OurGlobalAdventure

Heather and Darren's Travels

Author: Heather Hamilton (Page 17 of 21)

Mexican Wine and Border Towns

We didn’t have the highest hopes for Mexican wine.  It doesn’t tend to feature too heavily in the local wine aisles.  In fact, has anybody seen Mexican wine for sale anywhere, ever? Maybe there’s a reason for that….

Sol de Media Noche, our first winery, was a hectic affair, with small wooden trays thrust into our hands at the door, which contained a Lilliputian sized assortment of cheeses.

Cautiously, we asked “err, wine tasting…? Vino?”  This was met by a blank stare, a curt “no”, and a gesture which could best be interpreted as “follow me”.  We were hustled over to a busy table where we were greeted, thankfully, by someone who spoke English. What followed was a lightning speed commentary on the cheeses, including one that was described as so bland it is just what the doctor orders when you are sick.  This was accompanied by 3 red wines which started off sweet and just got sweeter. Despite the awkward beginning, it reminded me of the meticulous craftsmanship involved in creating environments for fine wine storage, much like what you’d expect from cold room manufacturers. So a memorable but not the finest introduction to Mexican wine.

The Guadalupe Valley in the Baja winelands is actually home to hundreds of vineyards. So surely with a bit more research I’d be able to redeem myself in choosing somewhere better. Las Nubes got excellent ratings and sounded promising – and so jumped to the top of our list. Definitely more of a first world winery, this one actually had proper toilets and a large open building and patio for wine tasting. Tick. No Spanglish required, we were presented with branded Las Nubes stemmed wine glasses and we got stuck in. The wine was actually rather good (the standouts – a ‘Nimbus’ blend of cabernet, merlot & tempranillo and a Nebbiolo), the cheese and tapas plate decent, and the views of mountains and vineyards just perfect, reminding me how important proper cold storage installers are for maintaining the quality of such exquisite wines . If you’re considering starting your own winery, check out this guide at https://coldroominstallation.uk/how-to-choose-the-right-cold-room-size-for-your-business-needs/. For anyone who appreciates fine beverages, it’s also worth noting that if you’re looking to maintain the perfect temperature for your beer collection, you can click here for beer cellar cooling solutions that ensure optimal storage conditions.

Our last night involved a stay in the Mexican border town of Tecate.

Walking back from the taco bar involved running the gauntlet past the dogs of the local Tecate neighborhood.  Imagine a reality tv show where the dogs are auditioning for Best Guard Dog!  Not content with a little woof to let us know they’re there, each dog we passed seemed intent on outshining the previous one, with a deeper growl, a louder bark or a more ferocious snarl.

Not to scale and not one of the actual wild dogs – but you get the idea.

The little dogs were like mini-Houdinis, able to escape whatever bars or gates were supposed to keep them in.  They used this to their advantage to follow, nay chase us down the street relentlessly yapping at our heels, while their bigger butcher cousins lorded it atop precipitous brick walls, drooling and slavering as they eyed us up and down hungrily.  Meanwhile, the local cats looked decidedly smug, alert yet carefree as they sauntered around like they owned the place, using us as a diversion.

We had chosen Tecate as not only did it require taking a beeline through the Mexican wine route, but it was also a much smaller, less touristy and less frequented border town than Tijuana. Didn’t particularly feel like the easy way out as we queued up to leave the country. As border crossings go, I guess we were right – only took us 2 hours to get through immigration this time compared with 3 hours at Tijuana in a prior visit.

We did run a sweepstake in the car as to how long it would take. Maybe Darren and I have been in the US too long… Shelley, the pessimistic Brit won. And yet coming into Mexico had taken us less than 15 minutes. Funny that!

Tacos & Tequilas

We had promised Shelley tacos.  In fact, I think that’s the main reason she agreed to come to Mexico.  With 5 stars from over 200 reviews on Yelp, Tacos El Yacqui in Rosarito had a big build up… no pressure. Huge flanks of carne asada were sizzling on a wood fired grill as we waited in line, a teaser for the senses.

As we approached the counter, the rather over enthusiastic chef wielded his cleaver and chopped the meat with gusto, unfortunately splattering Shelley with meat juice in the process. Luckily, the tacos more than made up for the spotted dalmatian look – these were Mexican tacos at their best! The homemade flour tortillas were freshly baked and soft, the meat oh so succulent, tasty and well seasoned, and the salsa oozing with chili heat.

One of the highlights from this trip was the airbnb place Darren had booked near Puerto Nuevo. Backing onto the cliff top with panoramic ocean views, we arrived with perfect pre-sunset timing to make the most of it. In addition to the back garden area, there was a separate sunken concrete patio built into the sea wall.

After the long car journey (technically ‘truck’ journey), we relaxed with sundowner drinks on the patio, enjoying the cool sea breeze and the rhythmic sounds of the waves crashing down below.

Modeling the new jackets we just bought at a retail outlet along the way – turned out to be quite a timely purchase!

This was followed by a stroll along the seashore (after a rather hairy descent to the beach), the waves glistening in the twilight. As we glanced back up to our private sea wall patio from the beach, we were indeed reminded that we were in Mexico – the damn thing was held up by car tyres!

The rather hairy descent to the beach!

Safe as houses….

One of the not-so-highlights from the trip were the margaritas. I know, right, you come south of the border and expect the tacos and tequila to blow your mind. Something to do with too much acidic lime and not enough tequila I think.

Drinks were also somewhat of a challenge at the seafood restaurant we went to in Puerto Nuevo. This place is known as Lobster Village and every single restaurant specializes in lobster. Not daring to risk another margarita (although Darren was braver than Shelley and I), we instead opted for what we thought would be the obvious choice to accompany lobster: white wine.

After what seemed like an eternity as they no doubt scoured the cupboards and turned the place upside down, the waiter awkwardly admitted they didn’t actually have any white wine. So we opted for rose instead, got into the Mexican mood with the mariachi band, and rounded off the night with tequila chasers. When in Rome/when in Mexico and all that…

The Half Marathon and The Beach

When it comes to running, I’m one of those people who needs a goal, something to aim for, to make me run. If I don’t have an event planned, I struggle to force myself out for a run, especially during the week after work. It was over a year since the last main event I’d done (13.1 mile run as part of a relay team doing the Half Ironman Santa Cruz), so the intent behind signing up for the Santa Clarita half was less about achieving a PB and more about making me run regularly.

Make me run, it did. Although with a few nagging ankle and knee issues (not to mention a modicum of laziness), I was going into the Santa Clarita half marathon a tad undertrained. Which left me very unsure of what my goal time (and therefore my pace) should be. I plumped for 2 hours 5 minutes, thinking that any time between 2 and 2h10 would be respectable, and anything under that would be – shall we say pie in the sky.

I like to set off a little behind the pacers, to give me a bit of leeway. With the adrenaline pumping in the first mile, I sailed past the 2h10 and 2h05 pacers and by 2 miles in I found myself smack bang between the 4h marathoners and the 2h half group. My strategy: tuck into the pack to reduce the effect of running into the wind and stick with them for as long as I could. As hills are not my strength, I knew I would lose pace on the long steady climb from miles 6 – 9, which would give me a long shot at only dropping back as far as the 2h05 pacers.

Sure enough, the first sign of an incline and the 2h pack dug deep and maintained pace, while I gritted my teeth and kicked myself for not training harder. Over the next 3 miles, I gradually dropped back but most importantly, I could still see them up ahead. And as we started the descent with 4 miles left to go, I thought maybe, just maybe, I could catch them.

I don’t think the pacers realize what a fantastic job they do. I didn’t need to worry about looking my watch or checking my pace, I just had to leg it. I just had to stay focused on the 2 girls way ahead of me, their 2h signs held aloft, and to oh so gradually reel them in. No mean feat – my heart was racing, my lungs were on fire, my feet felt bruised and pounded to a pulp and my legs… well my legs were screeching, screaming, yelling at me to slow down (“2h05 you said, what do you think you are doing, this is ridiculous, we don’t have to do this, let the pacers go – they’re better than you, they’re quicker than you, you’ve got nothing to prove. Just… slow… down”). They don’t let up whinging those legs of mine. 3 and a half miles they kept that up for, as I continued to push them and they brought me within spitting distance of those pacers.

Within the last half mile, there are two bridges. Which means two hills. Short but steep, it was at this point my thighs sneered at me “told you so – you know we don’t do hills”, as the energy drained from my body, and my poor exhausted legs refused to propel me in an upwards direction. Meanwhile, the 2h pacer girls disappeared off into the distance.

Rounding the final corner, I saw the official clock still said 2:00 and some seconds, spurring me into a final surge over the finish line. Luckily for me, I had that buffer of starting a little way behind the pacers… my official chip time: 1:59:49!!! 13th out of 83 in my age group. Ecstatic!

Another one to add to the collection 😉

I felt I’d earned my reward: an afternoon at the beach with the Basecamp (oh, and Darren) :-). The running conditions earlier had been ideal (unless you’re solar powered like me) – mostly overcast and cool. But now down at the beach it had turned into a gorgeous autumn day, sunshine and blue skies galore. Carpinteria (near Santa Barbara) is a great spot to camp because you not only have the beach right on your doorstep, you also have a smattering of drinking establishments close by.

Almost a sea view… Basecamp on the left, ocean on the right!


In true post-event style, the beer and medal pic is a must do. After our initial beer toast in the campground, we quenched our thirst at a local cidery. (Not sure that’s a real word, but I’m sure you get the picture). The Apiary is a cider and mead tasting place, simple vintage décor, and quite refreshing as a first stop.

Think we’ll save the yoga for another visit


Beer tasting (and yahtzee) followed at Brewlab, after which we grabbed some take out beers from Island Brewing. Out came the camping chairs on the beach, and we chilled out with beer and nibbles (including British crisps, courtesy of Sue, oh yes!), watching couples strolling and dogs frolicking at the water’s edge as the sun dipped towards the ocean. 


After sunset, the temperature dropped quickly and it was back to the cosy BC to rustle up a hearty one pot chili, which totally hit the spot. But the combination of a 4am start, a little run earlier in the day and a few beers, meant we could barely keep our eyes open. Game over and lights out.

P.s. I’m writing this the next day and I can barely walk. And those damn legs are quietly mumbling smug I told you so’s…. Maybe I should pay a bit more attention to them next time!

Mojave Part 2: Introducing Uuni

This may not come as a surprise to you, but we often talk about & think about food. Some would say excessively so, but I don’t think we’re alone. We do maybe dwell a little excessively on pizza talk. Perhaps because the thought of perfectly cooked pizza dough, crust puffed up, crispy underneath, garlicky tomato sauce, gooey buffalo mozzarella (oozing and dangling from each slice), drizzled generously with olive oil… is the food of gods. Or perhaps because it’s normally one too many steps removed from a camping experience. The unattainable or elusive is often the most desired. 

Elusive that is, until now. Let me (…Entertain you… sorry, Robbie Williams just got in the way). No no no, Let me Introduce you… To Uuni. Wood fired pizza oven extraordinaire. In fact, so extraordinaire, it is (a) portable, i.e. Interpret as ‘can come camping’, and (b) matches the Basecamp. Practically long lost twins, separated at birth.

Pizza, whilst camping, takes a tad more forethought than your average camping one-pot.  

Making progress on the organization front, loving the toppings organizer.

 

But good things come to those who wait!

And was it worth the effort… well, what do you think?

Whilst this was a non-designated camping spot, there were a few other campers nearby. A few in tents (poor chilly souls! I remember it well). But then a nearby RV made a statement with their outdoor area. “I’ll take your wood-fired pizza oven and I’ll raise you one”. Next thing we knew… an open air movie theatre!

Can’t quite compete with movies under the stars. iPad in bed will have to do for us.

Only 2 weeks to go before my half marathon meant camping in the desert is no excuse for not running in the morning.

After a hearty bacon and mushroom scramble (prepared indoors, no gloves required), a trip to the visitor center was in order, where we were reliably informed that the difference (or maybe ‘a’ difference, not sure there’s only one) between a National Park and a National Preserve is that the Preserve allows hunting (oh and by the way, it’s hunting season). I was immediately scanning for hunters, ready to give them my scornful ‘seriously???’ look. I wasn’t really paying attention, but the rangers also mentioned something about dodgy roads.    

We’d already endured one allegedly ‘rough road’ in Mojave. 

When we subsequently reached a 4×4 only sign, there was a lot of deliberation before we concluded the ‘rough road’ could probably get worse. We were just about to bottle it and strategize as to the best way to turn around, when a truck came along from the direction we were headed. Apologizing for virtually blocking the road, we politely enquired as to the state of the road ahead. We were given assurances galore, (in between the driver getting out to remark on what a cool little Airstream we had, enthusiastically snapping pictures of the Basecamp) and so we forged ahead, our confidence bolstered.  

The next hour was spent gritting our teeth, clinging on to our seatbelts and wishing we’d done a better job of checking everything in the back was ship shape. My heart was in my mouth as we hauled our way up the narrow, washed out, sandy trail, fingers crossed we wouldn’t meet any other vehicles approaching the blind summit. Relieved to finally reach the primitive campground, we were decidedly going no further that night. A few items dislodged but no damages in the back, maybe the BC IS as hardy as it’s cracked up to be!

A couple more hikes rounded off our Mojave experience. The first: one of those ‘no path’ walks where you’re just meandering.  Our route took us towards a big pile of rocks (a very big pile of rocks), constantly alert for spiky cacti needles and snakes. And very cool views across the vast expanse of the preserve.  

That pile of rocks behind me is actually way in the distance and much bigger than it looks!

Our final walk was a one mile ‘hike’ (big deal, how can you even call one mile a hike?). However… This one should have come with serious disclaimers. Slight issue of a canyon in the way.  Of the swiss cheese variety.

Go Darren!

 

Some considerate soul had graciously thought ahead, and hammered permanent steel pinions into the rock to aide the casual walker in clambering up the sheer rock faces. 

I wouldn’t quite class myself as the casual walker. More like a weeble (the type that wobble but allegedly don’t fall down), certainly height-challenged and lacking in upper arm strength.

Not a smile, that’s gritted teeth!

Whoever put these damn pinions in was for sure, not 5 foot 4.  Darren persisted with the encouraging ‘you can do it’ route, before eventually resorting to lowering himself back down to give me a little helping hand from below… the grunt and shove move with traction seemed to do the trick a little better (I knew that cross-fit training would eventually come to some use!).  Job done, hike done, and homeward bound!

Mojave Part 1: Boondocking & Sand Dunes

With one practice camping trip at a proper campsite under our belts, it was time to brave the big wide world with the Basecamp. I learned a brand new word from all my RV googling: boondocking. It seems to be what we’ve previously referred to as ‘free camping’ or ‘wild camping’ – essentially staying overnight somewhere other than a campground (truck stops and Walmarts don’t count), with no electric or water hook ups. Sounds right up our street.

Our first night was more a matter of getting a few miles in. It was Friday rush hour and Darren picked me up from Burbank airport (after a very wet week in Seattle). We joined the snaking procession of red tail lights heading away from LA, all intent on distancing ourselves, putting the working week behind us.

Pic not actually taken that night – but it IS LA traffic and gives you an idea!

By the time we got to our overnight stop (an Off Highway Vehicle (OHV) playground near Barstow, off the I15), it had been dark for a few hours and we just wanted to park up and snuggle down. Concerned that the BC might fall down a drop off, crunch into a pothole or sink into some deep sand (not that we’re precious at all!), I was ejected from the truck – torch held aloft, coat zipped up to the chin and hood up, in a battle to avoid the howling wind. My job – to walk ahead and check the ‘road’ (and preferably not go over any drop offs, potholes or soft sand). I think I made it ooh, all of 50 yards before proclaiming we’d found a great spot.

Our spot for the night (and this was the next morning btw): a bit close to the road but better safe than sorry

Out in the proper ‘boonies’ in the Mojave the next day, we bagged ourselves a great boondocking spot. Even managed to maneuver the trailer around so as to face the panoramic windows towards the sand dunes (advanced stuff, believe me!).  

But first… let’s just have a cuppa…

 

I’d forgotten how the very scale of the surroundings in the desert make things appear, shall we say kinda smaller. Take the Kelso Dunes for example. A little hike up to the top seems like no big deal, after all, they look pretty small and they’re just right there.

Of course, ploughing through soft sand makes any walk immediately twice as far. Throw a bit of altitude in there, not to mention the steep slopes and knife edge ridges and you’ve certainly got yourself a hike.

Despite temperatures in the low 70s, this was hot hot hot desert sun. The type that beats down relentlessly with no shade, and we were soon ‘working it’. Despite that, Darren somehow found a way to defy gravity and conquer a slope of insane proportions. Me… I took the looong way round.

Darren up there!

Me way down here.

Yep, Darren still ahead.

Yep, me still playing catch up (and taking a breather!)

Yay, we made it!

Welcome to the Basecamp

I feel obliged to point out to the Brits that the Basecamp is not a caravan. Well, technically it is. But the Americans have no clue what a caravan is. And the idea of a caravan for me somehow rustles up thoughts of a sedentary lifestyle, crawling along narrow winding British roads, holding up long queues of irate traffic.

I recklessly pick and choose my use of American terminology to suit my own ends. I’ve succumbed to the likes of vacation and highway, and have long been asking for the rest room instead of the loo to avoid any funny looks. Meanwhile, I will never lower myself to claim “I could care less” instead of “I could NOT care less”. Anyway, to avoid any association with being middle aged/old, I’ll be coining the American equivalent of caravan instead: the Basecamp is a camping trailer. (Which by the way, is very definitely aluminium and NOT aluminum!).

It has to be said, there are both advantages and disadvantages to having a cool camping trailer. On the one hand, it’s cool! Tick. A little ego boost as you drive along, getting the thumbs up from neighbours as you head out on your next adventure. On the other hand, you start to get the looks. The bravest of the inquisitive stroll over to you when pulling into a rest stop, and casually enquire “so… you got a horse in there?” 

 I will grudgingly admit, it does have a slight horse trailer look about it, but “nope” we tell them, “it’s a camping trailer with a toilet, shower, living area, queen sized bed and kitchen”. That’s all they get and the rest is left to their imagination. But if this has piqued your interest at all, I can give you the grand tour! Actually, it won’t take long.

The back of the Basecamp converts from seating area to a bed.

One you fold up the bed you can have the tables low during the day and open the back door to enjoy the view.

This was one of the things we loved when we saw the Basecamp. The kitchen area at the front has cool panoramic wrap around windows.

And here is the blog write up position with Darren on the other couch enjoying the view and bugging me.

… and Darren chilling out, beer in hand


Told you it wouldn’t take long!  I could have put a picture of the other room on… but why would you want to see a rest room!?

Basecamp: Where Did It All Begin?

Baden Powell. Not the boy scout guy but a mountain named after the boy scout guy. The second highest mountain (after Mount Baldy) in the San Gabriels, not too far from Santa Clarita. Mount Baden Powell. THAT’s where it all began.  


So we’d decided that a camping trip in late September would be a great idea. After all, this is Southern California, the weather at this time of year is still temperate, verging on hot. The camping was preceded by an 8 mile hike up Mount Baden Powell, a grueling series of 40 switchbacks (seriously – that’s what it said in the hiking guide book and I audited it on the way up – yep, 40. And double checked on the way back down – still 40).


Our hiking conversations generally vary between travel = where are we going next. And food = what’s for lunch, what’s for dinner…. Today’s hiking chat took a turn in a slightly different direction – similar travel theme but building on our Alaska RV experience: what would it be like to actually have our own RV, instead of renting? Fun to talk about but something we’d been putting off until we’re retired. For now, we’d already graduated from camping in a tent to camping in the flat bed of our truck.

After our hike, we were lucky enough to bag the last spot at Blue Ridge campground. As the sun’s rays faded, we shivered in the cold mountain air and Darren got a campfire going. Hot as it had been during the day, the temperature dropped quickly as the sun went down and it was forecast to be not much above freezing overnight.


By the time we’d finished huddling by the fire, having troughed through our pasta, drunk through our beer/wine/hip flask supplies, and boiled 3 kettles to fill our hot water bottles, it was proper cold. It was around this time I realized we were a sleeping bag short. Count of sleeping bags: 1. Count of people needing sleeping bags: er… 2. Yep, some kind of packing error resulting in only one sleeping bag instead of two.  

At this point I graciously offered that we should take a sleeping liner each, huddle up, and drape the open sleeping bag over us both. Darren was insistent that instead, I should take the sleeping bag, and he would be fine with a couple of liners and hot water bottle. Cue a very uncomfortable night spent shivering, Darren thought he was going to get hypothermia, a never again type night.  

Come the morning, cursing and shivering trying to make coffee with gloves on, cue the questions: so why do we have to wait til we’re retired to get an RV? That seed had already been sown during our hike the previous day and festered in the freezing depths of night. And so it came to pass that we hotfooted it straight to the RV dealer, and an Airstream Basecamp was born!

Olympic National Park (one of the best places on the planet!)

I’m not really one for superlatives. If you ask me “where’s the best place you’ve ever visited”, “which is your favourite country”, or “where did you have your best ever pizza”… I kind of struggle with that. Top 10 lists I can kind of get away with, (as long as no one’s counting whether there’s really 10 things in the list!). So en route to our recent trip to Olympic National Park, there we were at the checkout making small talk in Wholefoods. During which, said checkout guy proclaimed that Olympic National Park was his “absolute favorite place on the planet”. Bold statement indeed! Not wanting to dull his enthusiasm with a question over how many places on the planet he’d actually visited, we got back in the car, set the satnav for Olympic and dialed up our expectations to “beyond awesome”.  

The weather forecast didn’t offer the best start… rain. But whilst it was kind of a bit overcast, it wasn’t actually technically raining. Expectations exceeded right there! 


Having fitted in a sneaky trail run at Lena Lake on the periphery of the park along the way, we skirted the Hood Canal for 100 miles or so, in all its drizzly splendor. We were staying near Port Angeles in a static caravan or RV (which definitely wasn’t going anywhere), on a spacious greenfield private campsite, fitted out with a wooden deck overlooking the Pacific. Unfortunately, the ocean views were left to our imagination as a dense blanket of fog rolled in.

Darren on the deck when the sun came out the next morning

One of our best ‘wildlife’ spotting opportunities came whilst we were inside the RV.  There was a rather large spider’s web in the corner of the window (notably on the outside of the window).  With a suspiciously small spider on it.  Until suspiciously small spider was joined by a somewhat larger mother of a spider (but judging on the reception the smaller spider was getting, it was evident there were no blood ties here).  Cue a spider fight of immense proportions.  Better than a wildlife documentary, this was enfolding right in front of our eyes!  It was kind of tempting to root for the little guy, but the odds were not good.  A matter of minutes and the little guy was sent packing.

Olympic national park has three distinct areas: 1) the rain forest: instantly cool and damp, it surrounds you with hues of emerald green from the pine carpet underfoot and the huddled ferns all around, to the towering spruce trees draped poetically with moss.  I also learned that the Hoh rainforest is home to the second largest slug in the world – the banana slug which grows up to 9 inches long.  Shame we missed that one! 2) the beaches: Pacific northwest coastline with rugged sea stacks, rocky shores and tidal pools to explore. And 3) the mountains.

Having experienced some of the beaches and rainforest last time we were in the national park a few years ago, we wanted to experience the Olympic mountains on this trip.  The drive to Hurricane Ridge is one of the most scenic drives in the park.  As the road climbed steeply from the thick forest, the switchbacks wound through sub-alpine meadows, leading to spectacular mountain vistas.  It’s almost a bit annoying that people can get to these views without even leaving their car.  However, the 8 mile hike we did to Klahhane Ridge, complete with 2,000+ feet elevation gain, gave us much more time to take in the views.  And we could not have been luckier with the weather – not too hot but endless blue skies and sunshine, the contrails from the passing planes leaving criss cross patterns, leaving you wondering where they were headed.  

The thing I love about ridge walks is being able to see the panorama on both sides – look to your right to see into the heart of the park, with layer upon layer of mountains reminding you of the sheer size of this peninsula.  Look to your left to see the mountains slope down to the ocean, the distant islands just visible across the strait.  With scenery like this, I have to say that Hurricane to Klahhane ridge absolutely secured a place in my top 10 hikes in the world!

Sunset Ciders and Socks

We often get accused of posting pictures of beer in scenic surrounds.  So we thought we’d change it up a bit.  

No, not beer. This is cider. A very nice one at that!



Having quenched our thirst initially with a cider or two, it was sooo nice down by the waterfront that we moved onto beer anyway.


Then came the dilemma.  By this time we were getting quite peckish.  And we had a big juicy rib eye steak on the bone, just waiting for us to cook, back at the RV.  But just when we were getting ready to leave, the evening light mellowed and the sun slowly arced its way down the sky.  The light just kept getting better… so much so that I had to send Darren back to the RV to get more beer.  





By the time the sun was actually setting, the beer was getting rather chilly to hold.  Ever galant, Darren donated his sock as a glass warmer.  

Going, going…

Gone

Olympic Peninsula & Seattle Break

Other highlights during our week in the Pacific Northwest would have to include…

* Contemplating the challenges of living on the Olympic peninsula, far from civilization, and evidently with not much internet…

* Exploring the ‘historic’ Victorian charm of Fort Warden State Park in Port Townsend.


* Followed by perfectly deep-fried Alaskan cod and chips on a waterfront deck in Port Townsend. Mushy peas: unfortunately not. But homemade tartare sauce and coleslaw are really not too poor an alternative.

* A sunset run by the waterfront after work. So lucky to be able to run here, just steps from the hotel and office.

* One of our nights out in Seattle welcomed us to the world of tinned tuna belly at a tapas bar with a difference: Jarrbar. Jarrbar serves tins. As in tins of stuff served to paying customers in the tin. Not like a tin of beans or a tin of tomatoes. Like sardines, mackerel, octopus and tuna. But this was not the insipid waterlogged tuna of old, briny and smelling of cat-food. This was rich and unctuous, tender but with real substance. There’s no reason to ever look down on tins again. In fact, I’m on a mission to hunt this particular tin of Spanish Matiz tuna belly down.  They also did rather a nice line in sherry.

All good things must come to an end, but not quite as soon as we thought.  We underestimated the traffic to Seattle airport on a Friday afternoon and oops, missed our flight.  I guess we should be grateful that we were able to transfer to the next flight, a mere 3 and a half hours later. (Long enough to get the hell out of the airport, do a bit of shopping and visit a nearby brewery for a different kind of flight). 


Unfortunately, missing your flight is a bit like being the naughty kid at primary school, given ‘the look’ and designated to the naughty step. I could see my Alaskan Airlines status melting away before my eyes, as we were assigned our seats at the back of the plane. We didn’t even have to argue about who got the nasty middle seat, as were seated one in front of the other, both in the nasty middle seat. Penance! As if to add insult to injury, Alaska airlines even rustled up one of their oldest planes. One from the era of no power at the seat (phones dying at this point) and no in-flight entertainment.  (I know, first world problems!)

As for that silver lining we’re always looking for… at least it’s a chance to catch up on the blog!

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