.
At the High Table, Barry pauses. Something about the look in his eye tells me he is remembering, perhaps savoring, other hours he has spent in this place.
Then he pushes open a hidden door—built to blend into the wood paneling—leading into the adjoining Fellows Common Room. “We just call it ‘The Room,’” Barry says, ushering us inside. Dave and I gaze at the beamed ceilings, Tudor-era dark wood walls and stone fireplace and feel as if we’ve been admitted to the inner sanctum of the inner sanctum. 
For hundreds of years, Fellows have adjourned after dinner to “The Room” for coffee, fruit (sometimes cheese), and digestif drinks of Claret or Port. And also for hundreds of years, a journal of sorts has been kept of these evening occasions.
Barry walks across the room to a nondescript cabinet, slides open the door and pulls out one of many threadbare books stacked haphazardly on the shelves. These are the “wine books,” ledgers tracking every drink consumed in this room, as well noting wagers and observations. I scan the spines: 1790—1800, 1820—1830, 1900—1920. Barry flips through volumes and reads some of the entries aloud. We all smile to hear of a distinguished Fellow presenting a “conscience bottle” of claret to the group of gathered peers. (Translation: some unnamed and apparently shameful deed was committed, requiring penance in the shape of a bottle.) Another notation, on November 11, 1918, celebrates the signing of the armistice ending WWI. Day after day, year after year, world and personal events are recorded.
All of us feel we could spend hours poring over these unique documents. But time—and probably unwritten law—does not permit, so we make our way outside. The day is bright and clear, and we stroll the College grounds in a kind of wistful awe.
Barry unlocks a gate into to the Fellows’ peaceful walled garden and escorts us to the 400 year old Mulberry tree, gnarled limbs propped up by plenty of padded two-by-fours, known as “Milton’s Tree.”
Once again a rumbling in our bellies and a weakness in our limbs compels us home for lunch. On the way to our parked car, Barry casually points out the most famous pub in Cambridge, the site where Watson and Crick interrupted patrons’ lunch to announce that they’d “discovered the secret of life.”
“Touring Cambridge with Barry,” Dave will confide in me later, “was one of the highlights of the last ten years!”
We three campus explorers return to find Virginia has prepared a delicious buffet. And then Dave and I must reluctantly take our leave. We depart grateful and inspired, cognizant of all the blessings in our lives, especially such bright, kind and companionable new friends.
“Fog in the morning here
will make some of the world far away…“
Excerpted from “Where We Are” by William Stafford (1914-1993)
Oxford, early Saturday morning. Mist-softened streets.
It’s Dave’s birthday. He sends me a wistful glance. Does he wish he could go back in time? Enroll in the university; attend lectures, argue with professors, make lifelong friends among his peers? Of course he does. So do I!
But the look on his face might have more to do with a longing for croissants from a certain café than for the hallowed halls of learning. Truth be told, we have an ulterior motive for this visit to Oxford, and it has more to do with satisfying our bellies than our brains. The fog lifts, weekend shoppers invade the sidewalks, and we duck into the famous Patisserie Valerie for buttery pillows of puff pastry and double espressos. Thus fortified, we quit Oxford for Blenheim.
After a thick slice of history and a tour of the palace and grounds, we wander into the nearby village of Woodstock.
Patisserie Valerie’s croissants are by now a distant memory, and so we enjoy an excellent light lunch at The Star Inn.
We cannot depart the area without a pilgrimage to Winston Churchill’s grave.
Just outside the town of Stow-on-the-Wold, we spend the night at Mole End Bed and Breakfast, a comfortable home built of honey-colored Cotswoldian stone and tended by solicitous hosts.
Our large room—plenty of floor-space for yoga!—is spotless and well-appointed. In the morning, a full English breakfast is served in the dining room with a view through French doors to the garden and a paddock where two mares graze.
And then we’re on the road again, zig-zagging across the countryside on narrow lanes lined with stone fences and hedgerows, from one impossibly charming village to the next.
Castle Coombe is our destination Sunday night, yet another “ridiculously cute town,” says Dave.
We’ve reserved a room at the recently refurbished Castle Inn and find it unexpectedly luxurious—and reasonably priced.
While strolling the village before dinner, Dave finds a car he likes as much as the Audi.
Our road trip ends Monday morning in High Wycombe at the office where Dave works. He gives me a tour of the place, introduces me to some of the bright, friendly people he’s been working with, and then I hop a local bus and ride home to Great Missenden. Hard to believe our time in the UK is already half over.
A recently-built conservatory links the garage, where we are staying, to the main house.
Our windows look out over the central lawn and across the Chiltern hills.
A flagstone arbor leads to the back garden.
A rusted gate leads to an old apple orchard and a creek forming the boundary of the property.
Thin Slicing the World 