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Christmas Letters

Christmas Letter 2014

I am writing this Christmas letter late and with some amount of ambivalence (much as I imagine you might be reading it), mostly because at this point in the year everything that could have been deemed vaguely interesting about my life has already been plastered on social media, leaving little point to this endeavor except, well, it’s tradition. And, after all, it’s the time of year for traditions, not to mention the fact that I’m holed up in the resident’s lounge of a pub in the Lake District where it’s pouring outside and the bridge to Ambleside has likely been washed out for the night, which means we can’t go see the film we thought we might and so I may as well as try to entertain myself, and hopefully you, with an attempt at the traditional Christmas letter.

The best pub in Britain, mostly because they still sell Scampi Fries

The year was marked by Big Family Occasions, namely my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary, which we celebrated in Coronado, and my sister’s wedding and adoption of her daughter on the same day in March. D. and I have taken to the roles of aunt and uncle like ducks to water, not least because my niece is, in a word, marvelous. We’ve had several visits with her over the course of the year, most recently when we hosted Thanksgiving at our house and she proved the Pacific Ocean in November is nothing to fear.

My sister and her daughter masquerading as 2 specks in twilight near Ventura Pier

Over the summer we moved (again). We sold our house in Santa Monica and moved up the coast to Ventura, news that seems to universally leave people, to put it charitably, confused. I’m not sure if this is because Santa Monica has achieved some kind of mythical status in the popular psyche leaving people to wonder why we would ever leave such an Eden, or if Ventura has achieved such dubious status as to leave people wondering why we would go there. If it’s the former, I might suggest that you haven’t been to Santa Monica lately and therefore wouldn’t know that Eden is no longer navigable by car (and only by bike at high risk to your life). Or perhaps you currently live there and are therefore invested in maintaining the Eden perception (with all due respect, I only suggest this possibility because I lived it). With regard to the latter, it’s possible you’ve heard the epithet of Ventucky in reference to my new home, which I suspect has been devised by local residents to deter an influx of outsiders. Mostly, though, Angelenos don’t seem to know much about Ventura—including me until I considered moving there—having only driven by it on the 101 on the way to somewhere else like Santa Barbara. If you, too, fall into this category, consider that you now have a reason to stop.

Our own epiphany came after having spent most weekends of 2013 and early 2014 in Ojai—an amazing small town that, judging by the travel press, seems to be having its own moment in the Zeitgeist—and deciding that this might be an indicator we should move there. After assorted real estate fits and starts, and ultimately deterred by the prospect of 100+ degree weather in Ojai in the summer, we were wooed the 13 miles down the mountain to Ventura by a view of the Channel Islands and a sleepy-beach-city-vibe that feels a lot like Santa Monica about 20 years ago when *gasp* I first moved to Los Angeles.

Serra Cross Park, named for Father Juniper Serra, founder of the San Buenaventura Mission

In the six months we’ve been in Ventura there have been lots of exciting discoveries for us newcomers, not least of which is the city’s burgeoning art scene. My surprise at this fact revealed my possession of the worst kind of urbanite snobbery, the disbelief that anything of cultural significance could exist outside my insular city world. It was a lesson I had learned once before moving from London to the Cotswolds, and yet I fell prey again to the thinking that art was the provenance of certain zip codes. Also, did I mention the Mexican food? There is a street in Ventura called The Avenue where you will find chile verde as spiritual experience. I have made it my mission to consume the establishments of The Avenue in whole, like a burrito, over the coming months.

Another revelation of the move has been access to central California, namely the parts of Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo counties that were just a little too far out of reach for a weekend away when we lived in Los Angeles. Our favorite discovery has been the wine/wild west town of Los Alamos, which gave D. license to buy (and wear) a cowboy hat while riding an actual horse around the vineyards. His love affair with California has been reignited.

The whole family saddles up for a ride on the range

In 2014, I spent far too little time writing in favor of the work-that-pays-you-money-kind-of-work. I did manage a few things, including my first-ever print magazine feature for our local edition of Edible and an essay about healthcare in America which will appear in The Rumpus in the coming weeks. I am particularly proud of the latter, which is called Big Pharma Is Trying to Date Me and Other Quirks of Being Sick in America, both because the subject matter is important and an outlet I respect *self-consciously guffaws that Cheryl Strayed and Roxane Gay and Steve Almond have written or currently write for it!* is going to publish it. I will, of course, post on social media when it’s up and hope you’ll stop by and read it.

Until then, wishing you and yours the very merriest of Christmases and a Happy New Year!

Cotswolds

Gardener’s Delight

Last night we celebrated husband’s 49-for-the-second-time birthday in style and checked into Barnsley House, a country house in a nearby village that has been converted into a hotel. We’ve been longtime patrons of Barnsley House’s bar and cinema, but this was the first time we’ve spent the night. It’s a special place, especially so if you’re a gardener. It used to be the home of the famous English garden designer, Rosemary Verey, and the property still maintains her handiwork, as well as vegetable and kitchen gardens. Despite the fact that I have a black thumb, I still find it magical. Here are the pictures to prove it. Hope you enjoy as much as we did.




Christmas decorations in the lounge
Romantic freestanding double tubs in our room, pre-supplied
with a distinctly British idea of erotic literature
Spot the birthday boy
More Christmas decorations in
the hotel’s Potager Restaurant
Breakfast with local eggs and vegetables from the garden
Garden folly
Guardian of the garden
This is a potager. I don’t know what a potager is but I want one.
Something to come back for in another season
Cotswolds

Cotswold Fix

I was lucky enough to get a Cotswold fix earlier this month by cramming a weekend visit into a work trip to Europe. It was surprisingly green and mild still, hardly a hint of autumn at all. My timing coincided with the last weekend of the wonderful Cheltenham Literature Festival, and I got to see a panel of the Man Booker Prize shortlistees, including Americans (first time they’ve been allowed on the list) Joshua Ferris and Karen Joy Fowler. As far as highlights go, though, it’s hard to compete with the scenery and a proper roast dinner. This ought to just about tie me over til Christmas!

View from the hamlet of Hampnett
St. George’s, Hampnett
Another Hampnett view
The old college on our lovely lane
Proper roast dinner courtesy of Rupert & Ralph
California

The Cotswolds of California: Lost in Los Alamos

Assuming you’re in the right state—California, not Nevada—finding Los Alamos is easy. It’s about 50 miles north of Santa Barbara, just off the 101 freeway. You exit onto the main drag of this town of 1,890 people, which means it’s nearly impossible to get lost once you’re there, too. But step inside the establishments of Los Alamos and you might very well start to feel disoriented. From the old west vibe of the 1880 Union Hotel to the wouldn’t-be-out-of-place-in-Manhattan interior of Bob’s Well Bread bakery and coffee shop, Los Alamos is full of surprises.

A vintage car rally during Los Alamos’ annual birthday celebration, Old Days

The first of these was when, shortly after checking in to the 1880 Union Hotel, we stopped into Babi’s Beer Emporium and Emilio Estevez pulled us a pint. We had read that his partner, Sonja Magdevski, owned the establishment and the adjoining Casa Dumetz wine tasting room, but we didn’t expect to see Estevez at work behind the pumps. While we both tried to feign a polite level of indifference, D. couldn’t pass up the opportunity to tell him how much he liked Repo Man. I was far too starstruck to chip in anything about The Breakfast Club or how, more recently, I had blubbered through a flight while watching his 2011 film, The Way. Of course the real stars of Babi’s are the beers; I sipped a Pilsner from Hangar 24 Craft Brewery out of Redlands, California while D. hit a 10+% triple IPA, which explains why he can’t remember the name of it.

The bar at Babi’s Beer Emporium

But more than beer, this town is about wine. In addition to Casa Dumetz, Bell Street hosts a tasting room for Bedford Winery and, in a tiny building at the front of the Alamo Motel, a recently opened outlet for Municipal Winemakers. The latter’s Rhone-style Bright Red and Bright White dry Riesling were standouts from our tasting. Hollywood makes another appearance—this time inside the glass—at the Wine Saloon, which features Kurt Russell’s Gogi Wines and a stellar rosé from Kate Hudson and Matt Bellamy’s (of Muse) label. Tres Hermanas, who have a tasting room 10 miles away in Los Olivos, have taken over the bar at the newly renovated The Station. Over a glass of their crisp white Grenache, one of the owners told us about their plans to open the restaurant by late November. In the meantime, they were offering burritos to their hungry bar patrons.

Cafe Quackenbush and Art Gallery

We passed on the burritos in favor of pizza at the vibrant Full of Life Flatbread. The pie was good, but it was upstaged by a dessert of a sheep’s milk cheesecake with plum sorbet. At lunchtime, dining options in Los Alamos expand to include Bell Street Farm, Café Quackenbush, and Bob’s Well Bread. And for a taste of Los Alamos before Hollywood showed up, try Charlie’s, which has the advantage of being open for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. Many of the restaurants and bars I’ve mentioned so far still only open on weekends to cater for tourist traffic.

To keep you occupied between eating and drinking, there are a handful of antique and vintage shops to dip in and out of on Bell Street. The Gentleman Farmer and The Depot Mall, on the site of the old Pacific Coast Railway depot, were two of my favorites.

My only advice is this: visit Los Alamos now. The mere existence of the shops, bars, and eateries I’ve mentioned proves that Los Alamos has already been discovered, but it still doesn’t feel overrun. Today Los Alamos is Solvang before Sideways. Given the Hollywood presence we encountered, it won’t be the case for long.

See more pictures of Los Alamos on Pinterest here.

The Details

Where to Stay:

1880 Union Hotel
362 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-2744

March 2015 Update: On subsequent visits we enjoyed staying at both the Victorian Mansion Bed & Breakfast and the Alamo Motel. The former has over-the-top themed rooms; we stayed in the 1950s suite complete with a Cadillac bed “parked” at your own personal drive-in showing your choice of Grease or American Graffiti. At the latter, ask for one of the refurbished rooms.

Sleeping arrangements in the 1950s suite at the Victorian Mansion

The Victorian Mansion Bed & Breakfast
326 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-1300

The Alamo Motel
425 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-2852

Where to Eat:

Cafe Quackenbush
458 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-5181

Full of Life Flatbread
225 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-4400

Bell Street Farm
406 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-4609

Bob’s Well Bread
550 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-3000

Where to Drink:

Casa Dumetz / Babi’s Beer Emporium
448 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-1911

Wine Saloon
362 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-2744

The Station
346 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-1950

This post is part of a series on the search for the Cotswolds of California, i.e., an idyllic weekend escape within easy reach of Los Angeles. Earlier I profiled the Ojai Valley here and the Santa Ynez Valley here.

Cotswolds

Loos of the Cotswolds: A Wee Dunnit

A few weeks ago we lent our Cotswold cottage to friends and family, which explains why our plumbing thought it would be a perfect time to go on the fritz. An emergency plumber was summoned on a Sunday, but the required parts weren’t available until Monday. Our guests were exceedingly good humored about the 24-hour toilet outage and took it upon themselves to document this guide to public loos of the Cotswolds. (Normally I would take full responsibility for a bad pun, but Wee Dunnit is so gloriously bad—by which, of course, I mean good—that I have to give credit to our guest, Julie Henderson, for it.)

WEE DUNNIT IN:

A PUB TOILET at THE HOLLOW BOTTOM, GUITING POWER, with a copy of The Racing Post

A BOOKIES’ TOILET at FRED DONES, CHELTENHAM, after placing a winning bet

A DISABLED TOILET at CHELTENHAM HOSPITAL, with The Daily Mirror and an umbrella

A BAR TOILET at JOHN GORDONS, CHELTENHAM, before a bottle of Picpoul and a Pieminister pie

A PUB TOILET at THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON, BOURTON-ON-THE-WATER, never to be repeated

A SHOP TOILET at FOOD FANATICS, WINCHCOMBE, before a damson and sloe gin ice cream

THE PUBLIC TOILETS in THE MARKET PLACE, NORTHLEACH, with a smile for the BBC film crew who were there shooting J.K. Rowling’s A Casual Vacancy

A BAR TOILET at COPA, CHELTENHAM, after taking advantage of the sales in Jigsaw and Monsoon

A PUB TOILET at YATES’S, CHELTENHAM, at the top of a never-ending stairway

A PUB TOILET at THE WHEATSHEAF INN, NORTHLEACH, before a cheese soufflé and some hake

A BAR TOILET at THE OX HOUSE, NORTHLEACH, after mistakenly walking into the office

THE GARDEN at DROVERS COTTAGE, NORTHLEACH, (discreetly) with a stifled laugh

Cotswolds

Our Cotswold Town Transformed for the Filming of JK Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy

Last week the market square of our Cotswold town was transformed into the fictional town of Pagford for the filming of a television version of J.K. Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy. We weren’t there, but friends and family were staying in our cottage and took some pictures. Thanks to Julie Henderson for all the images in this post.

The plot of The Casual Vacancy centers on the death of a beloved parish councillor and the resulting election that occurs. The set included a notice board for the Pagford Parish Council (above) complete with fictional notices for a village fête, a wine tasting evening, and a scintillating-sounding illustrated talk on “A Passion for Piers.” I can only assume by the authenticity of the notices that the production staff took inspiration from our real notice board.

The local beauty salon became a sweet shop, the Black Cat café morphed into a posh deli, and the chippie turned into Evertree Antiques (no reflection on the age of the chips usually served there).

Actor Michael Gambon was spotted around the square sporting a pair of blue pajamas and velvet slippers. A more common sight around the square, the bike that’s usually parked outside the wine bar, was given a facelift and used as a prop for Michael Gambon’s character’s shop.

I look forward to seeing the full effects of the transformation when the series airs later this year on both BBC One and HBO. And while I hope the show is a big hit, I hope it’s not big enough that it turns our town into something other than the best kept secret in the Cotswolds that it is.

California

Sideways in Santa Ynez: Ten years after the film that put it on the map, the Santa Ynez Valley offers more than the pleasures of Pinot Noir

This post is part of a series on the search for the Cotswolds of California, i.e., an idyllic weekend escape within easy reach of Los Angeles. Earlier I profiled the Ojai Valley here.

Vineyards of the Santa Ynez Valley

This year marks the tenth anniversary of Sideways, Alexander Payne’s 2004 road trip film about the misadventures of Miles, a struggling writer and wine snob, and his friend Jack, a marginally successful actor and interminable philanderer. The action takes place in the towns and wineries of the Santa Ynez Valley in Santa Barbara County, where the two have headed for a last hurrah before Jack gets married. Aside from being an almost perfect comedy, Sideways brought the wine culture of this slice of central California into a mainstream consciousness previously dominated by Napa and Sonoma. To celebrate one of my favorite films turning ten, I ventured to the Santa Ynez Valley with my husband for a road trip of our own.

Hamlet Square, Solvang

Our base for the weekend was the Danish-settled town of Solvang, a place which I affectionately describe as twee. Its architectural style is twentieth-century timbered buildings and reproduction windmills, and the retail includes both Robert Kinkade—purveyor of sickly sweet, chocolate-box landscapes—and a year-round Christmas shop. (There must be a highly compensated MBA at Robert Kinkade who has figured out that the presence of a year-round Christmas shop is a strong indicator that a Kinkade shop will also do well in a location.) Fresh from a six-year stint living in Europe, I was primed to be snarky about mock-medieval architecture in a California town. Instead I found it charming—colorful, tidy and pedestrian-friendly. But we didn’t linger long at the King Frederik Inn following our early Friday evening arrival. A dinner reservation at the Hitching Post in nearby Buellton beckoned.

Just off the 101 Freeway, Buellton is the least village-y of the Santa Ynez Valley towns, studded with chain hotels, fast food outlets, and car dealerships. It is, however, home to two steak restaurants that play prominent roles in Sideways. The Hitching Post is where Miles first meets Maya, his romantic interest, while AJ Spurs is where Jack initiates a tryst that ends both badly and memorably, with the trystee’s rather fleshy, nude husband chasing him down the street after an attempt to retrieve the wallet he left behind in his first rush to escape. Perhaps because of these plot associations, ten years later reservations at the Hitching Post remain a must, while, according to one Solvang local, you can walk into the equally as good AJ Spurs and be assured a table most nights of the week.

The Hitching Post II in Buellton

We arrived at the Hitching Post in time for a pre-dinner drink at the bar—a glass of the Highline Pinot Noir, of course. The bar doesn’t look like it’s changed much since Miles downed a bottle of Highline Pinot on his own and stumbled alone down the highway back to his motel. Even the bartender looked suspiciously familiar when compared to several framed shots of the cast that line the bar walls. Dinner began with a 1970s-style basket of assorted crackers and a silver tray of crudités, both dated and charming given I’m old enough to remember when this kind of start to a meal was the norm. The time warp continued with shrimp cocktail and iceberg lettuce dressed with blue cheese, mostly, I suspect, because the owners of the restaurant don’t see any need to update the appetizers when this restaurant is all about the steak. Thick, juicy slabs of it, grilled to perfection on a barbeque that we happened to have a perfect view of from our table.

Satiated and back in Solvang, we decided to try and walk off dinner with a short stroll to the Wandering Dog Wine Bar. Here the young bartender, a graduate of viticulture from Humboldt University, helped us select a nightcap of Syrah, the specialty of the area, and an accompanying homemade chocolate truffle. He also provided a winery map and tips for a circular winery route the next day, which we planned to tackle on bikes.

On Saturday morning we strolled around Solvang in search of breakfast, settling on the Belgian Café for its sunny outdoor tables. We went savory instead of sweet, choosing eggs studded with a peppery Danish sausage over an extensive selection of waffles. By the time we finished the heat was already beginning to feel daunting for a day out on bikes. Despite being mid-morning, we made a start for our first winery.

Rusack Vineyards on Ballard Canyon Road

Our path took us out of Solvang to the north, past the Hans Christian Andersen Park to Chalk Hill Road. We ventured down one dead end before we finally found our way to Ballard Canyon Road, but what’s a road trip away without a fight over directions? The hills rose with the dusty heat, and we were ready to stop when we caught sight of Rusack Vineyards on our left, an inviting white house at the top of a sloped drive. After refilling our water bottles we settled down on the leather couch to share a flight of tastings. There was also a patio with tables, which would have been inviting if our first priority wasn’t to escape the sun for a few minutes. We left warned of more hills between us and Los Olivos and emboldened by the wine.

Despite being the most challenging leg of the journey, the road between Rusack and Los Olivos was the most scenic, with hardly any traffic. The parched hills and sharp blue skies reminded me more of Oklahoma than California until the final rise before our descent into Los Olivos, where a lush vineyard covered the hillside. Once in the center of Los Olivos, my feeling of geographic displacement resurfaced. The village is laid out around two intersections and, asphalt roads aside, looked like it could have been the set for an episode of Little House on the Prairie.

Ballard Canyon, home of the region’s newest American Viticulture Area (AVA)

Scouting for our lunch spot, we found Los Olivos Wine Merchant & Café, location of a memorable dinner in Sideways in preparation for which Miles makes his famous declaration, “I’m not drinking any fucking merlot!” While tempting, we opted instead for two seats at the bar at Sides Hardware & Shoes. The name certainly doesn’t give it away, but this converted former storefront turned out to be the culinary high point of our weekend. On the pork-heavy menu I was intrigued by something called a hammered pig salad but couldn’t resist a special of duck and cherry grilled cheese. In a world where restaurants have run amok with gourmet grilled cheese nights, Sides delivered with this knockout combination of flavors. And after our previous evening of red wine, it was a relief to see a wine list full of Santa Barbara County whites, several of which were served on tap. Following our splendid air-conditioned hour or so at Sides, we reluctantly ventured back on our bikes, this time to Alamo Pintado Road, which promised to take us back to Solvang in a straight, almost-flat shot. But not, of course, without a couple of wine-tasting stops along the way.

The Enjoy Cupcakes Trailer, whose wares are on offer at the Saarloos & Sons Tasting House in Los Olivos.

Next up was the Ballard Inn, a dove-gray house with a gracious wraparound patio that’s almost halfway back to Solvang. (Blink and you’ll miss the turnoff, as we did.) Inside there’s a lauded restaurant, as well as a tasting room hosting winemakers who are too small to have their own. One such winemaker is the duo of Kenneth Gummere and Mark Crawford, whose cheekily named Kenneth-Crawford “Four Play” Syrah was so good we had to take a bottle home. The tasting was my favorite of the trip, largely because of the local gentleman who walked us through each wine with a winning combination of geniality and knowledge. When asked his advice on a final tasting stop between Ballard and Solvang, he directed us to Rideau to experience the laid-back vibe imbued by its New Orleans-born owner, Iris Rideau.

The tasting room at Rideau was packed with people and a makeshift collection of tablecloth-covered card tables where our young host offered generous pours, all of which added to the laissez les bons temps rouler feel. After choosing a bottle of the 2012 dry Riesling from Curtis Vineyard to take home, we wandered away from the throng into the main house. Here the feel was entirely different, Victorian-ramshackle with polished wood, velvet curtains,and decorative touches. It was a welcome antidote to the Craftsman and deliberately tasteful styles favored by other area tasting rooms.

Twentieth-century medieval in Solvang

Back in Solvang, showered, refreshed, and relieved of our iron steeds, we had time for another tasting at Cali Love. Run by fellow escapees from Los Angeles with a love for music, the tasting room is covered in music memorabilia, including a collection of concert tickets underneath the glass bar top. I was pretty sure I was going to like the wine made by someone who had seen Lucinda Williams live, and I was right. They turned out to be another purveyor of local whites, and I’m a fan of their unfiltered Sun Down Riesling.

Tasting wines you enjoy but having to spit them out to maintain a semblance of sobriety is a bit like an unconsummated marriage; by seven o’clock we were ready to sit down somewhere with an entire glass of the stuff. We settled on Santé Wine Bar & Lounge on the east edge of town. Its white leather and chrome interior is the antithesis of the Solvang design ethic, which makes it a perfect spot if you’re feeling a little suffocated by all the cuteness. The French proprietor adds to the charm, and when we heard him recommend a dinner spot to some other customers we took note.

After a glass of Flying Goat fizz at Santé, we headed for Succulent Café, where we were lucky to nab the last two seats at the bar (all the tables inside and out were booked). Like Sides, Succulent Café has a thing for pork, showcased with their selection of homemade charcuterie. In a futile attempt to inject the appearance of health into the proceedings of the last 24 hours, we opted instead for their excellent daily vegetarian pizza special. A nightcap back at the Wandering Dog Wine Bar brought our last evening in Solvang to a close.

Dessert for breakfast at the Solvang Restaurant

Before leaving the next day, we had to try breakfast at the Solvang Restaurant. It’s a kitschy spot where the scallop-edged wood booths once hosted Miles and Jack as they tried to sate their hangovers. The specialty of the house is the Danish ebleskiver,a powder-sugar dusted pancake sphere smothered with raspberry jam, and a suitably sweet send-off to our weekend. The last two days had been more of a Sideways homage than a recreation, missing out key spots from the film like the esteemed Foxen winery. But like Sideways, which has a sequel in novel-form called Vertical, we knew our weekend in the Santa Ynez Valley was only the first of more to come.

The Details
Download a Sideways Map from Visit Santa Barbara here.
Where to Stay:
We stayed in the clean and functional King Frederik Inn:
617 Copenhagen Drive
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 688-5515

For a more luxurious option, try the Ballard Inn
2436 Baseline Avenue
Ballard, CA 93463
(800) 638-2466

Where to Eat:
The Hitching Post
406 E Hwy 246
Buellton, CA 93427
(805) 688-0676

Sides Hardware and Shoes, a Brothers Restaurant
2375 Alamo Pintado Avenue
Los Olivos, CA 93441
(805) 688-4820

Succulent Café
1555 Mission Drive
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 691-9444

The Solvang Restaurant
1672 Copenhagen Drive
Solvang, CA
(805) 688-4645

Where to Drink:
Wandering Dog Wine Bar
1539 Mission Drive
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 686-9126

Rusack Vineyards
1819 Ballard Canyon Road
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 688-1278

Rideau Vineyard
1562 Alamo Pintado Road
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 688-0717

Cali Love Wine
1651 Copenhagen Drive
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 688-1678

Santé Wine Bar & Lounge
433 Alisal Road
Solvang, CA 93463
Cotswolds

Giffords Circus: The Anti-Cirque du Soleil

The Cotswolds sometimes seem lost in time, a relic of a simpler way of life. Each summer this vibe is heightened by the appearance of Giffords Circus’ burgundy-painted wagons winding their way along the country lanes. Apart from the occasional surreal touch—the cotton candy vendor, a live turkey for an oracle—this traveling circus is firmly rooted in the past.

Cotton candy for Surrealists

This year’s Greek-god themed production, The Thunders, features a ballerina dancing en pointe atop her partner’s head, acrobats catapulting off an over-sized seesaw, and a clown pretending to throw knives at a blindfolded audience member. A pair of rescued dalmatians, after much cajoling, jump through a hoop, a dog rides a pony, and there’s a goose, just because. All frivolity is to the accompaniment of a live band.

Interval tea served in a proper mug

After the show we joined 40 other audience members at the Circus Sauce restaurant in a tent set up outside the chow wagon. Here we feasted family-style on a meal of pease pudding and pork belly served from atmospherically chipped Emma Bridgewater pottery. The cooks put on a marionette show, but the real entertainment at our end of the table was provided by two women doing a very convincing impression of the French and Saunders country ladies (start at 1:02 here)

The Sauce Restaurant tent

Don’t miss it. Remaining dates on this year’s tour are here.

Cotswolds

Open Gardens, Old Friends

Our last Sunday in the Cotswolds coincided with Guiting Power’s annual Open Gardens Day (first Sunday of June each year). The flowers—poppies, foxgloves, cornflowers, irises—were ravishing, the lemon drizzle cake beyond reproach, but mostly we went hoping to bump into Dorothy, the 94-year old matriarch of the village who still regularly mans the till at the local shop, her namesake Watson’s Groceries. We first came to know Dorothy when we rented a cottage in the village in 2007 and made her acquaintance at church. There were, on average, seven attendees at each service, which meant we made the acquaintance of everyone. When we subsequently bought a cottage in a town 20 minutes away, we still made the trek up to Guiting Power on the one Sunday a month when there was church, not because we were particularly religious but because, then as now, we wanted to see Dorothy.

On this particular Sunday we found her selling tickets at a card table in front of the 1970s-era village hall. Wary she wouldn’t remember us after several years away, I greeted her by saying, “It’s Jennifer.” She seemed confused as to why I was explaining who we were and immediately asked if we had started a family yet (clearly she hadn’t read my book) before launching into an update on the health scare of the Dorothea plant we had given her for her 90th birthday. Unable to reach it on the window ledge to water it while the house was being redecorated, she had feared for its health but, somehow, it had pulled through. As had Dorothy. Eight months earlier she had fallen backwards down the stairs of her flat, broken several ribs and gotten 18 stitches in her head. As she explained it through her benevolent Black Country accent, she was just on her way out of the house to visit Jeanne, the equally lovely and slightly less elderly lay minister, when she decided she better get a sweater because “you know how it is at Jeanne’s house.” It was just as she turned on the stairs to retrieve her cardigan that she slipped and fell.

We didn’t know “how it was” at Jeanne’s house, but in a moment that was straight out of Alan Bennett if Alan Bennett had written about the Cotswolds instead of Leeds, Dorothy’s raised eyebrows told us in the most plain way that Jeanne never turned on her heating. In an instant we were reminded of the barely detectable but still unmistakable tension we had observed between these two ladies over the years. Where I got my idea that such tensions should cease to exist after a certain age, I don’t know, but it made me smile to be reminded in this way that they we remain human until the bitter end. Unwittingly dispensing another life lesson, Dorothy ended our conversation by telling us she had recovered quickly because she was fit before it happened, as indeed she seemed that day. It was a pleasure, as always, to see her.

More photos from the Open Gardens:

 

 

 

 

Cotswolds

Making up for Michelle: My Royal Encounter

Generally speaking, I have nothing but praise for First Lady Michelle Obama. She’s an accomplished career woman, advocate of physical fitness, and, miraculously, has managed to pull off bangs (that’s a fringe to my British readers) in middle age. As far as I can tell, her only fault was that memorable moment in 2009 when she dared to hug the Queen of England. Luckily for Mrs. Obama, and on behalf of all Americans in England, I set out to make good on her gaffe this past weekend when I had occasion to meet the Queen’s son, HRH The Prince of Wales.

Check out that footwork. Years of childhood ballet recitals finally pay off.

Prince Charles was visiting our Cotswold town to attend a choral concert as part of Music in Country Churches, a charity of which he is a patron. That I was allowed to meet him, and thus rectify Mrs. O’s impropriety, was through the good fortune of our cherished friendship with Rupert and Ralph (of Americashire fame), who are residents of the former vicarage. During the concert interval, HRH would take refreshment in a marquee on the lawn of the vicarage. To thank the residents for their hospitality, Prince Charles would then take a moment to greet them all before returning to the church for the remainder of the concert. Knowing of my Anglophilia and having met HRH on a previous visit some years ago, Rupert and Ralph suggested we masquerade as residents of the vicarage and take their place in the receiving line. In exchange for their generosity, the only request was that I behave. And so I took to the internet to research royal etiquette and spent the day doing curtsy practice around our kitchen. When my turn came, I would be ready.

As HRH made his way down the receiving line, I readied myself for the big moment, shifting my weight to my right foot and purse into my left hand. With his pleasantries nearly completed with the woman next to me, I went in for my curtsy, adding a reverent little bow. Just at that moment, a chap from a few places earlier in the receiving line took advantage of the pause to attempt to re-engage HRH in a bit of light banter. I panicked. What was this over-eager buffoon doing distracting Prince Charles from the gracious sweep of my curtsy? I was already down. Should I come out of my pose and wait my turn or should I just stay in position? Erring on the side of caution—there would be no Michelle-esque breaches of etiquette on my watch—I chose to stay as I was, leaving HRH to greet my slightly overgrown roots when he did turn his attention to me.

In an apparent bid to make HRH feel better about his comb over, I show him my roots

As patiently as he had waited for the last fellow to finish his bit of not-so-snappy repartee, HRH waited for me to complete my genuflection so that we could shake hands. Thankfully my husband managed to answer some questions on my behalf while I was busy bowing. I’m not sure I ever managed to form any words, but at least I have proof I managed to smile.

Oh shit, the future King of England is talking to me