A Little Otter

Nine and a half hours inside a Virgin 747, developing strange transitory bonds with fellow travellers, resisting the urge to publicly remove the developing supersize bogey from my nose, and I arrive in San Francisco.

I stayed with my cousin in the Mission district and had a taste of real life there. Camp, cool, chique crusty and compact, San Francisco is 46 square miles with an awful lot crammed in. I love the place.

Walking up the steep incline up to Hertz at the Fairmont hotel was a challenge. I can't imagine how hard cycling here would be. It makes my lycra clad efforts at home look feeble.

The beast of a hire car was an indicator of the scale of everything in the States. The 'sidewalk' here alone would happily house any of our dainty UK motorways. The meals are verging on comical in size. 'Scooby Doo' was just eating normal US portions after all.

A flurry of toasted marshmallows washed down with a glass of Pinot and I headed South on Highway 1.

First stop was a vineyard at Bonny Dune, a few tasters and some bottles purchased. Obviously this part of California is famous for wine. The San Francisco Chronicle even has its own wine section. Headlines today are highlighting that last years bumper crop is causing a grape glut, leaving acres of the Napa valley unharvested. Prices will drop.

Next stop Carmel, the Cypress Inn (part owned by Doris Day) . A complementary decanter of medium sherry in each room should have been a clue to the average age of the Carmel visitors, which I helped lower considerably. Friendly hotel in a sleepy town with alot of expensive looking shops.

Shopping is a different experience in the USA. The most striking thing is the quality of the service industry. The general greeting is 'hi, how are you today'. This apparent level of familiarity can be confusing to an Englishman. I have learnt that an elaboration of my current malaises is not the best response.

A fevered sherry sleep, and then a day trip to Monterey and the famous aquarium. I knew that tuna tasted good, but I had no idea how large and elegant they are alive. A pang of guilt passed over me as I was probably responsible for the demise of a long lost cousin.
The fish tanks were vast and included some rather charming otters saved from a certain death in the wild. They were fed on the most extravagant seafood diet I have ever seen. The only course missing was a Californian Chardonnay.

I am now lost in the 'Big Sur' (which is indeed rather large) and will report more on my continued wanderings and in a week or so, when I will also post the wines I have come across on my map.

My New Old Sofa

The other day my stain ridden dust bowl of a sofa was thrown out and replaced with an old black leather Chesterfield.

It is reminiscent of a stale piece of liquorice but infinitely more comfortable. The buttoned leather sits very elegantly, still pert and eager after years of heavy use.

These sofas are iconic and versatile, a passing Chesterfield even helped Arthur Dent and friends to vanish and escape prehistoric Earth, in 'Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy'. I am hoping the late night neolithic feel of my home town will not encourage this one to suddenly disappear, as I rather like it here.

There is a certain amount of history and character etched on this sofa that money cannot buy.
Tracing the origins of the Chesterfield is not that straightforward (probably due to its ability to vanish and travel through time), but the Earl of Chesterfield had a hand in it, and so did the Canadians who first coined the term to mean sofas in general. In England it more specifically refers to a rolled back leather buttoned sofa where the arms are the same height as the back.

No need to worry about wine spills any more. White wine used to be my best solution to wash away red wine stains on fabric, but I would just end up with a smelly sofa with a drink problem.
This one is teetotal.

Lederhosen and ‘tites

I spent last week in Mallorca with my brother.

We went to Avis on arrival to pick up our cheap web offer hire car. After a chat with the charming trainee we drove out in a brand new black Wrangler Sport Jeep. I love free upgrades.

After being reversed into in the car park we set off to Port de Pollensa (in the north). We established ourselves in a swanky hotel for a couple of nights until we realised that you need gold bars to exist in the predominately British playground. The views were ok but you never really glimpsed the open sea due to the shape of the bay.

On to Port de Alcudia for a spot of package holiday tack, and to reminisce on a holiday there in my late twenties. I think it has taken a major turn for the worse, if that is at all possible. Previously, gentle mannered European visitors mellowed the prevalent mild Magaluf style British culture. This calming influence seemed to have all but dissolved.

The bay was more like an open sewer than I remember it (constant unpleasant wafts) and even the beach bars had lost some of their verve.
One night there, and a sharp exit.

We ended up in Cala Ratjada (north east) a predominantly German resort. Wow, we could finally kick back and enjoy an excellent offering of food, culture and beaches.

German seemed to be the first language, we barely heard any English spoken at all.
The quality of bars, restaurants and accommodation far surpassed anything I had seen in the more British parts of the island. The Germans seem to demand a higher standard than the Brits and at a good price.

Mostly drank carafes of local wine and German beer, which hit the spot.

There are various caves along the east coast. The ‘Coves d’Arta’ were full of stalagmites and ‘tites. Simliar to walking inside the mouth of a giant with no sense of oral hygiene. The tour was very relaxed. So much so that you were allowed to hit some of the limestone pillars to make then ring like bells. It made you feel rather unsettled, like the whole structure might collapse from the reverberating tones.
Not many tourists at all. I expect the last group were buried when an over eager musician hit one too many notes. Our guide seemed to speak every language under the sun, and skilfully made us feel like we were never going to escape.

The other caves’ Coves del Drach’ were unfortunately much more commercial and organised. Literally hundreds of people ventured on our tour. No touching or caressing of the ‘tites and ‘mites allowed.

We were at the front going at a good pace, thinking once you have seen one set of caves you have seen them all. We were wrong. There was an amazing underground lake in one chamber, with a boat housing some musicians performing violin pieces. Shame about the crowds, spoilt it a bit.
Jules Verne was said to have been inspired there while writing ‘Journey to the Center of the Earth’.

Back in Cala Ratjada our Jeep was hit from behind, second bash of the trip.
Luckily the delightful Avis lady possessed the gift of foresight, and had thrown in full insurance.