California - Wine Country

The white Chevy Impala sat gleaming in the garage, hazard lights flashing orange, beckoning. It was time to begin - the Road Trip.

We spent about half an hour trying to figure out the electrics, the automatic gearbox, and deal with other Americanisations. And then the car basically drove itself - spewing gasoline into the engine, and struggling to break 25 mpg. There is a reason why even in the USA, no-one drives American any more and Detroit's emergency city governor is a former bankruptcy lawyer...

With San Fran in our rear view mirror, we sped across the bay bridge towards wine country. The vines of California were beckoning - wines that we traditionally have paid little heed to were going to get 4 days of Mhairi and Toby action, broken up by camping amongst the redwoods in Sugar Loaf Ridge and Armstrong Woods.

Gundlach Bundschu, and our only Napa stop - the Vintner's Collective were up on day 1. And we started to learn about the different wine sub-regions - the valleys and ridges within Napa and Sonoma and Mendocino. The minute temperature differences, climate quirks, and soil types that lead to widely differing tastes and styles, all labelled 'Californian'. As night drew in, we encountered something we hadn't expected - the wilderness. Despite what vigilante border patrols and Republicans say, America is not full. Not even close. Our drive to Sonoma from Napa climbed across a mountain range that took us an hour to navigate, with narrow, winding roads barely wide enough for the car. The road was full of hairpins and switchbacks, with steep drops into wooded gullies. There was one other car on that road, and by the time we entered Sugar Loaf Ridge park, I'd found the headlights and revved the engine in 'L' gear to keep us going up to our mountainside campsite. We arrived and a slightly stoned camp-host gave us a big smile: 'Glad you could make it, it was getting kind of lonely up here'. Indeed, there was no one else camping.

It had begun in San Francisco, it started to become clear in wine country, and by Oregon/Washington we'd have nailed it. As I write this in Seattle it seems blindingly obvious. Mhairi and I can rough it with camping, rent an economy car, and wait for half-price days in museums - queuing for hours to get in sometimes. But we will not compromise on food and drink. So as we finished setting up our tent, we popped the boot and put on our smart clothes for an evening at Thomas Keller's Bouchon Bistro. More relaxed than his other restaurant, 'the best in the world' for a time - French Laundry - Bouchon's less formal style let me get away with jeans and Mhairi wear her new fancy vintage jacket. We had some great food, great service, wiped our mouths on a crisp linen napkin and then went back to our tent.

In the morning we had our second California realisation - northern California is very, very cold overnight in March. Especially when you are on a mountainside. Coin operated showers at 25 cents a minute were our only means of warming up. Our little stove gamely sputtered in the cold wind to make tea and porridge, but other than that mornings were to be decidedly cool affair.

By 10am, we were on the road for our first wine tasting. We had Lynmar, Hartford and Copain on the books and by the end of the day would squeeze in Garagiste, in downtown Healdsburg. Driving the roads of Russian River in Sonoma was enchanting. The earth, rust red and ochre, supported the vines in their winter state, cut back gnarled stumps. Buttercup yellow flowers bloomed in the grass and the trees arched over the roads, covered in spearmint green moss. Copain certainly won the award for most beautiful winery - an incredible aspect overlooking the Russian River valley certainly helped improve our enjoyment of the wines too.

Another cold night in the tent, but we compensated by burning a load of wood in the oildrum firepit.  My firelighting skill showed a little rust, but a roaring blaze was soon up, courtesy of a paper wine bag as a firelighter. It meant we had to buy at least a bottle of wine a day to make sure we had a paper bag for the evening... Well, that was our excuse.

Lynmar Estates with some ARCHITECTURE!

Ridge vines...

The next day we hit Ridge. Organic, Biodynamic, the Wholefoods of Sonoma wines. We had an excellent vineyard tour from Elliott, gaining a deep understanding of Ridge's ethos; and their struggle to keep their land pesticide free despite near-Caddyshack Gopher problems. A private tasting, and an expensive purchase later, we'd loved Ridge and what they do. With only one winery on the list, we spent our afternoon walking the Sugar Loaf park. As we were learning, very few Americans trouble with walking in these parks in March, so we had the views, the wildlife and sun to ourselves.

Ridge Winery

Deer in Sugar Loaf Park

A final chilly night on Sugar Loaf Ridge left Mhairi basically wearing all of her clothes to sleep in. Trying to cook breakfast as the icy gale blew around me proved almost impossible. It was an hour before the cold water boiled. And just as the porridge was heated, the camping gas sputtered, and died out.

We were to move on to Armstrong woods that day, via a great Italian style lunch - four types of firm pasta with fresh Italian sauces paired with wine at the legendary Seghesio wines. We loved the experience, but wished we'd been eating at Everett Ridge to enjoy their amazing view, a winery we'd stopped into first during the day. We also picked up a tip there about Seattle Bites... About which you'll find out later...

Post lunch we trawled Healdsburg, stopping off at the glossy but vacuous Thumbprint winery to taste their forgettable offerings. We watched as the 'Barrel Tasters' mobbed the streets. These revellers paid $55 to get free tastings across Sonoma on specific weekends. Some take it seriously, many are there for a boozy crawl and walk the streets, glass in hand; and a few probably have run-ins with the 6ft plus, stone-jawed muscle men wearing hi-visibility vests who patrol the streets as 'wine road hospitality'.

Our last stop was Stryker - we sped out of town to make it before they closed,  and were rewarded with the classic Californian experience. Big fruity wines, heavy use of oak, those chardonnays that the English now hate, the type of wines that Gallo churns out by the bucket load. Set in stunning grounds, it had charm as a stop-off in its own right for anyone who wants to know why 'Californian' wines can be loved and loathed depending on your palate. We probably fell towards the latter but had fun nonetheless.



We high-tailed it into Gurneville that evening for a stop off among the redwoods of Armstrong park. Fatigued and out of camping gas, we succumbed to takeaway pizza, ready for a full day's walking on Sunday. Our campsite was again on top of a mountain, set next to a beautiful pond full of bullfrogs.

In the morning, the redwoods towered around us: walking amongst the giants is incredible - they dominate their woods. A hush descends amongst them, as there is little other flora for any wildlife to feed on. Trees date back to 900 AD, and look set to live forever. But here and there are the downed carcasses of the giants, sometimes with entirely new trees growing out from their decaying bark. I can't do the redwoods justice, no in picture or words. Luckily, good friends had recommended we read John Steinbeck's 'Travels with Charley' and he conveys the experience much better than I ever could:

  "The redwoods, once seen, leave a mark or create a vision that stays with you always. No one has ever successfully painted or photographed a redwood tree. The feeling they produce is not transferable. From them comes a silence and awe. It's not only their unbelievable stature, nor the color which seems to shift and vary under your eyes, no, they are not like any trees we know, they are ambassadors from another time... they carry their own light and shade... Respect - that's the word. One feels the need to bow to unquestioned sovereigns.'

After wandering the tourist paths lower down, we went up to the hiking trails that led out from our mountainside campsite. All the other visitors had left and we walked around to the sounds of wild turkeys and other unusual birds. Night time saw us still alone, looking up at the stars as we barbecued our dinner and drank our last Californian wine for a while. Looking up at the stars, listening to the bullfrogs calling in the darkness, we felt our isolation from the rest of the world. The next day we packed up and headed west, to the coast...