Something is out of sight Behind my hemisphere of view Beyond the corner of my eye I twist my bones and sinews round As if to flip a tennis ball With nap to face its inner void If not by force Well then by stealth When mind looks off the other way When skull’s interior ceases chattering Or when the inner voices crystallise As overheard by God herself Or eyes dart forth from here to there Allowing only seeing And ceding no capacity For any other movement of the soul Or staring at the fire Or sitting in the damp old toilet Examining the peeling wall With fine and much augmented Powers of observation The half-inch gaps and rough-faced bricks A map with fifty thousandth scale I shrink right down to microbe size And clamber down the mortar valleys Or under bedclothes, undersea Or stare into the fire The crumpled shirt That is a face in early morning light The checker pattern in the dark Since childhood seen with eyes screwed tight The painted men in Scarborough shelter Tucked in bed but sleepless later And coming down the stairs and seeing My mother drinking a bitter lemon The snippets of song and the counting The automatic actions of washing up
Our grey-haired physics prof With gravelly Canuck tones Speaks to us in class at nine am He has a simple tale to tell On types of equilibrium I’ve covered neutral and unstable So stable now must be addressed Imagine please a hill He chalks it on the board And in the apex there’s a dip And in that dip there sits a ball He draws that in there too That ball will rock from side to side Within its basin But, if displaced too far Will roll right down the goddam mountain
We know he has been ill But what comes next He didn’t have to share And like a sermon too
So would it not be right to say The mind’s a bit like this That, pushed too far from equipoise You cannot turn it round?
One day I guess he stood before our faces And, after clammy nights of fitful sleep Troubled perhaps with some initial fear But much augmented Existence now is scaring him as well
He looks for help in those who sit before him Sees only bursting life and careless youth His colleagues each an island to himself Give up on pride, spill all To doctor friend or priest?
The mind that rocks in its summit chair Chatters and swings to consolations But the one that tumbles to the plains Carries the dust of grey despair To the beaches and blue-green seas
In 1854 the English eccentric George Borrow set out to tour Wales and later wrote an account which he called ‘Wild Wales’. Initially he was based in the town of Llangollen, where he hired a local man, John Jones, as a guide. The ‘Ladies of Llangollen’ were famous residents of Llangollen before Borrow’s time. They lived at Plas Newydd and attracted numerous distinguished visitors, including Wordsworth.
In a corner, shop buying a map I find myself confronted by the local news Town triple burglar jailed, it seems And the agent mutters in a way most strange Whilst serving me and giving change
Disposed as I am, I listen out for Welsh But all I catch is speech not understood Such as you may hear as often as you wish Anywhere in England Ah now it seems that I’m in luck The man looks old and, right enough As he leaves a terrace door He seems to offer a Cymric farewell But yet I can’t be sure
A maiden blameless aunt of mine Kept cards in an old tin box Tell Florrie and all at number seven I’ll be there at six o’ clock We’re well looked-after at Tan-y-Bwlch Though the owner’s awful rummy It’s a genteel spot for Cheshire girls No better one on earth Of course one cannot fail to note The ruddy bricks beloved by Sais That bleed in from the east Though taste draws a fastidious line And balks at the glossy Accrington bloods Of the chapel on the street
Borrow’s amiable guide, John Jones Was a straight and genuine soul He’d surely have jumped At one of those homes Extravagantly spaced and sound Scattered about Besetting the climb On the road to Allt-y-Badi Their gardens are full of blooms And shrubs from many a genus Though likely he’d have an allotment now And a little van To take his woven cloth Over the tops to Ceiriog But then again I fear He’d not have any woven cloth to take One has to be realistic Yet maybe still He’d like his pint of beer
And then there are the Ladies In their low roof’d cot I picture them the Misses so-and-so Remembered from my childhood Except that they weren’t sisters Imagine they were alive today Would they miss the illicit frisson They had at Plas Newydd?
As tide retreats from narrow straits The plovers and pipers claim their place On the ragged crescent causeway From mainland bluffs the ambler notes The sombre sea and ochre skerries The round and ankle-turning rocks The slick and slippery weeds Elects to pick his way across With salty water lapping still Around his feet As though to tread on foreign soil Where no-one moves but gentle sheep The grass in truth is greener here With easy trods and even turf The quirky ground rears up in crests That shear off into cliffs With views to spouting falls And fancy sees the tide at flood The waiting hours The spartan joy of sodden lunch The buoyant seabirds’ calls
The words and ideas below have recently appeared in the news and social media. Most of them have come up in the context of Brexit.
Accept What does it mean to accept the result of a vote? The losers of elections and referenda often resign themselves to the situation. But this happens because they have no power to change it, not because of gracious acceptance. If you lose a vote you set about trying to reverse the decision by every legal means available. This usually involves waiting for the next chance to vote. However you will try to manipulate things so that this next vote is as soon as possible, or you may try to thwart the vote using methods that your political constitution allows. Political acceptance is like the acceptance of somebody who has an incurable disease; it ceases as soon the medics find a remedy. Until then, the patient has no choice but to accept, and the word accept is redundant.
Democracy and the Law Which of these three ranks highest: democracy, the law or ethics? I’m talking about situations where they conflict, and you must choose. I’d say that ethics trumps democracy and the law, as does brute reality. Merely voting on something – or enacting a law – doesn’t make it ethical or possible. Yes, democracy generally produces better results than other systems; you only need to look around the world. Still, if you forced me to choose, I would value an ethical outcome more than the process (democracy). Both democracy and protests against the results of democracy have created our civilisation. Democracy works because democratic governments rarely punish protesters in a draconian way. A situation that involves fundamental ethical principles is akin to a power struggle. It isn’t a game in which you have to be a so-called good loser.
Furthermore the outcome matters more than any particular version of democracy. Take Brexit as an example. Two versions of democracy – direct and representative – compete with each other. Each side advocates the version that furthers its aims. Each side would switch to the other version if that looked more likely to produce the right result. The same applies to First Past The Post versus Proportional Representation. I would support whichever had more chance of producing my favoured outcome. I don’t see this as cynical or unprincipled; it makes perfect sense. Of course politicians need to proceed more cannily than ordinary voters. They may pay a political penalty for changing their mind according to expediency. But the same principle – outcome trumps process – still applies to them. They may decide to stick with one system because they don’t want to appear inconsistent, even though the other system would work in their favour. But they are still calculating that this self-denial will improve their chances in an election, and they need to win electorally to get the outcome they want.
Lies The Independent journalist John Rentoul refuses to use the words lie and liar. He argues that when a person states something false, we cannot see inside their soul. They may think their statement is true. I go along with this up to a point, but I can think of some souls whose contents I’d be fairly sure about. Of course, if somebody says that a spider is an insect we don’t call them a liar. We just think they don’t know the facts of the situation. The same applies if a meteorologist predicts rain, and rain doesn’t materialise. They got their forecast wrong, but we wouldn’t call it a lie.
This discussion also assumes English as the medium of communication. There are about 6500 languages in the world. In some, the so-called equivalent of to lie may mean to say something factually incorrect. Who knows? There may be languages that have no exact translation for our word lie.
Also, many pejorative words assume knowledge of a person’s soul. Consistency would demand that we put them all on the banned list: words such as racist, greedy, cruel, and so on.
Promises and Warnings A slippery area, where some people have deliberately obfuscated matters. Imagine a teacher addressing a class of sixth formers. She tells them that she won’t allow them on the course next year if they don’t work hard and get good grades in their exams. I’d call that a warning. But suppose that one student doesn’t want to continue at college. He’s hoping for a way out against his parents’ wishes. He will interpret her warning as a promise, and will feel aggrieved with the teacher if she relents and allows him back on the course. I’ll leave the reader to find a use for this story as a topical analogy.
Sea-lioning Suppose you say The earth is round, and someone then asks for evidence. Abundant evidence exists for the earth’s roundness. This person must, therefore, have already seen and ignored it. They have no intention of accepting said evidence, so why bother supplying it? They want to wind you up, and you’d do well not to engage with them.
The Public I’ve written about the public before. The word public misleads because it involves so many tacit assumptions. It produces a mental picture of some ordinary, unsophisticated and even hapless person. So what disqualifies a person from membership of the public? Aged under 25? An interest in entomology? Having a degree? Attending raves? Living in Scotland? The word implies that the person has no specific qualities. They only exist as a screen onto which a politician or official can project their fantasies.
Where’s the cashpoint gone? Asks a man too young to be my son And something in me Loves to be asked a question But this is my weakness too When my answer becomes A mini-performance
There are none in the village now, I say With a tut and a tsk and a frown As I play Berne’s game Of Ain’t it awful? My mind has jumped onto these rails And sidelined other thoughts And now it’s as though I were speaking French And constrained to say what I’m able to say Rather than what I mean I see a point of light in the sky At four o’ clock from the moon Likely a planet, I think to myself And then return to the scene
The youth has already run off With rough and ready thanks And I realise too That my brain has suppressed The truth of the cash at the garage The truth that failed so badly To fit the chosen game Now with myself disgusted I consider pursuit and amends But he’s nearly half a mile away And gone to join his friends
ager to travel, yet easily spooked Discharged from the airport I found myself wandering The streets with their drains Like fumaroles steaming Five hours adrift and clasping a book That listed rum places for students to stay
At length and near midnight I came to a hostel Or doss-house, or prison Or cage one might say My memory anyway says there were bars My knavish companions all night in the cell Boasting of villainous company they kept And I on my luggage dozing and clutching What happens to grip in the night Who can tell? A cavernous room tiled like an abattoir And right down the middle and open to view Pedestal toilets all in a row Would feature for years in my dreams
The following day I found a stern lady Who said I could sleep on her floor for a fee None too scrupulous, however, was she For I found on return That my space was usurped She’d shifted my property To flee the humidity I went to see Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
By the uni buildings I got into talking With a janitor formerly of Morecambe Bay Showed me genital pics He’d retrieved from a bin Cast aside by the faculty of medicine He bought me beers and drove me home To the sage-green, sterile, sprawling suburbs Prosaic like England except for the air con Me and him round a table Sullen wife and son We ate Fray Bentos pie from a tin Holding forth, he opined that life over here Was all about the Almighty Dollar And then I realised to my horror That the wife and the son Despised the father And I was a player in this baleful drama Representing the land he couldn’t relinquish
We made this trip to the southwest states of the USA in 2014. That’s five years ago now, so only the most significant impressions have stuck in my mind.
As our plane descended towards San Francisco airport I spotted the San Mateo bridge and the cars streaming east and west across the bay. This was the bridge I knew we’d have to drive over the following day. It was almost as though I’d already got to know it when planning the trip.
I’d booked a hotel close to the airport, but needn’t have bothered. The short distance between the two was an unwalkable maze of roads and flyovers. We had to take a taxi, though we later discovered that we could have used the shuttle bus.
We headed for downtown San Fran on our first evening, using the public transport system (BART). The nearest station was about half an hour’s walk from the hotel. We watched some young people using the ticket machine and noted what they did. Conversation followed, and it turned out they liked the TV programme Doc Martin. We got off at the Embarcadero and, after a short walk, arrived at the Ferry Building, where we found a place to eat.
Day 2: San Francisco to Mammoth Lakes We picked up our hire-car from the airport. At first I couldn’t figure out how to use the high tech key, but a helpful man in the garage sorted the problem. We made a few false starts south of the airport before finding the all-important San Mateo bridge, which would take us across San Francisco Bay and towards the Central Valley. In atlases the valley shows as a narrow green strip flanked by mountainous brown, but atlases can be deceptive. You forget that the horizontal extent of real-life terrain greatly exceeds the vertical. Instead of a valley in the usual sense, you encounter a vast plain some 50 miles or more wide. It has many farms: some selling produce, most with irrigation systems.
Yosemite lay ahead of us. But I knew we had to get to Mammoth Lakes in the Eastern Sierra that same day, so we couldn’t devote much time to it. Time-poor travellers, sandwiched between flights, have a guilty secret: they must inevitably bypass places they really ought to visit. So yes, we traversed Yosemite and got some idea of the terrain there, but we didn’t make the forty-mile side trip to Half Dome. We didn’t have the time. However we took in what we could from Highway 120, finding plenty to photograph along the way.
Our hotel in Mammoth Lakes had well-appointed rooms and a feel of solid quality, but sadly its restaurant didn’t live up to the rest of the place. Our waiter asked us whether we wanted a bag to take away what we couldn’t eat. We were too polite to state the obvious: we’d left it on the plate for a good reason.
Day 3: Mammoth Lakes to Death Valley I had to deal with an awkward matter in the morning. An employee of the hotel had taken our car from us on arrival and parked it in some unknown place. So how to deal with the tipping side of it? How much, and when, and to whom? Like every tourist, I’d read the guides and fretted about US tipping culture. I handed over a $10 bill to some man who may, or may not, have been the one who deserved it. I couldn’t tell from his demeanour whether this sum had pleased, displeased, or even insulted him.
Heading south on Highway 395, we saw some fine scenery. Below is a view to the west.
And a view to the east.
In places like this your sense of scale becomes unreliable. Or perhaps your mind re-calibrates it without you realising and you take the scale for granted as long as you remain here in this vast environment. If some power could have teleported me to the UK, it would likely have seemed like a world in miniature.
We drove south to Lone Pine and then turned southeast towards Death Valley on highways 136 and 190. Around here we noticed Joshua trees on the skyline, though we didn’t then have a name for them. At Panamint Valley I thought we’d reached Death Valley itself. However when I looked at the map I realised we still had some way to go. Temperatures in Death Valley rise as you lose altitude, and the hottest parts lie below sea level. We stopped at the gift shop and visitor centre at Stovepipe Wells, where the thermometer read 42 C.
The temperature rose to about 45 C later in the afternoon. Gift shop and visitor centre. I never imagined such things existed here before we visited. Yet Death Valley does have a tourist industry, but it’s busier in the more bearable winter months. Incidentally we heard a lot of French spoken among the tourists, which surprised us a little.
A few miles on from Stovepipe Wells – at Mesquite Flat – we wandered onto the sand dunes. I took the photograph below and noted the warning.
Our overnight stop – Furnace Creek Inn – had magnificent views.
We arrived in the mid-afternoon. A light breeze wafted over us, but a breeze doesn’t give any relief from these temperatures. It makes things worse. Wind produces a sensation akin to opening an oven door.
The Pacific Coast Borax Company built this hotel in 1927. It had chintzy rooms and a solid old-fashioned feel to it. The mining company had constructed a railway to transport the borax and, when mining ceased, they built the hotel to rescue the investment they’d made in the railway. They hoped the hotel would draw tourists, who’d arrive by rail. The hotel did indeed make a profit, but the railroad didn’t. People preferred to travel here by car even in those days. Paintings of distinguished gents lined the corridors. They wore cowboy hats and shoestring neck-ties, and I took them to be local worthies.
Day 4: Death Valley to Flagstaff We drove to Furnace Creek Village for breakfast and then towards Nevada on Highway 190. At Zabriskie Point I stopped to take photographs of the curious rock formations.
We made for Pahrump in Nevada, where we stopped for a coffee break and to top up the petrol. The unleaded pumps had black handles and the diesel pumps had green ones, which disconcerted me at first. Many garages only offered self-service, and this presented another problem. The self-service pumps asked for my zip code which I didn’t have, being a foreigner. (I guess the code had to match your credit card details.) I found that you could get around this by paying inside. First, though, you had to tell the cashier how much petrol you intended to pump.
Places like this would look sad in a temperate climate, but they have a certain romance in arid regions. I noticed that the highways hereabouts sometimes had sponsors’ names on signs by the road. I’ve seen requests to sponsor roundabouts in the UK, but never roads.
Ahead of us, and in our way, lay Las Vegas. We had no intention of visiting the city but couldn’t avoid driving around its outskirts. At one point I misinterpreted the satnav and got diverted towards the airport, but was soon back on track. We saw the downtown towers in the distance on the left. On spotting a shooting range we delighted in having our prejudices confirmed. At the Hoover Dam on the Nevada-Arizona border I dithered, wondering whether to turn off and visit it. I drove a few miles past the turning, experienced some regret, and then turned around. Thus the decision made itself, and the Hoover Dam provided a useful break in the journey.
Parking our car and getting something to eat consumed most of our attention here. This sculpture in memory of the construction workers caught my eye.
From here we headed south to Highway 40, and then east towards Flagstaff. At Seligman we made a short detour to the north, onto the famous Route 66, where we had coffee in an old-style diner. I felt a little mean in this lively, busy place full of locals as we nursed our coffees and waved away the food menus.
The Flagstaff area sits more than 2000 metres above sea level, which gives the city and its environs a more temperate and wooded aspect than the regions to the west. Our motel on the outskirts was unremarkable, albeit better appointed than most. It had a good restaurant serving decent food, and the waiters went through the usual routine. I am Charlene. I will be your server this evening, and so on. A gratuity is clearly expected, but there’s uncertainty around when and how you should hand it over – if you’re a European. Different places have different procedures. I suppose many tourists err on the generous side: adding 20% to the total so as not to offend. As a rule in the US, guests wanting to charge food to the final hotel bill have to sign a piece of paper at the end of the meal. This practice has recently caught on in the UK as well.
Day 5: Grand Canyon and Hopi Reservation The south rim of the Grand Canyon is about 130 km away from Flagstaff by road. We took the direct route via Highway 180, which involved driving through Flagstaff. The city seemed pleasant enough by US small city standards.
You pay a fee (c $20) at a tollbooth whenever you enter any US national park, and for that you also get a helpful little guide. Our own guidebook advised that you could save time by paying the fee in Tusayan – a small town a few miles ahead of the booth.
I’d always imagined that there was featureless desert on either side of the Grand Canyon. But the south rim at Grand Canyon Village sits at a similar altitude to Flagstaff, which enables many lowish trees to grow thereabouts, forming a large forested area. The car parks aren’t a lot different from those at the Eden Project in Cornwall, and there’s the same confusion about which way to go. Rather absurdly, we asked a passer-by to point us in the direction of the canyon. This huge and famous thing somehow contrived to be hidden from view by the trees.
You can look at the canyon in two ways. Either you can take it at face value as a canyon, or you can imagine you’re looking across a valley between flat-topped mountain ranges. If you go to the Gorges du Verdon in France you have no doubt that you’re looking into a deep chasm. Here I couldn’t decide between the two options. I took a lot of photographs of course, but wasn’t entirely satisfied with any of them. You’d have to visit at different times and seasons to get the perfect photo. The one below at least gives a view along the canyon. But you need to move away from the visitor centre crowds to get this lengthways vista.
One random fact: to get to the north rim viewing point – 15 km away as the crow flies – you have to drive along 340 km of roads. And I could easily imagine how a hiker trekking down to the Colorado River might run into trouble. The temperature on the rim might be a tolerable 30C. At the canyon bottom – 1800 metres below – it could well be a punishing 40C. You’d be like a fly venturing into a pitcher plant. Indeed we saw notices warning walkers not to attempt the hike to the bottom and back as a day trek. A road follows the south rim eastwards for several kilometres, and other stopping places lie along this route offering different, and arguably better, views. The bold tourist might be tempted to explore in the few places where the canyon doesn’t fall away like a cliff.
We’d followed the south rim as far as we could and it was still early, so we continued eastwards towards Tuba City. We then turned south through the Hopi Reservation to Winslow, returning to Flagstaff via Highway 40. This was a featureless yet interesting drive, though it seemed to take forever. Despite the satnav, I often wondered whether we would end up where we wanted to be. Occasional mesas such as this one varied the scenery.
Our route took us through some settlements, and I formed a couple of impressions. First, the communities seemed poor. Second, the people who lived there made a lot of use of old tyres around their houses.
Day 6: Meteor Crater, Jerome and Sedona We set out for Meteor Crater the following morning. This crater comes into the category of things that every schoolgirl – or boy – knows. It has lodged somewhere in my mind for almost as long as I can remember. Likely it started as an illustration in a children’s encyclopedia or some such. I always imagined it was in some inaccessible location that I could never hope to visit. In fact it lies just a little south of Highway 40, to the east of Flagstaff. No doubt the traveller would indeed have found the crater hard to get to at one time. Now you can approach it via a 10 km long access road, with a visitor centre and car park at the end.
The centre’s displays and videos explained how a meteor strike had formed the crater 50 000 years ago. On the rim, you could peer through fixed telescopes at curious objects and features below. It looked as though a fit person might scramble down to the floor without much difficulty. The site owners clearly didn’t permit this however. There were guided rim tours, but the intensity of the sun and the lack of shelter put us off. Overall the crater was pretty much as I’d expected, both in scale and appearance. It didn’t disappoint, but I can’t say much more about it.
We’d finished at the crater before noon, so we headed off for Jerome, which lies 100 km or so southwest of Flagstaff. Our guidebook described Jerome as a ghost town, but it had more of the appearance of a hipster hideaway. Yet many of the expected features of the old Wild West remained, and I found a lot of curious things to photograph.
The town sits on top of a hill and affords views over the surrounding arid countryside. A few kilometres before we got to Jerome we came upon roundabouts and new developments such as you might encounter on the outskirts of any town in the UK.
I’d read that the cemetery was the thing to see, but we couldn’t find it. We called at the tourist information office, and the amiable man there scratched his head. He didn’t know much about it either, but he thought it was halfway down the hill. He said it had been closed because it had attracted teenagers who’d caused a nuisance. I imagine it appealed to the Goths among them, especially at night.
A large and deserted wine bar also tempted us in. We tried one particular local wine and liked it. Then, and rashly perhaps, we asked for a bottle to take away. The assistant told us the price (c $40) expecting, I think, an adverse reaction. Notwithstanding the price tag, we went ahead with the purchase. But after leaving, it occurred to us that we wouldn’t be able to take it back to the UK since we only had hand luggage. When and where would we drink it?
We made our way back to Flagstaff via Sedona. The colourful layered rock formations in the town’s vicinity made for a scenic drive.
We had time before dinner, so we took a walk around the hotel grounds. These were a large area of wild country with nature trails and many species of wildflowers. We saw a rodent-like creature standing upright. I claimed it was a gopher but wasn’t sure.
At the restaurant we thought we’d try our luck with the wine. I asked if they’d allow us to drink it at the table if we paid corkage, but the rules didn’t permit it.
Day 7: Flagstaff to Barstow To get to Barstow, California we had to retrace our route on Highway 40. Our journey would then continue further west across the Mojave Desert. Somewhere in the desert I noticed a shimmering mirage on the surface of the highway ahead. As we neared, it seemed to resolve into something with a more regular outline. When I realised it was a tyre, it was too late to avoid it. Swerving into one of the other lanes didn’t feel like an option since there was no time to check the traffic. I gripped the steering wheel, gritted my teeth, and drove straight over it, hoping for the best. An almighty thump resounded from the car’s underside, but we cleared it alright. However I feared it must have ripped off the exhaust at the very least, and was relieved when the car continued as before. Still, it seemed a good idea to check the vehicle, so we pulled in at the next opportunity. To my dismay, some ominous noises came from the front wheels as I turned into the parking area. I knelt down on the hot ground, burning my hands and knees, and peered underneath. The lining around one of the front wheel arches was shredded and snagging the wheel. This puzzled me. How could a tyre on the road have done this kind of damage? I tried as best I could to put the wheel arch material back where it belonged, and we continued on our way. I calculated how far we still had to go and how feasible it would be to get another hire-car. Fortunately the car served us well for the rest of the trip. In the end I decided that the damage must have happened before the vehicle had come into our hands. The jolt had merely dislodged the loose material.
We stopped overnight at a decent hotel, but with no restaurant. The daunting heat persuaded us to order pizzas over the phone rather than venture out. We then drank the $40 bottle of Arizona wine with the pizzas. Around sunset, when the air had cooled a little, we wandered outside and bought ice creams at a garage.
Day 8: Barstow to Morro Bay We continued westwards towards the coast, initially on Highway 58. When we reached the Central Valley we noticed many parched fields. It looked as though the farmers had abandoned the land and the irrigation in some places. Groups of Latino workers toiled here and there. We stopped for lunch somewhere in the rather brown and unappealing coastal ranges. A plaque in the restaurant stated that James Dean’s fatal car crash had happened nearby.
Morro Bay, though pleasant enough, wouldn’t cut it as a coastal resort in Europe. The power station nearby, with its three tall chimney stacks, didn’t help. In fairness, you have to re-calibrate your aesthetic sense in the USA. You have to accept some of the tat, or you’ll be constantly offended outside the cities. The latter have their own grander style, which is more acceptable to European eyes. But I guess you might begin to love the small-town aesthetic if you lived here long enough. You might even begin to find it quaint. The mother and son who owned the small hotel where we stayed advised us to walk out towards the Rock to see the otters. These creatures lay on their backs in the water, nibbling fish as cutely as you’d expect them to do. The mother also spent a lot of time showing us how the rather complicated shower worked. It aimed jets of water at you from all directions, and I’ve seen nothing like it before or since. Later we had a beer on the seafront and listened to the sea lions barking nearby.
Day 9: Morro Bay to San Francisco Our hosts gave us some good tips in the morning. They suggested a place to get breakfast and other stops to make along Highway 1 (the Big Sur). The first stop they recommended wasn’t too far along the road. It was a pull-in where you could observe sea elephants on the beach below.
The huge blubbery creatures lay in a clump on the beach. Occasionally they would shift position and flick sand over themselves. They gave off a disagreeable milky rancid smell. Although the onlookers seemed interested, I saw little pleasure on their faces. Most moved on quickly on account of the stench, as did we.
We didn’t have time for the next recommended stop: Hearst Castle. But we halted briefly to take photographs of the zebras that wander on the castle grounds by the road. William Randolph Hearst built the castle between 1919 and 1947, but many will be more familiar with his granddaughter, Patty Hearst. She became a big news story when the Symbionese Liberation Army kidnapped her in 1974.
As we proceeded further north the sea mist lifted, and we got some better views of the coast.
Bixby Bridge below: a famous landmark along the route.
In the lay-by near the bridge we saw a man playing the guitar with a white rabbit perched on his head.
I had thought we might continue on the coastal highway all the way to San Francisco, but to save a bit of time we cut inland at Santa Cruz and approached our airport hotel on Highway 101. These busy roads had many lanes of fast-moving vehicles. Even with the aid of a satnav, I sometimes found it difficult to take the correct turning. The speed and density of the traffic made it hard to position yourself in time for the off-ramp. But to be fair, outside big cities, driving presents no particular difficulties in most of the USA.
We arrived in good time, so we set out for the downtown area as we had done the last time we’d been in San Fran. I took some photographs of the tall gleaning building and cable cars.
Near the Ferry Building we asked a couple of passers-by if they knew of any good places to eat. They pointed us in the direction of the Slanted Door, saying that we’d likely find it busy, and might have to queue. Luckily we got a table on the outside with a good view of the Oakland Bay Bridge.
During the meal I set off in search of the toilet, and had to ask a waiter for directions. It struck me that the word restroom seemed just right here. After all, I was in a foreign country. If I were in France I would try to speak French. You want to be understood and not stick out like a sore thumb. Anyway we liked the Vietnamese food and booked a table for lunch the following day.
Day 10: San Francisco and departure On the BART train the following morning a woman asked us Where are you guys from? This is normal in the US, and I admire it in a way. Looking out of the window, I saw the famous sea fog still hanging about the suburbs and low hills. By way of conversation, I asked her whether it was always like this. Immediately I realised that I’d come out with a typically British remark. We focus on the negative. That’s how we relate to each other. I could instead have said something positive about the beauty of San Francisco. My cultural programming steered me the other way.
We returned to the Slanted Door for lunch and afterwards we tried to walk as far as we were able in the direction of the Golden Gate Bridge. I wanted at least to glimpse it, mindful of the need to get back to the airport in time for our flight. It turned out we had to walk to somewhere around Fisherman’s Wharf to see it in the distance. En route we also saw the sea lions at Pier 39. I took a photograph of the bridge, but it didn’t come out well. On the other hand, Alcatraz Island did make a fine photographic subject.
So finally, I should have said this to the woman on the BART train. From the guidebooks you expect to like San Francisco. You also wonder if you’re going to be disappointed. But after seeing it for myself, I really can’t say anything against this city. It’s a beautiful place.
At five years old I stand absorbed As thunderous rain descends in heavy lumps That merge within the downspouts And pour into the drains When weather dries I watch the ants That cross the flags to pencil holes Their labyrinthine tunnels Imagined underground
At fifteen in a school-hired coach After a day spent climbing fells We stop at length at Forton Services For beans and sausages and chips Before, in drizzly afternoon We’d squished our noses on the panes Of sound hotels with dry interiors And chintzy chairs and stacks of cakes And unfamiliar adults Doing grown-up things
Listless now, I scan the internet Diverting myself with trip reviews Another bored and grey-haired man But I like to think more pompous Has penned a piece and then sat back To smile, admire himself, and wonder At his hard-acquired experience It’s all a matter of keeping house Cobwebs unswept on PVC Windows, smooth and white prosaic Three hundred pounds I do not pay To look at insects trapped And dancing in the breeze
Few had paintings in those days My grandparents had just the one Prior to viewing it I first took the silver torch From the doily on the sideboard Beside the nut-brown wireless With glimpses of glowing valves Promising, but not delivering Hilversum and Saarbrücken Shone its beam out down the yard Where the wood-rimmed hole awaited me And the twenty-foot drop to the drain appalled Brushed my teeth in the Belfast sink Then off and away up the steep stairs To the cold and concave feather mattress And the numinous, eponymous dale Framed on the shadowy farther wall Where parents would later sleep A valley, some weary travellers Some watery purple hills Cattle and horses A long and winding way And the words By Road – Uniondale And the adults all laughing below Around the ancient television
It’s clear as a bell over the tops My grandfather would declare Over his morning pint of tannic tea His cotton sheets beset With scorch-rimmed Woodbine holes I fancied then the dale lay out beyond those quarried hills Be as it may, they never spoke of Uniondale And, to be honest, I’m glad I never asked
Blackthorn 