3126

Wednesday August 17

I woke up this morning after a dreadful nights sleep; the blister was really playing up, and I felt like I hadn’t slept a wink.

I checked out, and headed up the hill to Lombard Street. Lombard is the twisty turny road that adorns many postcards. I dropped the roof for the occasion. In the end, it’s a steep road, with many turns. The houses on either side look exclusive; anyway, now my car features on hundreds of peoples’ holiday snaps. I mean, who would not want a picture of a Mustang going down Lombard?

I headed back onto Van Ness, and so 101 and set off south, hoping to see signs for California Route 1, which would be our way until we got to Los Angeles.

Driving out along Van Ness, I saw no signs to route 1, but passed through the commercial district, and then out into a less affluent area; before heading out onto a freeway; and then picking up the signs for 101 again. Away from the bay, it was warm and sunny; so the decision to drop the roof was a good one. I must have taken the wrong turn, or missed the junction, as 101 ran beside the bay now, on a wide 8 lane highway.

Past the airport, I headed west through the town of Burlingame hoping it would lead onto route 1; but after passing through the small commercial district, the road petered out in a residential area. I headed back onto 101 and went back north, picking up an interstate I did go west, and then, thankfully pick up the signs to route 1. As soon as I turned onto it, I hit the mist; there was no other choice but to stop and put the roof up. I had struggled on recently with the roof down, when it was more sensible to sit in the warmth with the roof up.

After a few miles, I stopped in the town of Pacifica for breakfast; I spotted a small cabin and so I parked up. After a bagel and a large coffee, I set off south.The road climbed and then twisted through bare hills south of Pacifica, before heading down again to sea level, and passing numerous beaches; and at every one, the parking lots were full, as dozens of surfers waited for the next big wave.

I mean, at every beach it was like it; even where there was no beach, just rocks, the surfers were there; all in dry suits with their boards attached to their ankles by a cord. The weather was still grey and misty; I passed through Half Moon Bay, which had a collection of motels and bars; but it was way too early to stop; it still was not noon. I stopped off at a couple of the beaches, there were rock pools, and small cliffs made of sand, which were slowly crumbling away. For miles and miles, the road passed no towns, just rolling hills which crumbled into the sea; sometimes there were beaches. On either side, corn was being grown; sometimes wine.

By the time I reached Santa Cruz, the sun had come out, and it was getting warm again. I drove into the town; but could find no where to park. Maybe I should have made the effort; what I did see of the town, a neat commercial district, and smart residential area were nice enough; nothing special. After just checking the city’s website; I see the beach is really nice, and the Warf looks really good to explore; maybe a chance spurned?

South of Santa Cruz, route 1 ran along through dunes and salt flats; it was an uninspiring route; I saw signs to the town of Marina, hoping it would be attractive. The road ran through the same flat country. I gave up, which turned out being a great decision. A little further on was the town of Monterey; which was much more to my liking.

I drove through it, and saw no hotels; turning around I headed north, and tuned into the downtown area. Straight away I saw a Marriot hotel; I pulled in and checked to see if they had vacancies: they did, and I paid to have a valet; I mean, I have never had a car parked for me before. Anyway, the parking garage was several blocks away, and my blister was throbbing like a Eurodisco. My room had great views of the bay about a mile distant. The other reason to choose this hotel was the fact a British pub was less than 50 yards form the entrance; Result.

Looking in the town’s literature in the room, I saw they had an aquarium which sounded good. So, I headed out into the town; walking across the town square a truck was unloading classic cars; which I did not think much of at the time. A short walk, or hobble, away was the harbour with a Wharf. The Wharf was quite large, and had a collection of sea food stalls and cabins, along with restaurants and the usual tourist places.

I had a look around, and immediately I could hear the air filled with the barking of numerous seals and sea lions. Out on the breakwater a few hundred yards out the rocks were filled with them. And underneath the Warf, their smooth shapes could be seen, waiting for morsels to be thrown from the kitchens above. I asked where the aquarium was; and was told it was a couple of miles down the promenade. I thought I would not allow my blister to curtail my activities and set off.

Out in the harbour, on rocks, collections of seabirds and pelicans sunned themselves, whilst below them in the water, seals cavorted, wallowing in the shallow water. It was a pleasant walk, along the track bed of an old railroad track about a mile and a half along the bay; the promenade came to an old canning factory which had been turned into a tourist area. Outside one of the hotels there, a transporter unloaded some rare Ferraris. I passed the usual sea food places, bars and of course, tourist places selling fridge magnets and the suchlike. At the far end of the factory building, in the largest of the buildings was the aquarium.

The aquarium was very good; it had the usual huge tanks, each representing different habitats. The tanks were filled with reefs and other animals as well as the fish you would find there. Pride of place, as ever went to the sharks. They also had a tank with sea otters in; and as with all otters, they spend most of their time playing.

As it was nearing 5, and the aquarium was about to close, I hobbled back to the main town; passed all the seals and seabirds. In the main square, more transporters were unloading ever more classic cars; mostly European; there was something going on.

I headed into the pub, The Crown and Anchor. After a while, a British ex pat sat next to me; he had a Chelsea champions hat on. We talked, and he told me how awful England were yesterday against Denmark. I was back in my room by half nine; I must be getting old. I sat at the window and watched the lights of the town, silhouetted against the blackness of the bay. The bed was another one of those three pillow wide things; and so I made sure I used every one, as well as all the toiletries in the bathroom as the price of the room made it almost mandatory.

Thursday August 18

After using any remaining toiletries this morning; I went down to retrieve my car from the valet. When he brought it out, he made a comment that it was dirty; I replied that it was not dirt, but volcanic ash from Mt St Helens; that seemed to shut him up. I struggled once again to get the case in the trunk; much more of the trim had now come off, and it was getting really difficult. The valet gave me directions to get back onto route 1; which seemed unusually complicated. I drove around the town, seemingly turning at random. I saw many more hotels and motels, which probably have been far cheaper than the Marriot.

So, I turned left at the lights; straight on for three blocks; right onto Washington; along a mile; right at the lights and right at the underpass. Well, it worked, though at times I had my doubts. As I drove along route 1, groups of people were sitting beside the road, obviously waiting for something. All through the town of Carmel, outside all the faux Spanish villas, the rich were also waiting at the side of the road. Further along, I parked up to take shots of the rocks below.

There was a guy beside me, but he was not looking at the view; rather south down the road towards a bend; every time a car could be heard, he raised his camera only to let it fall again when a modern vehicle swung into view. So, I had to, I asked him what was going on; he laughed. I mean, he said, you’re here in Monterey and don’t know about the largest classic car meet in the western hemisphere? Clearly not, mate. So he told me of a classic car auction, and the meet of classic car owners that came here every August.

And today, the cars parade down route 1; and that is what he was waiting for. He seemed to think I was a petrol head, and told me of the cars we could expect to see. We waited, and led by a policeman on a motorbike, the first lot of Ferraris came screaming past. I had passed an Austin 7 yesterday, and thought nothing of it, seems like they were coming here as well; although a tiny Austin here in America did look very silly. After another couple of lines of cars past, I thought the right amount of time had passed and I could sneak away without being mocked.

South of Carmel, route 1 enters what is called the 70 mile drive; it’s a two lane road that twists and turns along massive cliffs with spectacular views. As seems usual, words and pictures cannot describe how wonderful the whole drive was. Especially in a Mustang, it has to be said; it stuck to the corners like you would not believe.

I stopped for lunch at Big Sur; it was what looked like a trading post. But I had the full works; well, eggs, bacon and hash browns. So, I guess it must because of the stunning location that gives them the right to charge $20 for a simple breakfast; but I was in too much of a good mood to argue. The restaurant had blue jays that cleaned crumbs of the tables out on the veranda; something you don’t see back home.

There were still people waiting on the side of the road looking out for classic cars; I decided to give them something to look at. I was heading down into a valley; the road was straight and empty; the needle crept over 70. So, imagine my surprise to see a police cruiser at the bottom of the hill; thankfully he was also waiting for the classic cars to pass; and I slowed down just enough so he did not follow me.

California has the right idea about RV’s; they are banned from certain roads; vehicles over certain lengths were banned from route 1, so it was pretty RV free. Although if you were unlucky to get stuck behind an old git driving along in first gear; there was no way to get past. I stopped off several times to take pictures; although the views were not so good with the weather the way it was; I had heard that in California, summer does not begin until September. Quite clearly, 70 miles of these roads, with sheer drives a few feet to the right of the passenger’s door, was too much. Either that or they were just scared at speeds of over 30mph.

Eventually the hills ended, and the road continued along flatter country. There were wide beaches, ending in rocks; and just beyond huge forests of kelp could be seen. Earlier, at one of the vistas, seals could just be seen hundreds of feet below, well out of the reach of inquisitive people.

Further along route 1 is San Simeon, where the Hurst Castle is. I had planned to call in, as it one of the highlights on the coast. However, as the full parking lot showed, almost everyone else in California thought coming here would be a good idea. I parked up; and in the lobby; I found that it cost $24 plus tax to go round; and it was a guided tour; it also looked like I would not get on a tour for quite some time. In the past few weeks, I had seen many rich men’s playthings, and I had enough of it; let alone go round the richest of the lot to see what gaudy bangles this man had acquired; the fact that Citizen Kane was based on him was neither here nor there. It was already three in the afternoon, and I had a way to go before I found somewhere to stay. I bought three postcards, and was charged nearly $3, I asked if she had made a mistake; apparently not.

I drove on to the town of Cambria, where I wanted to find a post office so I could send some of my stuff back home. I found the post office, though the teller was not helpful; I could not use the box I wanted as it was for use in the US only; but she produced a box from behind the counter I could have for free; though I had to buy a roll of tape to seal it with. She read out a list of posting options; and she thought I should choose surface mail, which would get it there by Christmas; no, sorry the end of September. So, I lead on the customs form about how much it was worth to avoid tax when it got to Britain.

South of Cambria, route 1 ran pretty straight; and the weather perked up. I dropped the roof at the post office more in hope than that the weather was ok. But soon I was driving through rolling hills, the grass turned brown by months of constant sunshine.

Soon, the road rejoined 101, and headed south a six lane freeway. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a motel; it looked grand enough, and big enough to suggest they might have rooms. I turned off the highway and headed towards the motel; little was I to suspect that this was going to be an experience. The Madonna Motel has a long history; apparently, it was John Wayne’s favourite place, as the steaks were supposed to the best in California. And then there was the décor; but more of that later.

This is an artist’s impression of it; it is made of stone, and in most places made to look like a grotto. And then there are the rooms; each one has a theme, and in reception you are presented with a list of free rooms, and a board with pictures of said rooms and you pick the one you like most. By this point, I really did not care, and chose the first room they had free. I drove over to the block where my room was, parked up, and opened the door; it was the golf room. But, the only thing that made it the golf room were the prints on the wall. I got my case, and then had to try and work out how to get all my stuff in the case before Saturday morning.

I laid on my bed and watched some TV, mainly baseball.

Later on, once it was dark, I thought I would go and have a drink, and a good meal. Once in the main building, I found my way to the bar; it was fine, and quiet. What I did not realise that the crowds from the Hurst castle were dining here tonight, and I should have booked a table. The decor was really shocking, kitsch is the word; tasteless might be another.

I had a couple of beers, and then thought I would go into the restaurant to see about some food; only to be told there would be a wait of an hour; oh well, aback to the bar. At some point, nature called; and I followed the signs to the stairs and went to the basement. The fact there was a fountain at the bottom of the stairs I did not think unusual; but the giant clam shells that were the basins in the restrooms were a little unusual. Even more unusual was the waterfall that doubled as a urinal; honestly. And once my table was free, I was greeted by the horror that was the steakhouse. To put it into words is tough; red plush velvet seating, dark red flowery carpet, mirrored walls, gold leaf everywhere, fake plastic trees everywhere and alabaster cherubs hanging from the ceiling.

It was really too much to take in. I sat down and thought some sausage starter looked quite good; but when the waitress brought some vegetables and dip, so much that any thought of starter was forgotten. As I ordered steak, I got a free salad as usual; the upshot was that by the time the main course arrived, I was really full.