Clouds...

Awoke in our little bungalow...


... to find our friends grazing outside the kitchen window. They love the green apples...



Our first concern for the day was to resolve a problem with the construction project down in Laguna. We had received pictures from our friends Brian and Mary, and had noted what seemed to us a rather smaller than expected pass-through window, where there once was a doorway leading from the kitchen to the sitting room. We checked with Mary via email, and her return note confirmed her agreement that the window seemed narrow. A worried call to our contractor, Larry, to check with him; he offered his own opinion that it was wide enough, at two feet, and that a narrow shelf extension into the sitting room from the kitchen counter might help resolve the visual anomaly. This what I myself had suggested as a possibility, so we asked Larry to make a mock-up of some kind to send us as a jpg.

This business had to be conducted in town, of course, because our phone reception out here at the farm is intermittent. So we enjoyed a cup of coffee while we were there, and made a few necessary purchases—dog food for George from the pet shop, a fresh loaf of bread from the marvelous bakery, Rose’s, for ourselves—and then were headed back to the car when we were startled by the most extraordinary sight: a cloud formation such as I have never seen in my life before. It was a rolling, curving bank of cloud reaching for miles across the sky like a thick braid, so “unnatural” as to be quite spooky.








It's worth clicking on these, to get the larger view. But the pictures, taken in sequence because of the sheer size of the phenomenon, don’t manage to do justice to this amazing spectacle that stopped everyone in their tracks and had the whole street filled with people gazing up into the sky. It looked like a UFO trail from “Close Encounters”—you almost expected an alien spaceship to be emerging from the front end of the trail and landing at the local airstrip.

With the clouds dispersing slowly, we made our way back to the bungalow to change into something warmer: the storm had brought a cold front with it, and we were shivering in summer clothes. Then on down the sound to its southernmost point at Olga’s, where we strolled out to the end of the dock...






... and returned for lunch at the famous Olga’s Café—though not with some dispute as to whether this was the famous one, or the smaller one where I remembered eating an excellent lunch last time we were here. (We were both right: the café where we ate before was indeed more “gourmet” than this one—and had purloined the name; but it had arrived and disappeared in the space of a couple of years, while this artist-run operation has survived for a long time.)

A lovely drive, next, up Mount Constitution, through the clouds, to a height of some two thousand feet.


Once at the summit parking lot, we climbed the last few feet to enjoy the stunning view out over the islands, many of them now obscured by the slow-moving banks of cloud below us.


It was cold and blustery up there, but we climbed the stone tower that crowns the summit, George charging up the steps ahead of us in his eagerness to see what was ahead. It’s one of his most endearing qualities: he is insatiably curious. Another Curious George.

(Did I ever tell you, by the way, where George got his name? Not Curious George. Not George Washington—though that might have been appropriate for this trip. And most certainly not the current occupant of the White House, who will remain unnamed. No, George got his name from George Harrison, the Beatle, who happened to be leaving this life just as our George was arriving. He returned, we like to think, “Across the Universe.”)

We were grateful to get back to the warmth of our bungalow for a nap (for me) and reading time for Ellie. I joined her with my own book—I’ve finished the excellent Alan Furst now, and am working on Barack Obama, with growing admiration—and we spent a good part of the rest of the day engrossed in our own worlds. Late afternoon, we took the computer up to the one spot on the property where I can get wi-fi connection, and spent a while working on our plans for the return trip to Los Angeles, beginning this weekend. And were joined by our host, Mark, armed with a bottle of beer for each of us, for the “cocktail hour.” A pleasant opportunity to get to know more about him, his work as a carpenter/contractor, his wonderful family, and the island he has lived on for a number of years.

Supper at home. Left-overs. A piece of chicken, a piece of salmon, a sauté of tomatoes, onions and potatoes, and nice green salad. A glass of Oregon wine. And, later, a stupid old western movie with Lee Marvin, Burt Lancaster and Jack Palance—on which I got ridiculously hooked, and got to bed too late, and couldn’t sleep for the pounding rain outside.

The Weekend...

… began with our usual cup of tea, then a drive into East Sound with George to the farmer’s market—a venue from he is usually excluded by California law. We had little to buy—just a few vegetables and some fruit—but Ellie found plenty to occupy herself with the various crafts stalls. There were many of these, a testament to the creative spirit of those who live here: jewelry, metalwork, textiles, ceramics… When interspersed with the produce, the baked goods, the sausage stands—we bought a couple to bring home for Sunday dinner—it was a gladly motley gathering, where everyone seemed mellow and grateful for a warm Saturday morning for the event. Unfortunately, though I’d had the foresight to hitch my camera bag to my belt, I was foolish enough to forget that it was there, and neglected to take a single photograph. Too bad.

I can claim that I was distracted, though, because at the market we ran into our friends Arthur and Judy from Laguna Beach, who are also up here on the island—they for two weeks, an enviable improvement on our one. We had been trying to reach other by cell phone since our arrival here, but the vagaries of connectability had prevented our meeting until this chance moment. We were delighted to see them, and more than delighted to be invited over to their place later in the day for late afternoon appetizers and dinner.

With our marketing done, we stopped by at the small theater to see if we could get tickets for the chamber concert series scheduled for next week, but discovered that they are already sold out. Cancelations are a possibility, we understand, if we wait by the ticket office to pounce before the concert. We’ll see. Back at our bungalow, we made a sandwich and spent a lazy afternoon beneath the apple trees with books until four o’clock, when we abandoned George to his own devices and drove down the road, three miles or so, to where Arthur and Judy have rented a delightful home for their stay. (We were impressed to find a fine drawing by David Ligare on the wall there—an artist Ellie showed at her gallery many years ago, and for whom I once wrote a catalogue text.)

Here’s the view from their balcony…


Arthur had grilled some excellent corn and salmon steaks, and Judy had prepared a fine, fresh salad, which we much enjoyed, along with a glass of white wine—despite the determined efforts of a squadron of yellow-jackets to spoil things for us. Good conversation, too. As a professor at UCLA, Arthur is more than well-informed about the environmental crisis that we have created for ourselves on the planet, and we learned a great deal in the course of the evening—much of it not entirely cheerful news. Mindful of George in his solitary state, we left in good time and drove home in the twilight, grateful for good friends and a lovely evening.

Sunday morning, after a light first breakfast (we have traditionally a late-morning bacon and scrambled egg breakfast on Sundays) we stopped by the gas station, where we had been told we could get a Sunday NY Times, but the papers had not yet arrived. We put our name down to hold a copy and drove on down the east side of the sound to Cascade Lake for a long hike around the perimeter.






It’s a beautiful spot, and quiet!


We met only a couple of other people on the three-mile path, until we reached the south end, where we came across a camp site and were surprised to find a delightful family with a Cavalier King Charles spaniel.


We admired their immaculate site, which looked to us a lot more comfortable than many of the motel rooms we have stayed in. George, I have to say, was his usual aloof self, but deigned to pose for a picture with Polo the dog and Chloe, a sweet little six-year old, and of course her parents. It is wonderful to have these chance encounters with genuinely friendly folk… and I always regret a little that they are so fleeting: there’s a sadness in moving on with the knowledge that we will never really get to know them.

The hike began to seem like a very long one towards the end. It felt like a lot more than the advertised mileage. And yet so refreshing to the spirit to be out in the natural world, with barely a hint of the human presence.


We paused to take pictures of late-blooming foxgloves...

... now in the their moment of entropy; and fungus growing from the roots of a felled tree.


The persistence and diversity—and the temporality—of life in all its forms.

Heading back to East Sound, we searched for a shady place to sit outside with George and at the same time hook up to the Internet in order to make changes to the plans for our return trip south. We have decided to avoid a second stop in Portland, and instead to shorten at least a couple of the driving days by adding an overnight stay in southern Washington. The Internet can prove to be a wonderfully useful tool on such occasions, and we appreciate the flexibility it affords us.

Back at the bungalow, we fried our bacon and scrambled our eggs, and sat down for a tasty breakfast followed by a quiet afternoon (under the apples trees, again!) with the NY Times and, for me, the luxury of a cigar: La Gloria Cubana. As a reformed cigarette smoker—I quit nearly twenty years ago, after too many years’ addiction to the noxious weed—I have learned to enjoy the occasional cigar on a Sunday afternoon. Cautiously, however, because I know how easily I could become addicted once again. By afternoon, the weather had begun to change: the warm sunlight and blue skies gave way to low clouds and a chill in the air. As we read the newspaper, great rolls of thunder shook the house behind us as a storm passed by, barely missing us. Fortunately, though, we had no more than a few drops of rain and I was able to complete my indulgence without getting wet.

A further indulgence: a glass of wine over the news headlines. I had read in the paper about a new British series, “Skins”—a real look, supposedly, into the lives of teenagers, which turned out to be funny for a while, but ultimately rather saddening. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, with a little anorexia thrown in for good measure. I was distressed, long before the end, to find myself chuckling at the cynical attitudes and antics of these adolescents, and switched off.

For dinner, we warmed up some good sausage, purchased at the farmers’ market yesterday, with onions, steamed squash and boiled red-skin potatoes for an excellent home-cooked meal.

Monday Morning: Yachats, Oregon

This has to be one of the most beautiful spots on the entire West Coast. The drive up from the southern border of Oregon was spectacular, often breathtaking…

We left our wonderful digs in Crescent City at around ten, after a leisurely breakfast and a grooming session for George in Rande’s studio. A lovely road north...


leading, after a few miles, into Oregon. We drove through tree-lined hills to begin with, but then stayed close to the coastline, passing through a number of small towns until we reached Coos Bay—and realizing when we got there that we had shot past our intended turn of the highway for a visit to the Cavalier breeders where Rande had found both Mia and Maddy. U-turn, then, in Coos Bay, and a confusing trek through freeway interchanges to the side road we had missed.

We were glad we didn’t miss the opportunity to visit with Lorna (here she is...)


... her husband James, and their huge family of Cavaliers. You'll find them at their website, Cavalier Lovers


Greeted as we drove up by a half dozen of them bouncing up and down at the window, we were astonished by the sight of dozens of these wonderful creatures as James invited us in to their compound—it can be described as nothing less—and Lorna came out from the house with another armful of their close relatives, the “ETs”, or English Toys. (These are more snub-nosed than their Cavalier cousins, like George.) Anyone who has owned this breed, as we have done for twenty years now, knows that there is no more charming, loving and endlessly effervescent creature in all of dogdom than the Cavalier, with its feathered tail in constant motion and its mouth a permanent smile. And cute!


(Click on this one.  And forgive my hyperbole, I’m more than a little biased on this topic.)

After admiring the adults and the growing puppies, we visited the nursery, where a three-week-old litter of six was busy feeding with a mother who proved patient enough to allow us to pick her babies up and fawn over them with embarrassing enthusiasm.



Ellie, ever the perfectionist, had already picked out the perfect future companion for George...

... but the time is not right for us with the remodel in progress. However we do know where to come when we’re ready. These dogs are obviously loved, and live in the kind of happiness that radiates infectiously to anyone around them.

George, of course, as is his wont, remained somewhat aloof from all the excitement, but did enjoy his own romp with a ball on the spacious lawn at the center of the compound. He was unimpressed by the puppies, of course—or, if he was, took care not to show it—but was generally well-behaved and courteous. We wondered how he would adapt to the arrival of a puppy in a world that he has happily ruled unchallenged for most of his nearly seven years.

We said our goodbyes to Lorna and James and paused for a quick sandwich in picturesque Coos Bay before driving further north along 101...


and made another stop in Florence, a lovely community whose old downtown area lies along what I took to be an inlet from the ocean, and where we walked down a colorful main street and, briefly, out along the dock. Our customary search for a New York Times—wouldn’t want to miss the Sunday edition!—brought us to a small bookshop, where the friendly owner suggested we try instead at the Safeway up on the highway and, on learning that we were headed north, offered her opinion that the stretch of 101 between Florence and Yachats was one of the most beautiful anywhere in the world.

She was right on both counts. We picked up a Sunday NYT at the Safeway, and headed north to Yachats along a highway that dove through long tunnels of brilliant trees and out on to vistas of vast, sandy stretches of beach and solitary outcrops of rocky peaks. The surf, with its long lines of successively breaking waves, was quite simply spectacular. And all this in bright sunlight under a clear blue sky!

The Yachats Inn, where we had booked a room by telephone from Crescent City, proved a handy stopover—not luxurious, by any means, but with wi-fi access (!) for yesterday’s entry in "Travels with George," a gorgeous view out over the Pacific Ocean and a great, expansive lawn to accommodate our dog’s ball obsession. Once settled in, the three of us strolled along the coastal path to the small town, where we were excluded—because of George—from the restaurant at the River House, but allowed to sit at a picnic table outside, and were served a really very good supper: creamy tomato soup, a green salad, fish and chips—all of which, as has become our custom, we shared throughout. We find that the portions are perfectly adequate, when shared, and we leave without that bloated feeling. At the end of our meal, George found a comfortable spot to demonstrate his exhaustion after a day’s exertion...


and the waiter offered us a tip that proved more valuable, surely, than the one we left for him. We had been intending to drive up the coast to Newport and take route 20 over to Corvalis, but changed our minds at his suggestion and were rewarded with the magnificent drive that I'' decribe tomorrow.

In the meantime, though, a walk back to our hotel at sunset...

... and an hour or so with the Olympics on TV. I watch those young girls in the gymnastics contest and I am astounded by their agility, by the capacity of the human body. And then, throughout the night, my old joints ached…! (For the record, we completed the one thousandth mile of our road trip today. That might help explain a certain soreness in the joints.)