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Published: August 14th 2014
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We pack up and leave the blistering heat of Redding and head south down the I 5. The land is flat (central valley) and heavily irrigated and clearly very productive. Mile upon mile of fruit trees give way at one point to what turns out to be rice paddies. Not what you expect in central California!
We turn off down Lucas Valley Road (home of the Lucas Skywalker ranch) to make a nostalgic return trip to Nicasio, where we had a wonderful holiday in 1995, swapping homes with a family who lived in a great house with a pool, miles down a private road. We cannot go back to the house, as the gate to the road is locked, but we go back to the tiny village which is entirely unchanged. The main road bifurcates round the tiny sports field, with the church to the right, the strangely named Druids Hall and the matchbox sized Nicasio Historical Society on the left, and the bar/restaurant/general store Ranch Nicasio straight ahead. We stop for lunch at Rancho Nicasio, which is decorated with an eclectic selection of film posters, farm implements and wild west memorabilia. The food is as good as we remember.
It is quite busy for a Tuesday afternoon, peopled with cowboy types and several men who look like George Lucas but who probably aren't.
We turn north onto State Route 1 and drive up to Point Reyes Station, a town whose buildings seem frozen in time to the date when it was built as a result of the arrival of the North Pacific Coast Railroad. We stop at the local supermarket to buy beer and fruit – as it turns out, we should have bought dinner as well! Hannah is astonished to see someone from her London pilates class in the shop.
Then it’s on to Dillon Beach, which lies on the coast just north of the Point Reyes National Seashore spit. The road seems to go on forever, until we enter a tiny settlement of painted wooden shingle holiday homes. We stop at the cafe, only to be told it is closed, a message delivered with all the grace of a Parisian bistro – a serious blow to our dinner plans. We ask where we check in and are told to go to the shop round the corner where ‘they’re expecting you’. We round the corner and
find a small encampment of dilapidated fixed caravans. Even James, who booked it, is beginning to wonder if this was a big mistake. But no, we have one of just 3 small wooden cabins. We pick up our sheets and towels and drive down. The website described the cabins as cosy, quirky and romantic. Quirky – yes. Cosy – yes, if by that you mean compact. Romantic – no. We unpack and return to the shop to see what we can buy for dinner. Pizza and ice cream – hardly a gastronomic treat, but we won’t go hungry.
We walk down to the beach and stroll along it. The ocean is even colder here than it was at Cannon Beach, and the wannabe surfers are prudently all wearing wetsuits. Dogs chase seagulls. James and Hannah splash each other while David and Sara keep out of harm’s way. We adjourn back to our pocket handkerchief garden, and enjoy an hour reading our books with a beer or four. Later, we heat up the pizza and settle down to watch Dirty Harry, which seems a suitable choice when our next stop is San Francisco. “Do you feel lucky punk? Seeing this
is a Smith and Wesson 44, the most powerful handgun in the world, and likely to blow your head clean off?”
When we adjourn to bed, we realise that there is no soundproofing whatsoever between the 2 bedrooms, and indeed there is a half inch gap in the wooden wall so all parties have to turn their light out at the same time. Nonetheless, the evening has been one of the best all holiday.
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