Peace, peas, sun and beaches

24/03/09

Today I emerge dopey, but no longer really jetlagged, which is nice. They say that it takes the same number of days to recover as you are hours out, so I’m doing well! I am enjoying it so much here that I scramble about, using Flight Centre’s wonderful malleable system, trying to change my flights to a couple of days later. I check with Ti and examine the calendar to check when Easter is due… I have a few days to play with, as I had planned in case I wanted to change anything a little. :D
In an unexpected quirk of luck, everyone says yes, including the airline responsible for carrying me the last external leg of my trip. I am here for two more days – yippee!
I do some more scribbling too, writing up ideas and thoughts. I also spend a while pondering birthday presents for Thomas. I want to get him a little wooden turtle that trundles along with shell and feet turning in opposite directions when you pull it forwards, but they seem to be in scant supply in this barren land where tat is born. Still, there are a few toyshops in the San Francisco area which seem to have nice, similar, wooden toys. Unfortunately, the day we went to SF, we were unable to look for them (they are a way out). However, on googling for a while, I turn up a lovely little stripey wooden elephant, shipped from the USA, which does the same thing, except the ball on his back is enclosed so it cannot be lost… Perfect!
I buy him online and hope like crazy he will arrive for Thomas’ birthday, the day after I leave. Having spent the little morning I had on the computer (all of us are still in snuggly pyjamas or comfy outfits – I feel very decadent!), we decide to walk to the local shop for fudge ingredients, so I can make some later. We put slightly more sensible clothes on and pop on our shoes. It’s a lovely walk, here in Portola Valley, and Ed shows me where Thomas’ pre-school is, on the way. It is not far and Thomas isn’t even slightly tired by the time we get to the shop. It feels very local and it stocked with all manner of interesting things, particularly a large bunny holding eggs for Easter! We chat to Thomas about that for a while and I toodle onwards, hunting for ingredients. I find sugar and acquire more vanilla, since I left my last lot in Sydney, I think… Condensed milk proves a little more difficult, not being with the ingredients I would have expected, like it is usually in the shops I frequent, but a handy assistant proves helpful and I examine the shop’s offerings – they are not exactly the same as the Nestle’s I am used to, but I think I can adjust the other proportions accordingly so I get one.
I poke a tin of Cranberry Jelly suspiciously and, to my amusement and sympathy, spark a small rant from Ed…
Apparently, here at Thanksgiving and Christmas if they have turkey, the height of culinary desirability is the cranberry jelly. Fine, I think, what’s wrong with that? Then I take a closer look at the packaging and listen to more of Ed’s rant.
You basically slide this blob out of the TIN, and slice it to serve like that – gooey round slices of red yuk to make your Thanksgiving turkey perfectly inedible.
I find it rather amazing that, given that America actually PRODUCES native cranberries and ships perfectly delicious cranberry conserve to the UK, decent cranberry sauce/conserve/jam, call it what you will, cannot be had for love nor money in this country. And Meg agrees, so it’s not just a peculiar English thing. It’s like having shredless marmalade – what’s the point? I resolve to somehow get decent (American-made!?) English cranberry jam to them by Christmas!
We acquire the goods and head for home. We take a little side-route I’d missed before through a small green park. There is a gigantic metal statue of a deer here, and we take some photos in front of it. Thomas finds some shredded paper on the ground and picks it up. Ed examines it critically when presented to him and concludes that it is the contents of a party popper. We piece together the raucous party that must have concluded in quite a lot of these all over the small park and Thomas happily pootles around collecting bits of them. He wanders back proudly with his small, soggy and colourful collection and Ed advises him to put them in the bin. We watch him toddle to the bin, then look back at us in slight dismay as a cyclist has just that moment stopped to have a drink and put his map away, right by the bin. Ed calls reassurance and Thomas pops the stuff in the bin, receives a smile from the cyclist and chirps his way back to us.
It is soon time for lunch…
There is left-over pizza from last night and we divide it fairly between us, Thomas too. He makes surprisingly little mess for someone who is only three and therefore practically designed to be sticky! I look happily out at the glorious sunshine and we get ready to go out again, just myself and Ed this time. Thomas doesn’t mind too much as he knows there is only really room for two in the MG and wants me to see it too! He seems to have caught his dad’s pride over it and knows all about it, ‘Are you going out in ther Em Gee?’ – he smiles approvingly and trots off to find Pilar, babbling chirpily in Spanish. He is clearly bilingual; I begin to see the huge benefits having a foreign au pair might bring…
I am taken outside, around the house and into the gloomy shadows beneath where the MG lives. A present from Meg a couple of years ago, Ed has lavished loving attention and a keen understanding of mechanics and logic onto it. It shows. The sleek green beast which lurks down here is truly a thing of beauty. Proper racing green, it was rescued by Meg for a song from a chap who had had it outside, with its roof off, with its poor little insides exposed to all weathers.
Ed has rescued the majority of the walnut panelling, Lord knows how, had the seats reupholstered, and polished, painted, restored, tinkered, tweaked, sewed (he researched and hand sewed the seatbelt webbing so that they were right).
It shows.
The 1967 MG is the picture of health, sleek, elegant, beautifully restored, it purrs when Ed turns the engine, first time.
It is a healthy, happy, slightly arrogant purr and I listen gleefully.
Ed has a talent for such things, clearly!
We ride, in Bondesque style, away from Palo Alto and head for Highway 1.
We pass, on the way, green fields, some bedecked, even flooded, with yellow and pink flowers – there is an almost Swiss tint to this landscape here – chill mountains overlooking briefly sweeping meadows.
I relax into the right hand seat as the landscape flashes by, feeling the purr of the MG rumble gently through my bones and seeing the bright blue sky above.
This is a perfect day.
We get onto Highway 1 and Ed lets the MG have its head – it storms along, making quick work of the smooth, grey gray tarmac.
We pass San Gregorio.
On the other side of the road, we both perk excitedly to see a small flotilla of vintage cars sail past. Among their number there is even an old fire engine and a single vintage hotrod! It is a strange grey creature…
We zoom further, and I begin to wonder where we are headed, before I remember that everywhere here, much like Australia, is considerably further away than its English equivalent. I relax and enjoy the ride. There are clouds drifting and snagging atop the mountains here, though the mountains themselves are less rugged than those in New Zealand.
We leave the highway and continue along smaller roads, nearer to the coast. Suddenly, we round a corner and see the pale ochre cliffs of two headlands, jutting out to sea. They are surrounded by green waters tipped with white crests. This is Half Moon Bay. We are heading for Moss Beach, where I have been promised rock pools. The sea here is almost the same colour as my eyes. We pass a little roadside stall selling, not flowers or greasy burgers, but fresh fruit. Apparently they are common, and a very good source of fruit and veg, coming straight from the growers, who take a great pride in the quality of their goods. They are healthy and tasty, and Ed says he has been told to get some for dinner from a specific vendor, whom we shall see later. We head onwards, past De Hoff Canyon (which makes me giggle and is only small) and Bear Gulch, out of bears for the moment though, and also not very big. We also spot a place called ‘Cameron’s Pub’ which is supposed to be (Ed’s expression says he doesn’t think much of it!) a ‘British’ pub. It has a wall of kegs out the front though, which is fun, but has the same jaded air as the Irish pubs do in England!
To my amusement, we pass a Ford garage. Wisps of grey cloud cling to blunt mountains. Half Moon Marina is pretty and small and loomed over by the early warning globe, perched on the headland. The MG goes ‘vrooom’ very nicely when waiting to turn or change gear. It idles nicely too… J We head towards more residential streets and orange and red passion flowers drop decadently and luxuriously from a telegraph pole and the wires where is has languorously draped itself.
We are nearly there and begin to look for somewhere to park.
Ed drives along a little twisty, coastal, residential street and we take a couple of wrong turnings (Ed knows there is somewhere here for which he is aiming, but can’t quite remember how he did it last time). Soon, though, we pass a little wooded area near a pub called The Distillery and we park and get out. We park next to an Austin-Healey Sprite, red, with big froggy eyes. Clearly the people here have an eye for vintage automobiles! I work out how to lock my door, with a little help from Ed, and, after a peep down over the sunny cliffs at Moss Beach, we head around into the sun-slanted, sandy woodland. It is only short and sparse, but gives an ethereal feel to this place. It’s beautiful, particularly with the sparkling, crashing promise of the grey sea and the silvery beach beyond under a clear blue sky. We head down some steps and into the pale dunes below.
We are the only ones here – I can see why Meg and Ed both wanted me to see how lovely this place is. The sky is blue and it is warm, even by Californian Spring standards. Ed and I look at each other and, having stepped a little way onto the beach, both take off our shoes and socks! It isn’t quite a sandy beach, but the gravel is so tiny that it doesn’t hurt and is really rather pretty.
Trouserlegs are rolled up and adulthood, though not dignity, forgotten. I dip toes in the chilly water and splosh happily in rock pools. Ed doesn’t know what the local flora and fauna are, but has a good guess and comes to peer over my shoulder at my excited announcement that I have found a small blenny, peeping at me between some weeds. He peers into the next pool along and finds an urchin, I an anemone. I admire the clean, uncomplicated ripples twisting and undulating over the impressionist pebbles beneath the saltwater. I try, with a certain degree of success, to photograph them, but even though the pictures are pretty I don’t think I have captured it at all well! The movement is graceful and crisp, the calming peacefulness of the gentle passing of the waves not visible in a still. I paddle a little further in, toes chilling and wrinkling slightly, and give a squeak of delight. Ed is too far up the beach, towards some interesting-looking boulders, so he doesn’t hear my squeak.
I have found a familiar face.
A hermit crab!
I peep at him curiously for a moment and then want a closer look which, as I am without a snorkel, will have to be on my terms. I tug gently at his shell to pry him out of the water but he holds on tenaciously. I let go for a moment and ponder him, while he shifts his grip and eyes me warily, mostly all enclosed by his borrowed winkle shell. I put my hand back in the water and he jinks inwards, understandably nervous. I tug a little harder this time, and to my mortified surprise, tug him completely out of his shell by accident.
He just sits there, pale and astonished, for a few brief moments, before grabbing his shell that I hand him and jamming it back on, like an affronted spinster who has had her dress torn off… I feel slightly guilty, but chuckle afterwards – after all, I wasn’t about to eat him, and I saw him safe into the weeds afterwards!
I catch Ed up near the larger boulders, which fade into large cliffs and beautiful rock formations, and we chat about things in general.
If you are looking for inspiration for anything form art to engineering, you can probably find it, here on the beach.
I chuckle to think of the story our trail will tell:
Two sets of shoeprints going out
Two sets of footprints coming back!
J
They tell their own story!
We sit on the edge of the dunes to brush the sand off our toes and put our shoes back on.
Then we head for the pub which overlooks the beach. I offer to get drinks, since Ed drove and we both go for soft drinks. Ed wants an OJ and I tell the barman about St Clements. I think the idea largely leaves him cold, but he makes one up for me anyway, a little interested at least. Unfortunately, I don’t realise that the majority of lemonade on tap in pubs here is pink lemonade, which could leave me with a migraine the following day – which, as we have tickets booked to go to Alcatraz, would be most unhelpful. I apologise for my allergy (such an English thing to do!) and tell him why I am eying the drink so suspiciously. He is clearly going to have a mild grumble behind the scenes about the crazy Englishwoman he’s just served, but obligingly makes me up a concoction of OJ, soda water and freshly squeezed lemons anyway. It’s very nice and he deserves his tip!
Ed is waiting for me on the patio out the back. I believe this is one of his and Meg’s favourite places to come; it would certainly have the potential to be very romantic, or just cozy. The patio is scattered liberally with lovely driftwood benches and tables and there are two or three raised fire pits too. Each bench is strewn with warm, woollen rugs (the real thing). I realise as I sit down, to my consternation and I think Ed’s mild amusement, that some of the benches are actually, rather delightfully, on small rockers! Ed catches his drink and manages to stop mine flying off anywhere too disastrous and we sit and talk about life, seabirds, Meg, Andrew, the sea and, of course, little Thomas, while I creak back and forth softly, huddled on a rug, and sip my American St Clements.
We realise that the sky is changing, it is growing colder, and that it will soon be time for tea back at home so we finish our drinks and head back for the MG.
Sadly, the Austin Healy Sprite has gone; I wanted to photograph it but should have done it earlier. Still, I sit back once again in the passenger seat of the MG and thoroughly enjoy the ride!
On our way back, we stop at a roadside fruit stall for Meg’s fruit and veg order. Ed focuses mainly on some manly-looking root vegetables and some asparagus while my eye is drawn more to the fruit. There are little citruses, glossy and orange, shiny tomatoes and, best of all, strawberries: small warm and pink in the sun, glistening plumply and faintly scented, drawing me in with promises of mouth-watering goodness. You can’t beat sun-warm fruit… I buy a punnet for us to share for tea…
Back in the MG again, groceries squeezed onto the back seat, such as it is, we head out onto the roads. We pass over a reservoir on our return. Crystal Springs Reservoir. It is very pretty and is framed by big, broad hills.
On America’s freeways you have to be very careful how you move between lanes – there is the unnerving rule that you may pass either on the left OR on the right. Ed manoeuvres the MG carefully and slickly between traffic, taking care to check all possible spaces before he makes his move – with so much loving care poured into the machine, it would be a tragedy were it damaged!
I ponder as we fly along: America is full of people just like us. The ones who didn’t vote for Bush, the ones who think some situations are as idiotic as we do, the ones who have broadened their horizons and travelled.
We arrive home, happy with tales of the beach, brandishing vegetables, and help with supper. I have a mountain of potatoes to peel and set to willingly. The fresh vegetables are excellent and dinner is very tasty – Meg is a good cook. J
After supper, I make good on my promise of fudge and spend a while pottering in the kitchen, having been supplied with all I need from various cupboards (some of which Ed has to reach ‘cause I am too short – but he’s used to that!). I measure out and happily stir and boil, and test and taste, and add and stir and test again. Occasionally Ed pops in to see how I am doing, but he and Meg have decided to largely leave me to it and snuggle up on their own… Aww…
Eventually it seems to reach exactly the right consistency and I whip it off the stove, stir it frantically to get the right texture and pour it, glooping glossily, into the foil-covered tray I have ready. I score it and scrape out the pan… :P
Within minutes, a hot piece of fudge has made its way over appreciative taste buds and I let it cool a little and cover it further, mainly to discourage possible tiny prying fingers from getting burnt, but I’m sure a little foil won’t deter really investigative older tasters! I have had a lovely day, and it seems that my creation goes down well too, which I also enjoy.
I sink into bed, snoozy and happy and Andrew’s story reads me to sleep…