Quirkiness

Quirkiness is a fabulous thing.  I am a devotee of quirkiness.  Without quirks (let alone quarks) the world would be a very dull place.  Quirk is also a rather good word for Scrabble, getting rid of that pesky 'q'.

Today, on a trip to Santa Cruz, I went to Natural Bridges beach.  It was windy.  I had my face exfoliated by the sand, but consoled myself with the thought that some people pay good money in beauticians' parlours for this sort of thing, and without the benefit of being able to watch the Pacific rollers crashing in front of them.

I walked to some rock pools and saw some funny ring doughnut shaped corally stuff (you can tell I'm not a marine biologist) and sat on the beach and ate some of the best tasting cherries, freshly picked off my friend's tree.

I have noticed, in my exploration of beaches, that the quality of sand varies. For example, at Natural Bridges, the sand was a good temperature, pleasantly golden, but too soft.  I sank in up to my ankles, which made walking tricky, and made me look as if I was inebriated.   At the beach near 'Downtown', the sand was too hot to walk on, which is annoying when you have gone specially to walk on it in bare feet, but had a good consistency.  It just squeezed between my toes, enabling me to treasure the experience without looking as if I am about to fall flat on my face.  The colour was very nice too.  I have decided that I am going to be the Egon Ronay* of sand.

After a bit I decided to get back on the bus to 'Downtown' (I still can't read or write that word without singing it in my head).

I walked down the exceedingly long pier, taking time to lean over the railing and watch the seals swim in the clear, turquoise water, and found a cafe right at the very end which looked like it had been waiting for me.  There was a great view of Monterey Bay, and I experience a merging of cultures as I watched surfers riding the waves, looked at palm trees around the horizon, while listening to The Beatles and eating fish and chips.

It worked.

On the walk back, I felt a bit Zen.  I already thought I had achieved total relaxation, but had achieved a state of mind and body where my knees were just swinging my feet out in front of me with absolutely no bother, and I felt like I was floating along.

Mid-float, I stopped to read the information board at the lifeguard station.  It had titles printed in some sections, and chalked information filling in the boxes.

Temperature: 26 degrees

Climate: sunny (I thought they might as well have that bit printed on)

and so it went.

At the bottom was the printed title 'Other comments' which I assumed was going to tell me about algae, or sharks or other helpful advice.  Instead was written,

“The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go.” from Dr. Seuss.  

I liked that.  I will make sure I check the board next time I visit.  That sort of quirkiness works well, because people will check the board regularly, and when there is important information, will see it.

Release your inner quirkiness!


*(in)famous restaurant critic

Driving Again

I did it!  I managed to drive down the hill, to the store and back again.  I was alone on the way down, moral support from a friend on the way back.  I forgot to ask her for her anxiety level, which I appreciate was raised ever so slightly when I stalled going up, and when I had said (albeit foolishly), 'I'm glad we haven't met anyone coming down'.  True to form, around the corner awaited a fearsome four-by-four spanning the whole width of the road.  I used a cheeky ploy, of avoiding eye contact and just continuing to creep forward, which fortunately worked, and he reversed out of the way.

While I was waiting for brave friend 'downtown', locals must have thought me rather strange as I spent longer than was normal watching the traffic lights at the junction I was shortly going to have to negotiate a left turn at.  I got it sussed and everything went just fine.  The best bit was being able to buy absolutely anything I wanted in the shop.  I came back loaded with tins, potatoes all the booty I hadn't been able to buy before.

There is one complaint though, those paper carrier bags, how do you Americans cope?  There were five bags in my collection today.  One handle tore before I got the stuff into the car, and another on the way from the car to the kitchen.  Once in the kitchen, I dragged one of the bags by its remaining handle, which also promptly tore.  I felt a bit grumpy, although this was quickly dispelled by the welcoming fullness of the fridge.  I feel proud every time I open the door.

I have watched quite a lot of American films, and the shopping is always brought home in bags without handles, which myself and others had commented was odd.  Now I know why.

They have all dropped off before they get to the front door.

Watch the Birdie

A humming bird hovered next to my deck this morning.  It wasn't brightly coloured - it resembled a very small, dull English sparrow in colour.  It's flight was completely amazing, how it held itself steady in the air and then darted sideways.  A helicopter, compared to the other birds' aeroplanes.

In the afternoon, I went to sit at the top of the hill, where you get a view of the horizon framed by trees.  The sky was a brilliant blue, and there was a translucent slice of moon.  Since I was a child, I have been a bit confused about the moon appearing during the day.  I know there is solid science behind it, but it still seems, well, wrong.

Once I recovered from the annoyance of seeing the moon in broad daylight, I noticed the slow whorling of a raptor.  He was very high up, but I could watch the ends of his wings making minor adjustments as he balanced on the themals.  It reminded me of floating on my back in a swimming pool, with my arms extended, and having to tweak my lower arms to keep from rolling over.  ( A less majestic an image, I know).

This magnificent bird brought to mind one of the poems 'we did' at school, Gerard Manley Hopkins, 'The Windhover'.  I sat and wished I could remember beyond the first two lines.  The fabulous thing about the internet is you can get this sort of stuff very quickly, even near the top of a mountain in a forest, so here goes:

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
      dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
      Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
      As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
      Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing. 

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
      Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

      No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
      Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

(....and I thought I was being clever using 'whorl')

   

The Thunderous Crash of a Leaf Hitting the Deck and Being Brave

It is astonishingly quiet here.  I was sitting on the verandah this afternoon, book in one hand, mug of tea in the other and was actually disturbed by the sound of a dried leaf landing on the ground.  I looked round, then laughed.  How different is this from noisy, polluted London?

It was such a good decision to embark on my adventure. Everyone at home was saying how brave I was, but it doesn't feel brave at all.  It feels very fine indeed.

One slightly brave bit has been giving an introductory talk to a newly arrived group about where the fire extinguishers are, how not to hang clothes over the heaters and how not to be killed by a mountain lion.  (I try to slide that one in fairly casually).  I thought I had come across as confident and reassuring, so was rather put out when one person asked, while wearing a worried expression, whether I was the only member of staff on site.

I obviously need to practice my clever expression more.  I will employ the look I previously used in scary work meetings, where I tilt my head forward and look over the top of my glasses.  This implies I know everything, and as long as I keep my mouth shut, I don't break the spell.

The other nearly brave bit was when I was considering going for a swim in the sea.  There are sharks on this coastline, but I was told not to worry, because when the lifeguards see a shark, they put out a flag.

I have a few concerns about this.  The first would be whether the lifeguard responsible for shark spotting had had a bit of an evening the night before, and how groggy he was feeling.  The second would be how long it takes for groggy lifeguard to find the flag and walk to the flag pole and winch it into position (possibly the length of time it takes to play the 'Jaws' theme tune?).  The final thought was what happens if I am busy swimming away from the beach, so don't see the flag and the first I know of it is when I have a predator snapping at my ankles.

I have been responsible for flags at work, and I know that it can be tricky when you are required to suddenly find the Union Jack, which you last saw somewhere round about the Royal Wedding a year ago.  They tend to get buried under things like Christmas tree decorations and broken lever arch files.

I decided the safest bet would be to sit on the beach for a while, and as long as no one was dragged out of the surf screaming, with fountains of blood pumping from where their legs used to be, it was probably OK.

In the end, I spotted a sign warning of a high percentage of algae in the water, and that we shouldn't ingest any.  That did it for me, but I did wonder why the shark gets a magnificent flag and the little algae just gets an A4 notice pinned to a six foot pole (stick in the ground, not a person from Eastern Europe).

I wondered if I should put a 'post-it' note on a tree, warning of death by mountain lion, and take that bit out of the talk.

Monterey Bay

I woke up to a beautiful, sunshiny day.  You can tell how hot it is going to get, I have noticed, by the depth of contrast between the sunny and shady patches of grass on the lawn first thing.  The sun spots were almost glowing this morning, boding well for a lovely day.

I took the bus to the coast, and as I walked out of the terminus, saw a sign on the building opposite saying, 'Tea Spa'.  As I like Tea and I like Spas, I thought this might be a place for me, especially as I had my bathing costume in my rucksack, ready for the beach.

There was a jacuzzi and a sauna, a private one for each guest.  This is a real treat - back in the UK you usually find yourself trying to hold your feet back from intruding into the personal space of the stranger next to you.  As limbs tend to float upwards in the bubbles, this can be quite a problem.  Well, none of that today.  My room was beautifully tiled, and had a plate glass window overlooking a bamboo garden with a sculpture in the middle.  I had my own pot of hibiscus mint tea to sip too. It was a rather splendid place and I came out very relaxed.

As I walked to the beach, I saw a bike hire shop, so thought I would get a bike to cycle along the coast path.  They brought out a bright pink contraption, with over long, curved handlebars.  Being familiar with bikes, I noticed it didn't have any brakes.  I know Chris Hoy can do without brakes, but not me.  When I asked for one with brakes, they laughed and said I just had to pedal backwards.

I wobbled off along the cycle path, trying to remember to stay on the right.  Braking was tricky and really didn't work if I wanted to stop on a downward slope.  As soon as I took my feet off the pedals, the bike set off again with a mind of its own. Eventually I started to feel more confident and was able to enjoy the view, and what a fantastic view.  Rolling waves, beaches with happy souls jumping around, surfers slithering down sheer rock faces in their enthusiasm to get to the sea, and a general air of happiness.

After returning the bike, and sitting on the beach and realising it really wasn't Brighton when the flock of pelicans landed, I went to the Marine Center and had a go at maneuvering a mini submarine camera in a large tank.  Lots of fun.

I love California!

Scone of Stone

Since I have arrived, I haven't been able to get the gas oven to light, so asked the Maintenance Manager for help.  He suggested I keep the knob down for longer, so a day or so later, tried this, but still couldn't get it to light.  It was only on the second visit by the patient manager, that we realised that I was expecting to see the flames at the back of the oven.  In America the flames are hidden, they are kept where we would keep our spare baking trays, in the drawer underneath.

Having cleared up this misunderstanding, I decided it would be a good idea to do some baking.  I could rustle up some scones.  How hard can that be?

It was a bit annoying that I was using a UK recipe off the internet, and the measuring jugs here seemed to be in cups, and it was a bit difficult trying to work out what two ounces of butter looked like from memory.  I didn't have any baking powder, but there was baking soda in the cupboard, so used that instead.

Things weren't looking good when I could only cut four scone shapes from the dough.  The photo on the internet promised a tempting plateful.

Bearing in mind we are in the middle of a forest and fire is always a major concern, I was really worried when the smoke alarm went off, and had to spend a couple of minutes jumping around, flapping a tea towel across it shouting, 'It's OK, I'm cooking' (hoping to avoid a convoy from the Californian Fire Department appearing up the hill).  I had a fleeting memory of how my children when small, on smelling the smoke of a pillow smoldering in front of the fire, said they didn't think anything was wrong, they just thought I was cooking again.

On tasting the meagre burnt scones I realised that baking soda is definitely not the same thing as baking powder.  I had to have some water to remove the bitter taste from my mouth, and scraped the remaining miserable things into the bin.

The traditional English tea will have to wait I'm afraid.

Angels and Devils

Today I ventured further afield and went to San Francisco.  It was quite an adventure.

The first exciting thing was discovering that the train was a DOUBLE DECKER.  I embarked and then WENT UPSTAIRS.  It was the 'Jumbo Jet' of trains, I felt like I was in first class, especially with the leather seats.  However, in order to get two floors on the train, the upstairs ceiling was a bit low.  Not usually a problem for those of us who are vertically challenged, until you stand up and bash your head on the parcel rack.

I stepped off the train in San Francisco station with mild concussion.

I asked a bus driver the way to the pier, from where I was going to catch a ferry.  I only wanted directions for walking, but she was insistent I got on the bus and gave me instructions for the next one to catch.  Unfortunately, we didn't make it to the next interchange, as on leaving the bus stop, one poor woman wasn't holding the pole as instructed by the computerised voice (they seem keen on those here) and fell onto the floor.  I started trying to scoop her up, but the rather bossy bus driver shooed me off and berated the woman for not holding the pole.  I was tempted to say something about the jerky driving, but it was a bit scary being in a strange city and she looked like she might have been a part- time wrestler.

Although the woman was OK and sat back on a seat, the bus driver insisted we all got off as she was going to 'get them to come and check her over'.  From her tone of voice this wasn't out of concern for the passenger, more out of concern there was going to be litigation.

Eventually I made it to the pier, where it was very jolly. Coffee shops and nicely planted flower beds, and every so often a trolley bus would 'ding ding' past.  It was quite a thrill, looking out over the bay and seeing Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge.  There was also a herd (not sure of the umbrella term) of sea lions basking in the adoration of crowds on the opposite pier.  They were wallowing on rafts that were probably meant for boats to moor, but they looked very comfortable and relaxed.

Might have something to do with not ever needing to catch a bus.

The ferry was fun, lots of decks (is there a theme here?) and took us right past Alcatraz.  It looked intimidating and dismal.  Lots of decaying concrete and institutional architecture crumbling away.  As the boat went beyond the island, the sight of Alcatraz against the backdrop of the glittering city made poignant contrast.

We first moored at a little port.  Lots of plate glass windows in the houses cleverly built against the hillside and niche shops on the waterfront.  The natural habitat for those men who are photographed wearing Rolexes in the Sunday supplements I felt.

After some more time chugging through the water, we arrived at Angel Island.  A beautiful place, tree lined hills, walking tracks, pleasantly landscaped garden areas, but something didn't really feel quite right.  It turned out the island had a bit of 'a past'.  It has been a garrison in the Civil War, a recruitment  center during the World Wars and used as an immigration center for the Chinese coming to America, where they were held in quarantine.

Oh, and it was also once a missile base during the Cold War.  

The island was marketed as a place to camp.  I had a spot of bother thinking of a family that might want to go camping on a disused missile launch pad, until I remembered that my father, who enjoyed picnicking at nuclear power stations, would probably have jumped at the chance.

It felt a bit odd, that although the island was beautiful, it had a history of human misery not dissimilar to Alcatraz, it just wore it better.

Haberdashery

Haberdasher is such a good word, although secretive.  If you hadn't come across it before, it gives absolutely no indication what its meaning might be.  Unlike say, 'butcher' which helpfully suggests meat is involved, or 'baker' hinting, quite strongly, at bread.

Today I went to what must be one of the best haberdashery shops around.  It was in Santa Cruz.  It was the size of a warehouse and was a treasure trove of fabulous bits and pieces.  The huge rolls of fabric were propped up at one end, and the better quality ones hung on rollers with a quantity draping down to entice you to touch.  I started at one end, stroking the faux fur and imagining my house, completely lined with the stuff.  Forget wallpaper or wood paneling, faux fur is the future for interior design as far as I am concerned.  There is something so reassuring about stroking softness.

The fabulously coloured pure silks were quietly looking glamorous, hanging off horizontal rods in the centre of the store.  So fine to the touch, it was like they almost weren't there.

Some of the material had prints created by someone with a sense of humour - in the 'food' section, there were bolts printed with tomatoes and bacon and eggs.  In another area, there were rolls of material covered with matchsticks, and another with cigars.  Pet lovers were also catered for, with multiple doggie faces staring out, and kittens with bows.  Sadly no guinea-pigs - I do think the power of the guinea-pig is underestimated in art.

One roll of upholstery material had a flock of mallards swimming between the bulrushes, presumably looking for Moses.  I think they were off course in California.

On the walls raggedy rows of ribbons and sequins dangled down, in every colour you could imagine.  One roll of shimmering turquoise sequins reminded me of the sea and I imagined a dress fit for a mermaid.

The buttons were fun too, big square ones, small textured ones, buttons so big they had patterns cut into them like doilies - you could serve fairy cakes on them.

It reminded me that there is something wonderful about specialist shops.  Forget the bland malls with chain stores and bring back the real shops, the ones that make it more fun to spend your money.

Steaming

Today I went to a state park about six miles away from where I am staying.  It was a beautifully sunny day.  It still feels strange that this is so normal, no one comments on it here, unlike at home where the minute the sun comes out, we all rush outside to enjoy the rare occurrence.

There were HUGE redwood trees, and a display with a slice from one cut down in 1934 showing the rings from major events in human history across around 2000 years.  I stood inside one redwood that had been burned out (but was still alive).  Someone in the past had actually cut a window in the bark, which had grown over again.  A little further on I felt quite thrilled when someone walked past and ACTUALLY SAID 'HOWDIE'.

Yay!  I'm definitely in America!

It was a very nice park, one half seemed to be totally natural and set up to admire the trees, and the other side was a wacky, fun pastiche of the Wild West.  Then I remembered.  I was in California.  This was the Wild West, once.

I decided to take the vintage steam train up the mountain.  Just sitting in an open wagon was fun, with the whistle going (and sounding very American, just like in all the old films), and with a commentary coming out of a speaker next to my seat.  The commentary started off quite amusing and helpful, 'Has the little chap who went to the restroom returned yet?  We don't like leaving anyone behind', and 'Welcome to the Mormon Mission in the last carriage'.  As we passed a man balancing a sledge hammer on his chin, the voice intoned 'Don't try this at home kids' as parents looked a bit worried and made a mental note to lock up the heavy duty tools as soon as they got back.  This was reinforced by the man waving jovially at the train with one hand, while wielding a humming chain saw in the other (he was making sculptures out of logs - eat your heart out Michael Angelo).  The disembodied voice continued talking, and talking and talking.  It wasn't clear where the physical presence that went with the voice was, so when it said, 'the tree we are just passing on your right....' it was confusing to work out whether, as the train was quite long, he might have been in the front with the driver, or at the back with the Mormons.  The voice didn't seem to need to draw breath, and only stopped in submission when the train's whistle blew, which it did, frequently.  The peace and tranquility of the forest was being completely overwhelmed by the train, rather like the effect the man with the chainsaw was having on the hapless logs.

We steamed up the mountain, and it was very beautiful.  The voice was promising some 'additional entertainment' at the top, but also warned us to 'watch out for our wallets'.  I started to think about the attractive possibility of ice cream, possibly at top notch prices to match the top notch venue, but I was wrong.   As the train arrived at the highest point some actors dressed in Wild West costumes greeted us with waves and smiles.  Then everything went a bit haywire as some cowboys started shooting the friendly actors.  I couldn't hear the dialogue, so couldn't tell what was happening, so for once, I wished the disembodied voice would chip in and help, but he didn't.  I idly wondered whether he had been shot.  The actors were doing a good job, but I couldn't help feeling a tinge depressed about the lack of an ice cream stall, as it really was getting hot.  

The train wended its way back down the mountain to the Wild West shopping opportunity.  I was relieved to see that the man with the sledge hammer still had his skull intact, and the chain saw man still had both hands fully functioning.  It was quite a relief to not have Mr Invisible trying to enforce jollity any more, he was giving me earache.

I started walking the mile or so back to where the bus allegedly went from.  It was still really hot, and I was starting to feel bothered too.  It didn't help that bus stops are almost invisible here, and I had to ask in two shops where it was.  I eventually saw two small tin signs attached to a bent pole with a bench, and realised this was where I needed to wait.  I did feel quite smug that at least I have got the hang of which direction the bus comes from, and don't sit watching the traffic on the other side of the road, wondering how the bus will get across to me.

The food store was near where I was dropped off, so not to waste a walk back empty handed, I thought I would buy a few additional bits and pieces.  You know how it goes, you only mean to buy this and that, and end up with a large bag full.  So it was I staggered out with my rucksack bulging and heavy into the 90 degree sunshine, with a mile uphill ahead.

I started off strongly, but my pace became slower and slower as I started seriously overheating.  I had sweat pouring off me as if I was in a hot shower.  My one consolation was that, as I climbed the last stage, no one I knew would see me.

You can imagine my dismay as a car pulled up, with a well groomed man inside, who let his electronic window slide down on his smart and shiny car, and said, 'Hello, are you Hilary?'  I kept my distance to avoid sweat dripping into his immaculate interior, and considered looking confused, and turning round to see where Hilary was (having been inspired by the actors on the train trip).  I didn't, I gasped an apology for my appearance, explaining I had just walked up from the town.  He was very understanding, but I really, really didn't want to start making new friends at that exact point in my life.

Back in my apartment it was a case of kick off the shoes and grab a pint of water before collapsing in a heap on the settee.  I tried to console myself with the thought that all the walking must be making me fitter, even if I feel like I am about 100 years old.

It's Posh Here....

I woke up to an ethereal mist hanging in the forest.  The dampness made the earth smell particularly fresh and alive.

Gradually the sun burnt off the mist.  I was due to help with the gardening.  There is a lovely, cultivated square under the grapefruit, lemon and orange trees that needed weeding.  I pulled open the gate and walked into an olfactory delight - the scent of lemon mint mixed with grass and the damp earth.

I started extracting weeds from around the wonderful and abundant mint, and from around the strawberries.  You can imagine how surprised I was to be told that in California, mint is A WEED.  Yes, the stuff we actually pay for in supermarkets is a WEED here.  I took it quite well, and trying to look nonchalant, explained that in the UK, STRAWBERRIES ARE WEEDS.  We have such problems, they get everywhere and destroy all the other plants.......

I don't think anyone believed me.

Another surprise was that the chickens in the run next to us became rather excited about us weeding -  chickens in America EAT WEEDS.  As this included copious quantities of mint, I suspect that the next omelette anyone makes will have a strange after-taste.  I think maybe that OREGANO should be redesignated a weed to stop this becoming a problem.

While we are on the subject of eggs, I have noticed that the shells are much harder to crack.  I went to break an egg on the side of a bowl, it took so many bashes to open up, I felt like I should have been better equipped with a hammer.

I have been told this is because they particularly love their chickens here, and look after them very nicely.  

Now, who's for mint tea?

The other side of the street....

Today, I am very proud to announce, I had my first practice at driving ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD.  Mind you - having given it some thought, and seeing a map of the world showing which countries drive on the right and which on the left, it has to be said that Britain is actually the one, USING THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD.  

I was quite nervous, and read some good advice on the internet before setting off.  The most sensible of which just said to repeat constantly in your head (or out loud for that matter), 'Keep on the right, keep on the right'.  It said something about trying not to open the window when you reach for the gear stick, which I thought was a bit daft.

'I'm not that stupid', I thought smugly.

Out in the parking lot (I am getting the lingo now) I kept hitting the window winder when I tried to change gear, so that bit of advice didn't seem so daft in retrospect.  It's hard to find third with a faster and faster blast of cold air in your face and the engine over-revving.  It was also odd to look up and to the right for the internal mirror, I kept looking up and left and admiring the door pillar.  Not much help in seeing whether there was a large truck bearing down on me.

I drove along a steep, twisting road, with a sheer drop appearing occasionally to one side.  I decided not to be intimidated and instead kept an eye on the central lines, which confusingly were yellow, like our no parking lines down the side of the road.  In America the white lines are at the edges, which adds to the general feeling of confusion about where you should be pointing on the road.

I stalled once, was tooted once and sworn at by a truck driver once, but as I managed to get both the car and 'slightly anxious' passenger back in one piece, I decided to regard it as a successful outing.

Santa Cruz

Today I have been to Santa Cruz.

What a wonderful place, but then California seems to have a lot of wonderful places.  More than its fair share one might say (particularly if one doesn't live in the state and is suffering recurring bouts of envy).

Otters were playing, just close to the shore - barrel rolling and turning somersaults in the water, sticking their paws up and generally looking as happy as could be.

A sea lion was watching all the goings on from his throne, a prominent rock poking up through the sea.  Seals were lying on the beams under the pier and barking at each other.  There were humans too, sitting astride surf boards waiting to catch the next, green glimmering roller.  There was a back drop of mountains and yachts -white sails billowing in the wind - criss crossing in front.

The walk to the beach was bordered with exotic flowering succulents, which cascaded down the rocks towards the sand.  Large yellow and pink blooms growing like you might expect dandelions to in Britain, casually just appearing, like it was no bother at all.

The sand was golden, fine grained and warm underfoot.  It was very obliging sand, moving spontaneously as you laid upon it to make you as comfortable as possible.

Kind sand.

With eyes closed, you were left with just the sound of the ocean breathing.

Just Popping to the Shops - I might be gone some time......

One of the things I hadn't really taken into account on arrival here was that I can't just pop across to the shop when I run out of something.  At home, the 'store' was two minutes walk away, and a flat walk at that.  I didn't have to think ahead to make sure I didn't run out of milk for my tea, or bread to go under the marmalade.  Here, the nearest store is one mile away, and down a near vertical slope.  For those of you familiar with the Lake District, it is akin to a mile of the Kirkstone Pass between me and my chocolate.

This is of some concern.

Not to be outdone, today I prepared my rucksack, a bottle of water and some comfy shoes and set off.  On arriving at the store, I realised it is an interesting discipline, shopping by weight.  As I added each item into my basket, I was thinking, do I really need a heavy tin of tomatoes?  Do I really need another jar of jam?  The pasta twirls seemed quite a bit lighter than the spaghetti and I definitely didn't fancy any potatoes or (and this rather sadly) any watermelon.

I filled up my rucksack and started up the North Face of the Eiger.  I wondered about the thinness of the air as I ascended, (but realised this couldn't be an issue as the kettle takes an age to boil).  I wondered whether the Yeti had been seen lately, but decided it was too warm and he would have melted.  I wondered who I would eat when rations ran out, but remembered I had sufficient supplies on my back, which meant I wouldn't have to take a chomp out of my own arm.

It actually only took 30 mins to get back to the snugness of my apartment.  I had just enough energy left to shrug the shopping onto the counter and roll onto the settee, kicking my shoes off as I did so.

A bit later, I decided that due to all the exercise, I was in danger of experiencing a calorie deficit, so enjoyed opening the fridge and deciding which of my hard won treats was going first.

Little Weed?

The more I learn about redwood trees, the more astonishing they become.  The bark is fire-proof, so some trunks are burnt out in the middle, with just the bark shell remaining.  This gets covered in soft moss and looks rather beautiful.

Also, when a tree is brought down, more shoot up from the stump.  They remind me a bit of celery stalks, but with the middle cut out first.  It seems like they are really just the biggest weeds on the planet.  It might be lucky that they only grow in quite particular conditions, otherwise 'The Day of the Triffids' would have to be rewritten.

When you think about it, any tree that can get to around 2000 years old must have quite special survival techniques.

The area of California I find myself in used to be part of the Gold Rush, so I walk quite hopefully along the streams, watching for any particularly bright, glimmering pebbles - although I suspect the real treasure here takes a non-tangible form.

Finding the Keys

It's hard to put into words how beautiful this forest is.  You step into it and it almost feels other worldly.  I heard a quote that says the English build cathedrals, the Americans grow them, which seems about right from what I can see here.

I have been for a walk to a waterfall, criss-crossing the stream.  I have seen the light mist illuminated by the afternoon sunlight slipping between the trees. I have watched the deer standing on their hind legs to munch the lower branches of the fruit trees on the lawn.

I also found the grand piano in the building next to my apartment.  It was wonderful to unpack my music and to start playing, something that has been neglected for too long.  To start with my effort was rather dismal, but after a while something happened, and I was engaging with the music in a way I haven't done for some time.  Having a large room to myself, I started to throw off my inhibitions and sing along, or simply to sing in the missing notes when my fingers missed, and occasionally to shout out in frustration.  It was fun.

I have been to the store to buy a cell phone, and seen lots of those American trucks with the big bonnets (oops, hoods).  I still get a thrill from the mail boxes on sticks and the hydrants, although it has to be said that the UK postal system is superior in being able to put letters actually through our front doors.

It has been sobering to hear a couple of discussions about the problems of paying for health care.  We must treasure our NHS.

California Dreaming

After months of planning and preparation and a few last minute hitches (why did the washing machine decide to spring a leak the day I was moving out?) I have finally arrived in California at the start of my career break.

I have swapped the concrete suburbs of London for the peace and tranquility of a redwood forest.

It was a good decision.

I have been shedding layers of stress and each stride taken on sun dappled soil feels more springy as a result.  The majestic redwoods compel your eye to travel up the long, straight trunks to the canopy, swaying gently in the breeze.

Mesmerising oscillation.

While lying on a bench, looking up and admiring the magnificent trees, I started thinking they were like my friends grouped around me, with hidden roots intermingling and helping each other stand upright.

That's what happens.

An improved lightness of being lets your mind start doing what it does best.

Thinking.

Chequing in at the Bank

I feel the urge to write, yet again, about banks.

Last week, I went to a local branch for what should have been a fairly swift transaction.  I queued at the counter and after a lot of shuffling around, was told to wait in the middle of the entrance atrium.  The bank had, worryingly, tried to get trendy, and there was a dark circle picked out in expensive granite, surrounded by small spotlights set into the floor.  The effect made it look like someone hadn't swept it for a while, but once your eye was in, you could see they were going for an unusual interior design effect.  I waited uncertainly in this nondescript area, where other people were hovering around looking confused.  A harassed woman with a clipboard was seeing to people at random and pointing them to other places to queue or wait.

It happened to be the bank that particularly prides itself on understanding local traditions around the world.  Well, this is Britain.  We need a well ordered queueing system.

Why hadn't the bank understood that?

After an age, I had to fill in a form with her and then wait on a stool for another age before being shown to a trendy, circular pod covered in large photos of 'sexy' bankers.  A young lady came in and there started a rather frustrating discussion.  I explained I needed to draw a large cheque.  She wrote 'check' on a piece of paper, so I helpfully spelled out 'cheque'.  She said, 'it doesn't matter', but crossed out 'check' and wrote above it, 'check' again.

My heart sank, I knew this was going to be difficult.

After another age she said I could pick the 'check' up on Monday, which I couldn't do as I would be at work.  'Maybe', I suggested,' I could collect it from the Morden branch'.  She disappeared for an age again, came back and said I could collect it from the New Malden branch on Monday.  I said, 'Morden' not 'New Malden'.  She wrote, 'New Morden'.  I resisted the urge to bang my head on the desk.  Then she asked why I didn't write my own cheque.  I said I didn't think I could have a cheque book with that account, but she promised to order me one.

IOff I went shopping, to receive a phone call a short while later, saying I needed to go back as I couldn't have a cheque book on that account after all.

Eventually, a manager took pity on me and said I could have the cheque in half an hour.  All in all, it took two hours and involved five members of their staff.

At another bank, a year ago, I had an employee tell me I needed a 'rabais'.  When I expressed confusion she wrote it down for me.  Much later I realised she must have meant 'rebate'.

I would like to plead with banks that they make the newbies learn a list of frequently used banking terms before they let them near customers.  It can't be that difficult.

The Living Womb

I had a wonderful weekend last weekend.  I went to see my Iron Age pal, who has a horse kept in a field at a friend's farm.

It was pouring with rain, and the inauspicious start to the day involved trudging, up to our ankles in mud, dragging a wheelbarrow to collect piles of horse poo.  It was actually quite hard to spot the poo against the mud, but once I had my eye in, I could pride myself on hunting out the heaps.  Once found the multiple boluses (?) needed scooping up, which was quite tricky as they tended to roll away from the spade.  I was reminded of one joyful day as a lifeguard at a quite smart pool complex, where I had to fish a turd out of the shallow end.  When I recounted this to my friend, she asked whether it was my own poo.  I felt quite indignant - as if I poo in swimming pools, honestly!

When the muddy poo collecting was done, we went to a barn to bottle feed the most beautiful little lambs who had been making a big fuss about being hungry.  They guzzled greedily and bounced around, full of the joys of spring.  I had been warned not to appear to be bonding with them, this is de rigueur on the farm from which they would be sent to be slaughtered before autumn.  I managed to look fairly serious and not like I had just fallen in love, and called, 'number six, time for your bottle'.

After this, we picked some curly kale for dinner from the veggie patch, and then went and sat in the farmhouse kitchen.  It was like stepping back in time, or maybe finding you had walked into an episode of The Archers.  An ancient range was glowing orange and emitting warmth as if from a huge hug.  There were two well sat-in armchairs arranged next to it, and about five friendly dogs agitating to be stroked and patted. I took a seat and was promptly given a mug of tea and slab of extremely tasty home baked cake, with home made jam filling (butter cream icing for those of you who like this level of detail).  It wasn't a living room, it was a living womb.

We went back to my friend's house where the slow cooker had been doing its stuff on two lamb shanks, yes, bought from the farm.  I think we were eating the great aunt or uncle of number six, a thought I had to put to the back of my mind as I tucked in.  It did taste delicious, and for once I felt like I was eating something better than Michelle Roux was busy cooking up on TV at the same time.

All in all a wonderful day.

Thank goodness for...

Radio 4.  I have been off work with labyrinthitis for too long, and daytime TV is just so appalling it is guaranteed to finish off any residual brain activity by day two.  Radio 4 however is brilliant, really amazing.  I have been learning loads, how to avoid food poisoning, how to make sure Big Ben doesn't collapse when you are building a tube line underneath it, stuff like that.  You never know when it might be useful, although the food poisoning information is more likely to be relevant to my life.  Not because I give people food poisoning, but because it is handy to know not to wash your chicken as campylobacter loves water.  I am also up to date with everything going on in parliament, and have been enjoying 'Farming Today', although confess to falling asleep during the recent episode that covered the Common Agriculture Policy (or whatever it's called).

Evening TV is also quite bad.  I haven't recovered from the mother/daughter combo in Benidorm (or similar), where they went 'on the pull' together, after downing more shots than most people would drink in a week, and that was just for starters.  While channel hopping in desperation, I happened across an obscure American cartoon, that was explaining whether cooking with alcohol burns off all the alcohol.  Something I have always wanted to know.  It doesn't.  The water and alcohol combine in an azeotropic reaction, but some residual alcohol remains, depending to some extent on whether you put the lid on or not.

There, has that impressed you?

I have also been pottering in the kitchen and doing a spot of cooking, and have realised that choux pastry isn't that hard to make after all.  I need to get better soon, as all this lying on the sofa and eating profiteroles is going to be really bad news when I try to get my work clothes back on!

Careering Around

I've found a part of the BBC website that teaches you languages.  Having time on my hands I have started to learn Spanish.  This is in case I find myself up the Amazon later in the year.  At the moment I could only cope with emergencies that require the urgent ordering of coffee with milk and a slice of toast.  I hope that by lesson ten I might be able to articulate, 'Help, there is a crocodile and it looks hungry!'.

The adventure is a possibility because, in the depths of the work intranet, I found a page excitingly entitled, 'Career Breaks'.  I blew the cobwebs off and realised it was possible to have the gap year I never had.  I started dreaming of, well, of somewhere I haven't been and was therefore rather tricky to dream about. The worrying bit was, that while the title of the webpage suggests there is a career to be continued on return from circumnavigating the world on a raft or whatever, in reality this isn't the case.  I have to effectively resign and hope something suitable will come up when I get back.

'Live life adventurously' has been rattling around in my head, and having seen other, inspirational people leading alternative lifestyles, decided it was now or never.

After hours of searching around on the internet, interviews, phone calls, letters and e-mails, I now have three months booked being a volunteer in California, three months volunteering in Scotland, and the possibility of three months working for a charity in Malawi as well as the possibility of going up the Amazon on a boat taking medical advice to remote communities.  It all seems a far cry from my safe, suburban life where everything is quite cosy and comfortably predictable.  I realised comfortably predictable isn't the life I want to lead yet.  Maybe in ten years time that will be fine, but not now.

The travelling and meeting new people and having adventures isn't the scary part.  The scary part will be packing up my house to rent out, and being effectively of no fixed abode for a year.  

I will have to get rid of as many material possessions as possible.  Having moved house twice in the last twelve months, I have already rid myself of truck loads of stuff.  I will soon have to go through everything again to ascertain whether I need or like it enough to a) pay for it to be stored, or b) clamber up into the attic with it.  It will be very interesting to see what survives the cull.