But damn it all, we got a bit turned around and ended up somewhat out of our way.
Don't talk to me about my sense of direction, John; I wasn't the one driving, after all. And San Quentin isn't even on this map:
Predictably, we ended up out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, the most boring place to be. Though some of it reminded me of home:
|A lookout spot at Point Reyes|
And after I pointed out the sunglasses were ridiculous given how cloudy it was:
|It's not quite the moors, but . . .|
There was a lot of driving involved, then a lot of walking, and for what gain? Not even a spectral dog or government conspiracy to keep me interested. Cows, though. Many, many cows . . .
No, John, I don't have a picture of the cows. Why would I?
There was a ranch, just for her, however:
Then, just for something different . . .
Yes, John, we climbed into a tree. What's that? K-I-S . . . You're sick. You realize that, I hope?
There was a lighthouse, by the by:
|Again with the sunglasses.|
Not a very big one. And after 308 stairs to get down to it, too.
We did see what supposed experts assured us was a juvenile grey whale. No, John, it was not in the lighthouse; it was down in the water. If it had been in the lighthouse, that might have been a mystery worth looking into.
After walking back up the 308 stairs, we went into a town that calls itself Inverness but has nothing on the real thing (by which I mean Scotland, of course), and had a late lunch at a Czech pub called Vladimir's.
|A Czech pub in Inverness? Run by a vampire?|
With appropriately bloody decor.
After which we came home over the Golden Gate Bridge:
If only Alcatraz were still an option . . .