For a while now we have been seeing signs advertising the “Tomales Swap Meet” on Sunday, 21st September. One of us was intrigued as to what a swap meet might be so we set off in the morning to walk the mile or so into Tomales and investigate. The one of us who was intrigued took her camera for the walk, too.

As we entered Tomales, the first sign of an unusual amount of activity was cars parked all along one side of the road. The second sign was a roped off parking lot, which might have accommodated said cars, outside the William Tell Inn from which emanated a wonderful smell of charcoal and barbecued meats grilling away on a mobile barbecue trailer.

The main activity was at the crossroads that really constitutes Tomales. One arm of the crossroads was cordoned off and was filled with stalls selling all manner of bric-a-brac. A “swap meet” appears to be an event where people swap money for other folks’ unwanted dust collectors. It’s another term for “flea market”. The French call it a vide grenier which literally means “attic clearance”. Naturally, there were also the normal hangers-on selling more useful things like beer and hot dogs. Not yet being midday, it was a little early to sample those, though.

After a very pleasant sunny lunch on the deck back home, watched, I might add, by a turkey vulture sitting in a tree, we decided to return to Sonoma to look around the square in daylight. It really is a delightful little town with a very relaxed atmosphere. $2 buys admission to a few historic buildings: the mission, the barracks and Vallejo’s house and adobe. Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo (what a splendid name) was the founder of what is now Sonoma as a buffer between the Mexican government in the south and the then Russian presence in Alaska. As we were in the barracks, some folks were setting up for a very Mexican-flavoured charity feast to be held that evening.

Our own fog-free evening feast was a Weber-grilled chateaubriand with a shallot and tarragon flavoured wine reduction.

‘T was a dull but dry morning and we had errands to run. First on the post-coffee agenda was refuelling and returning our rental car. Carol drove Bets’s technologically rich Toyota Camry Hybrid while I drove our technologically dull and utterly uninspiring Chevy Malibu which, in its defence, at least has reasonable luggage carrying capacity courtesy of not filling itself with batteries.

I pulled in to a convenient filling station. They all now seem to be automated for credit card payment at the pump, the alternative being prepayment with cash at the cashier. Having started a credit card transaction, this particular station’s pumps insisted that I enter a zip code. Shades of France where their automated machines dislike foreign cards. I cancelled the transaction and approached the cashier but he was, he declared, unable to take manual payment using my credit card. At least the french cashiers are happy with foreign cards. Frustrated and being unwilling to use cash, I drove on to a filling station that was not picky about zip codes and where I had previously experienced success.

The rental being finally refuelled, Carol was waiting patiently for me at the Avis office. The Avis agent was not. The office was unlocked with the keys dangling in the door but deserted. It would remain so, according to the sign on the window, for the next two hours. Wonderful! Being unable to return the car we elected to fill in time by doing the food shopping that we needed.

There was another food shop that we were yet to try called Trader Joe’s. It seemed quite popular locally so we tried that. The meat looked decidedly average and its idea of fish seemed to extend to salmon and no further. It did, however, have some more favourably priced wine so we purchased half a dozen bottles together with some coffee beans before returning to our favoured Whole Foods for a more interesting food selection.

Returning to the still unattended Avis office, we discovered a lady sitting outside (on two milk crates, there being no seats) patiently waiting to collect a car. After some time and a second phone call by the patient lady, the Avis rep. returned “from an emergency trip to the airport for another client”. The lady finally got her car, though the booking seemed to have been screwed up.

Our turn: the Avis agent seemed a little challenged to understand that his three hour absence might have caused other members of the travelling public to miss transfers to the airport for international flights – somewhat vacant stares resulted. It was apparently too difficult a concept for him to grasp that, in fixing one client problem, he could have caused multiple other clients problems, too.

To cap it all, we were hit with a charge that I was not expecting. The air miles booking apparently covered a fixed amount which was somewhat less than the total charge. I still don’t believe this but was unable to prove otherwise. He did deduct $20 “for our inconvenience”. By my calculation, that makes our time worth about $6.66 an hour.

I have always hated renting cars. Today’s experiences did nothing to make me view it more positively.

Technorati Tags: Avis,car rental

That is, Carol’s birthday and Tomales Bay. Since we are now in the habit of trying to be in parts foreign over September, we are also in the habit of celebrating Carol’s birthday away from home. Usually, the venue has been France but this year, here we are in Tomales, California.

We have also developed a preference for visiting restaurants at lunchtime rather than in the evening; lunchtime seems more relaxed and we have ended up somehow less disappointed with the results. This year, lunch was also the better option since we would have to be driving Bets and Bryan off to start their second vacation trip in the early evening.

The day dawned cloudy and rain was expected at some point. Though sunny views would have been preferable, we decided to go for lunch at Nick’s Cove about half way down the east side of Tomales Bay. This turned out to be one of a series of establishments designed by Pat Kuleto, as in McCormick and Kuleto’s in San Francisco. Pat Kuleto is billed as a restaurant designer. Now there is specialization for you.

Pat Kuleto’s reputation as a restaurant designer is prodigious. I’m used to restaurants being renowned for their chefs but here we have restaurants renowned for their designer. Food industry job titles are getting quite interesting. Cooking magazines frequently have glossy pictures of completed recipes, not only with the photographer credited but also a “food stylist”. “Food writer” is another specialization; I suspect this set of people can cook but do not have the skill set to survive a restaurant kitchen in the heat of battle. I’m now going to have to add “restaurant designer”, or some such phrase, to the battery of food industry specialist skills. Finally, of course, there are critics who don’t really have to do anything constructive at all.

So, we now have:

• chef – can produce good food and direct kitchen operations under extreme pressure;
• food writer – can cook until the going gets tough;
• food stylist – keeps you hungry by making the food look pretty (half-empty plate);
• restaurant designer – improves your “eating experience” by making the environment attractive;
• food critic – tells any or all of the above that they’ve done it wrong.

For all of that, Nick’s Cove provided us with an excellent lunch looking over the waters of Tomales Bay. We started by sharing chef’s selection of a dozen oysters on the half shell, four each of three different types. We both chose Dungeness crab for our main attraction, as crab cakes in Carol’s case and as crab enchilladas in mine. A bottle of Muscadet de Sevre et Maine, curiously in a most un-Muscadet-shaped bottle, toasted birthday girl’s success in surviving another year. All in all, a most enjoyable lunch in one of Mr. Kuleto’s pleasantly designed eating environments.

The promised rain arrived late in the afternoon and our drive to drop of Bets and Bryan was decidedly damp. Their airporter bus was running 30 minutes late but they got away safely eventually. (We were standing ready for the airport run should their plans collapse.)

Since we heard no more, I assume they made it in time for their flight to New York on stage one of their journey.

After a most enjoyable stay at the Simpson Hotel on 48th Avenue (the concierge route planning and breakfast service is particularly good), it was time to take a leisurely return trip to Tomales in preparation for Bets and Bryan’s Friday departure on their second trip.

Today was particularly stunning with clear blue skies and a clear atmosphere. There was a fog bank visible but it was remaining well away from the coast over the Pacific. The Simpson Hotel route plan sent us back through Lincoln Park and the Presidio along the coast to the west of the Golden Gate bridge. This was a new bridge vantage point for me so we stopped for a few more tourist pictures.

While snapping the Golden Gate bridge, one of a series of open-top computer-guided tourist three wheeler vehicles pulled in to our parking area to study a map. We’d seen these GoCars buzzing about the city on our Embarcadero walk. They look like a cross between a very old Morgan three-wheeler and the rightly ill-fated Sinclair C5. In this context, though, of buzzing around the environs of San Francisco, I imagine they are great fun. Since they are open, every now and then one can hear the preprogrammed instructions; “turn right here”. This seems like an excellent use of satellite navigation.

Regrettably, the main activity of the day was destined to be shopping. Corte Madera boasts a shopping mall on either side of the 101 freeway. The main attractions seemed to be a Macy’s and a Nordstrom’s in the eastern mall. Yours truly amused himself wandering around in the sun and drinking a Peet’s double espresso while you know who amused herself with Macy’s and Nordstrom’s. The mall sported a series of whimsical water features which went some way to brightening an otherwise naturally tedious shopping experience.

Eventually, and with the cash reserves still intact, it was time to cross to the western mall on the opposite side of the freeway for part two of our shopping extravaganza. At least here there were some interesting food and kitchen shops to provide a semblance of interesting distraction. There was also an excellent fresh Mexican Grill for lunch.

After a somewhat late but most enjoyable Mexican lunch, joy of joys, there was to be a part three; we returned whence we came to the eastern side of the freeway for a second thrilling visit to Nordstrom’s where a North Face jacket was apparently shouting, “buy me, buy me!” Gap also benefited from a second visit and a purchase of a pair of jeans.

My oh my, how time flies when you’re having fun. So much had flown that, when we finally left to drive back to Tomales, it was just gone 5:00 PM and we drove slap bang into the homeward rush hour commute. The further north one goes on 101, the fewer lanes there are. These wonderful bottle necks result in tail-backs. To be fair, the traffic flow is nowhere near as bad as the M25 in rush hour – it rarely actually comes to a complete stop – but it is still a shock to a retired, rush-hour-avoiding system.

The San Francisco fog zone appeared to be living up to its name this morning so tour guide Gordon plotted us a course south to Monterey. He included an optional wimp-out point at Santa Cruz, though this he described as being a little seaside tacky, sort of Americana Blackpool, in case we were feeling travel weary, together with an optional extension to Carmel should strength remain.

To help us find our way there and back, he produced a Garmin Nuvi portable satellite navigation device. It has some battery power but also plugs in to a car’s cigar-lighter power socket thingy. After a few programming bleeps Gordon declared it to be set and ready to guide us to Monterey or Santa Cruz and back.

Gordon: “You might have to joggle the plug around to make contact but it will burst into life when you start the car.”

John: “OK, thanks. This’ll help a lot, especially navigating San Francisco on our return.”

Off to the car with our day packs loaded. We stuck the limpet-like Garmin Nuvi onto the somewhat grubby windscreen and plugged in the cigar-lighter power adapter. The car dutifully burst into life but the Nuvi remained silent. After a few joggles and twists of the power adapter the Nuvi continued to be silent. I tried unplugging it and re-plugging it but all to no avail; the Nuvi remained obstinately silent. Not wishing to be defeated I found what appeared to be a power button on the Nuvi and, after finding the correct length of time for which to press it, another softly spoken American voice, Flossie, greeted us with a map and initial route guidance instructions. Excellent, we were off!

The journey down was pretty straightforward. We didn’t really need Flossie but we kept her on because it was comforting listening to her calm, soothing instructions. We were soon sailing past Santa Cruz and on our way to Monterey. Just as we were entering the outskirts of Monterey, the Nuvi signalled that its battery was low and, shortly thereafter, the calm reassuring voice of Flossie disappeared, starved of power, ne’er to return. Clearly, the “on” switch I had found was for battery power and Flossie had never been getting her jolts from the car’s power. We had been cast adrift in a foreign ocean with only our own wits and the stars to guide us. Don’t panic! How quickly one can come to feel dependent upon technological support that is, in truth, fun to play with but is not actually necessary. We’ve navigated our own way around half of Europe on eyeballs and a map, for Heaven’s sake.

We chose to stop in the Cannery Row area of Monterey thinking that we might visit its renowned aquarium. After a bite of lunch we wandered around Cannery Row and were thrilled to see a variety of wildlife including seals, jellyfish, pelicans and, most thrilling of all, a sea otter; I’ve never before seen an otter of any kind in the wild. There are masses of kelp growing quite close to the shore in Monterey Bay. The sea otters like to forage in the kelp, too far from shore for the lens of a mere mortal but a sight for sore eyes, nonetheless. The pelicans are quite a revelation too; they may look ungainly but they actually fly very gracefully and are especially adept at getting “into ground-effect” and skimming just inches above the water.

Cannery Row was the centre of a massively successful sardine fishing industry. Photographs are displayed of fishing vessels awash with sardines, their entire deck area quite literally completely obscured by a thick carpet of silvery fish from stem to stern. The success lasted until about 1946 when the sardine stocks suddenly plummeted. The fishing and canning industries were out of business in a relatively few years. The area now survives on tourism. Will we ever learn?

The wildlife held our attention for so long that the afternoon seemed to vanish with no aquarium visit. We did, however, hit 17-Mile Drive, a private road belonging to the super rich, as far as Carmel. The Lone Pine Cypress on 17-Mile Drive is a well known and much overplayed tourist attraction in this authors opinion. It stands alone if photographed correctly but, in fact, has several close companions which intrude on its loneliness if photographed incorrectly. Does the camera lie or not? The lone shot is certainly the more impressive picture, especially if we ignore the wire cables supporting the tree to ensure its continued tourism longevity.

Eventually we began our roughly two hour drive back to San Francisco via the fastest roads. Light faded at about 8:30 PM and eventually vanished completely as entered the outskirts of the city. Now is when we were unable to read road names in advance of junctions and where we really would have benefited from our power-starved technological friend, Flossie. With a combination of logical thought and fortune, though, we found our way back to known territory and a welcome from Gordon and Kim.

Wine first, pizza delivery second. All was well.

It’s 10 years since we were in this neck of the woods and, Gordon reported, some redevelopment has been done to the Ferry Building on the bay at the very end of Market Street. We jumped on a local bus and set off down Geary Street to play tourist and investigate.

The bus dropped us at Market and First and we sauntered down to the Ferry building to find the Ferry Building transformed into a bustling Farmer’s Market. Some very enticing smells assaulted our olfactory organs and we traced this to a smoking charcoal grill making ready for the lunchtime rush of office workers seeking lunch. Let’s face it, a buffalo burger would have been my first choice but I rejected the obvious in favour of a roast eggplant and cannelini bean tamale from the neighbouring market stall. Having solved the initial puzzle of how to eat it (it is mainly fragile cornmeal wrapped in a corn husk), it was quite pleasant but I couldn’t help but wish I’d gone with my initial carnivorous preference involving barbecued buffalo.

There is now a wonderful collection of old trams running back and forth along the Embarcadero. The trams have been collected from various parts of the world, including Milan, Italy and make for some very colourful public transport. I’d have liked to stay taking a full set of photographs of all the individual trams as they plied their trade but tourism called so I contented myself with a few snaps and hit the tourist trail.

In this case, our tourist trail was along the Embarcadero from the Ferry Building, passing all the odd numbered piers towards the well-known Fisherman’s Wharf. (Odd numbered piers run west west from the end of Market Street, even numbered piers run east.) Immediately, shades of Harry Potter strike as one passes pier 1½.

San Francisco was said to have some 3500 restaurants, a relatively large percentage of which cease trading every year. Although it’s been 10 years since my previous visit, I noticed a few, including The Waterfront (a very good fish restaurant) and McCormick and Kuleto’s that had survived and still existed.

Our first stop was the very touristy Pier 39. This pier seems half tourist-trap shopping arcade and half fairground, sporting a carousel and street entertainers. It’s a good place to see a large collection of Californian sea-lions sunning themselves on wooden pontoons, though.

Next on the circuit was good ol’ Fisherman’s Wharf where, the emphasis is very much on the local Dungeness crabs. In all my 40 or so visits to San Francisco, I have never once had any crab from Fisherman’s Wharf. Being a seafood fanatic, I really cannot explain why. Today, I set about correcting both that long-standing oversight, and supplementing my otherwise meager lunch of a single vegetarian tamale, by treating us to a crab sandwich.

After a quick and very restrained look around Ghirardelli Square, shopping central for the chocaholics, we struck out further west along the Marina toward the Golden Gate bridge. Time was marching on, though, and one of our hips was feeling the effects of other marching so we found a phone and summoned help from our very kind hosts. Kim was soon to be leaving work so she diverted from her usual run home and rescued us.

We planned to leave Bets and Bryan in peace to catch up on their backlogs of work that inevitably built up during their first trip away from home. We were off to call in on our friends Gordon and Kim Simpson in San Francisco for a few days, returning by Thursday in time to cover Bets and Bryan’s trip #2.

Rather than thrash south straight down US 101 from Petaluma to San Francisco, we decided to meander down the much more rural and picturesque highway 1. This route took us down beside the now familiar Tomales Bay and, once again through Point Reyes Station and Olema before hitting the coast.

Once on the coast, we made a slight detour to an intriguing little place called Bolinas. It has a reputation for shunning tourists by removing signs and attempting to make Bolinas itself a little less advertised and a little more difficult to find. Having foiled the locals and found it, we were left wondering what all the fuss was about and why many people would bother in the first place. Simply keep a low profile and I’d say most folks would naturally bypass the place anyway. Curiosity sated, we continued down the picturesque coast.

Next brief stop: Stinson Beach. We paused to look but neither of us fancied getting sandy feet by dipping our toes in the Pacific – I couldn’t even tempt Carol with an ice cream – so we returned to our journey.

This road is not most peoples’ idea of an archetypal American road. As it hugs the coast it follows the frequent coastal wrinkles faithfully, twisting and turning around inlets, climbing over hills and diving into valleys. It is a veritable roller-coaster of a road. The fair ride continues as the road leaves the coast and starts heading inland to join 101. We were both feeling a little unsettled and were quite relieved as the road finally straightened out and became more American in design.

We decided that we had recovered sufficiently to risk a final short detour up into the Marin headlands immediately prior to crossing the Golden Gate bridge. Here, given clear enough weather, tourists are rewarded with spectacular views over the Golden Gate bridge itself to the city of San Francisco beyond. As man-made sights go, this one takes a bit of beating. We’ve done it before but it is not something we’d tire of. The atmosphere was a little hazy but the bridge and city were essentially clear.

Gordon and Kim had given us clear instructions of a simple route off the Golden Gate bridge to their house on the far west of the San Francisco peninsular. We arrived to find that they are in what appears to be the furthest west residential street there is. It may be in what is called the fog zone but they are rewarded with views of a park rather than of other houses and, between the trees, views of the Pacific itself. Fewer residences also provides the rare bonus of ample street parking for visitors. We should keep this a closely guarded secret.

A delivered curry provided an excellent vehicle for a reunion dinner; a reunion which included Tina and John Casey. Max, Gordon and Kim’s cat, seemed a little upset that we had stolen his bedroom but otherwise a splendid time was had by all, I think. We will try and placate Max with affection.

Bryan and Bets returned from trip #1 to Glacier Park quite early in the morning. Naturally, the remaining morning was passed while we chatted about their trip and our experiences “home alone” over several cups of coffee. Meanwhile, the localized fog receded towards the ocean and left us bathed in some glorious warm sunshine. Maybe the weather was pleased to have the locals back and had arranged its own welcome.

About an hour north of Tomales lies Armstrong Redwoods State Reserve with, we understood, some pretty impressive giant sequoias. We loaded up our stomaches with pastrami sandwiches and the car with our camera bags and walking shoes and headed up highway 1.

Our route took us past Bodega Bay and up to the mouth of the Russian River where we cut inland along the river to Guerneville. A quick pause in Guerneville for another flea market (wallets again mercifully unsullied) and we were soon parking just outside the gates of Armstrong at the visitor centre.

Being the weekend, it was quite busy but, once walking on the trails, the population was sufficiently sparse for the walk to be peaceful. We chose an approximately 3.5 mile route up the East Ridge Trail, back down to the valley, up once again on Pool Ridge Trail before descending again to see the “Colonel Armstrong Tree” prior to our feet breathing sighs of relief at being allowed to escape the confines of our walking shoes. Blissful memories of the dry walking conditions we experienced in Crete: how pleasant it is for ones walking shoes to be covered in dust rather than caked in mud at the end of a walk.

The climbs up the trails here proved to be shorter, sharper shocks than the climbs we did at Bear Valley. After making it up a couple of climbs of 500 feet or so, thinking that we had done enough, we were rewarding by achieving what I imagine to be the main goal at this park. The Colonel Armstrong Tree turned out to be a 308 feet tall sequoia. No amount of manoeuvring with our lenses was going to show anything but its trunk, such was its situation. Other equally impressive trees in the plantation were better situated, though, and proved more fruitful.

Towards the end of our visit, a cross-section through the trunk of one of these giants graphically demonstrated its age with plaques remembering various events in history. Having visited Dives-sur-Mer in Normandy earlier this year, I was intrigued by the third plaque from the centre of this tree which reads, “1066 – William the Conqueror invades England”. Dives-sur-Mer was his port of departure. The outer plaque reads, “1906 – San Francisco Earthquake”. This tree was a relative junior, though; the age of the Colonel Armstrong Tree itself is estimated at 1400 years.

Bets and Bryan are returning tomorrow in the morning so today we were pick up a rental car for the week that they are in town between vacations. That will keep us independent. In other words, we’ll remain free to drive out of the Tomales fog zone at will.

Steve and Kathy Delman  planned on showing us Healdsburg a few junctions north up US 101 so they were swinging by in the morning and driving us into Petaluma to the Avis car rental office. Surprisingly, my instructions got them to the correct house without the aid of satellite navigation. Naturally, we were under the feature fog blanket when they arrived. Off into Petaluma to Avis and proof that the Airmiles reservation system had worked – Avis was expecting me. A few bits of paperwork and independence was ours. Perversely, we left our personalized transport in the Avis parking lot while Steve kindly drove us and played tour guide.

Out from under the fog and into the surrounding brilliant sunshine.

Healdsburg proved to be quite similar to Sonoma in that it is essentially four sides of shops surrounding an open grassy square planted with trees. Today, the square was planted with tents and exhibitors setting up for a beer festival. Way to go, Healdsburg, though festivities were not yet under way. It doesn’t quite manage the country-feel of Sonoma, in my opinion. It seems more up-market but is very pleasant, nonetheless.

We found a very decent Mexican restaurant where we had too large a lunch (again!) accompanied by the finest margaritas I’ve ever tasted Fresh squeezed lime juice is the key. I should have passed on the food and restricted myself to the liquid calories. The ladies were out-shopped by Steve who was seduced by a money clip in a native American store, thus having less money left to put in his newly acquired money clip. Now there’s an interesting conundrum.

Steve wanted to visit a winery, Mazzocco, whose wines, particularly its Zinfandels, had received very good reviews in a wine magazine. First a wine cruise around San Francisco Bay, now a winery visit; intriguing choices for non-drinkers. Naturally, we had no objection and were happy to join in and enjoy the wines on Steve and Kathy’s behalf. The Zinfandels were very good but quite expensive starting at $30 a bottle so your resident globetrotting cheapskates settled for a special offer case (50% off, or so the literature goes) of their more affordable, lighter, easy-drinking Merlot. It’ll save our shopping for bottles a few at a time from Whole Foods in Petaluma, after all. It got us back our $5 tasting fee, too.

Another friend, Mike Borse, had told us he was playing in a jazz combo at a small town called Graton in the evening. ‘T was the day of Graton’s own particular brand of street festival. Steve and Kathy’s obligations meant that we couldn’t stay until the evening to watch Mike give his all but we did call in to see what Mike described as a very Bohemian event. I think I saw what he meant; the costumes and devices in the street were decidedly unique. My particular favourite attendee was a billy goat wearing a straw hat.

We couldn’t see any fog over to the west as Steve drove us back to Petaluma to collect our rental car. We collected a couple of crab cakes and assorted mixed salad leaves from Whole Foods, an attempt at a light dinner to compensate for our heavier lunch, and started dreaming of sipping some wine in the evening sunshine on the deck back at home base.

We drove under the fog blanket about seven miles from home.

Tomales was sitting under its now familiar blanket of fog as we headed down Shoreline Highway once again towards Point Reyes Station. The plan this time, however, was to swing left towards the small town (hamlet?) of Nicasio to meet Steve Delman for lunch. Being a Friday, Steve, in common seemingly with most of the rest of the planet, was working at home and had suggested meeting at a restaurant called Rancho Nicasio. As we approached, I couldn’t help but notice a lot of people on bicycles who were probably also “working at home”. What a jolly wheeze.

The fog persisted further south and a little longer than yesterday; it was still overhead as we arrived but cleared very shortly thereafter with clear blue sky spreading up from Lucas Valley Road. I was devastated to learn from Steve that Lucas Valley Road was called Lucas Valley Road even before George Lucas moved in and developed Skywalker Ranch. Darn it! How the mighty are fallen.

A place called Rancho Nicasio seemed like a natural habitat for a burger and so it was. I’ve been here for a week without having one but today I corrected my oversight. A real hamburger, as opposed to the various McTravesty of McJustice offerings, is actually a very good meal, even if a little hefty for lunch. Still, it has to be done; “when in Rome …” and all that. We tried to walk off some our fresh calorie intake by wandering around the time-warped sights of Nicasio afterwards but, alas, the place just isn’t big enough to burn many. Cute, though.

Our other main required activity was stocking the house with food for the coming weekend. However, not being anxious to drive back to Tomales and under its now familiar fog blanket, we called in to a Petaluma outlet mall to spend more time in the sun and for Carol to indulge in some long-distance clothes browsing. This came within a hair’s breadth of turning into long-distance shopping when she found some trousers that appealed but the cash register line seemed to be stalled and, like the true champion she is, Carol returned said trousers to the rack. Sale lost.

Petaluma Market came up trumps and provided us with some long-awaited sturgeon. I decided to spice it up slightly and accompany it with some black bean salsa, à la Delia, from the days before she sold out to “cheats”. It had a slightly muddier taste than I remembered but then, it is a fresh water fish, I suppose.

Nature note: We’ve identified the local deer as native black-tailed deer. Bless Wikipedia.

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