#Extra! Guest Post by Andy Hill

Hamish - A Dog with a tale......

In Cambridge Mass. this year, whilst visiting our nephew Tim, his wife Allie, and children Binnie and Bronwyn, we met for the first time their (75%) Labrador, Hamish.  He is no longer in the first flush of youth, a little grey around the muzzle, but no one can tell us how old he is as he is a rescue dog.  Not so unusual (and of course most of our UK canine friends are rescues) but this is a little more unusual in Massachusetts.  First of all Massachusetts has quarantine regulations and out of State dogs are just not welcome.  Also most Massachusettians  are kind to their dogs and very few are offered for adoption.

On the other hand, down in Louisiana, if you move home (or just move on) some people just leave their canine friends behind with their old unwanted lives.  There is an efficient dog collection service which rounds them up and accommodates them in a sort of 'Dog Death Row' where they wait for up to fourteen days, their paws already shaved for where the electrodes are to be attached.

Now fortunately there is a dedicated dog friend down there who has set up a kind of dating service to contact the lonely humans in New England …..    'Brown eyes; early stage halitosis only; already castrated; GSOH; etc; etc.'   Once photos have been exchanged, up to twenty dogs are liberated and placed in a van to be taken north.  Stopping only for regular toilet breaks they drive on until rendezvous is eventually achieved at a secret location, probably in a Supermarket car park somewhere in New Hampshire. The dogs are introduced to their delighted new owners who take them home to somewhere near the cradle of American Independence.  Our friend makes the lonely journey back stopping only for his own toilet breaks until he arrives home to hose out the back of his van.  The whole process then begins again in preparation for the next trip.

So Hamish is a very fortunate dog indeed, even though he still suffers a crisis of confidence every time he sees someone packing a suitcase.  These days he realises this is just a short family vacation to which he is always invited.

Authors note:  I have been asked to point out that in the USA dogs and other pets are euthanased by lethal injection, just as they are in the UK.

Los Gatos

Arriving in Los Gatos is, in so many ways, like getting home: an English cup of tea; yoghurt and fruit for breakfast; a comfy sofa; plenty of rooms to spread out in; books to read and, of course, family.  But - here's the thing, it's also very, very different.  Every day starts and ends with brilliant blue skies and a startlingly hot sun.  The streets are empty of people - everyone takes their car wherever they go, no matter how short the journey.  Despite the wonderful weather, washing is almost always dried in the tumbler. Water is so short that while you can build a new swimming pool or install a new hot tub, you can't fill it.   And the birds that feed on the bird feeders are not your common or garden bluetits and sparrows - they are hummingbirds.

Los Gatos is a town of just over 30,000, founded in the mid 1800's and named for the mountain lions that used to come down from the nearby Santa Cruz mountains. Near to the famous Silicone Valley, one of its largest employers is Netflix, who are currently building even more offices to accommodate their expansion.  

Caro and Mike at the Winchester Mystery House

It's a good hub from which to explore the area around: there's the Winchester Mystery House, where the heiress to the Winchester rifles fortune had workmen build continuously in order to save herself from the ghosts she believed were haunting her; there is the glorious coastline of Santa Cruz, where surfers sit around on their boards, waiting for the next wave, while seals bask nearby and pelicans fly overhead; there are so many fabulous restaurants to eat out in; there are reservoirs to walk around (if you are prepared to dodge the cyclists and joggers); there are numerous wineries where you can taste the local wines; but best of all there are friends and family to catch up with over wine, wine and more wine...

After the wine tasting...

All in all, a great trip.  Here's to next time...

Fog City

For all that San Francisco is called Fog City, I've never yet seen it shrouded in fog.  I must just have been lucky...

The view from our hotel room

The weather is kind - the sun is shining and a chill wind is blowing along the pristine streets. Arriving off the Zephyr I find that I have lost my land legs; the ground beneath my feet tilting me off balance. It's a most peculiar sensation, which keeps catching me unawares.  By the morning of our second day it's just about gone, only causing me to pause for a moment when I stand up too fast.
We've been to San Francisco before, and have done most of the tourist things - the sea lions at Pier 39, the trip across the Bay to look around Alcatraz and under the famous Golden Gate Bridge.  So, there's not a lot left that we want to do.
The one thing I want to do, of course, is to ride the trams.  You could put me on  a tram at eight in the morning, with a day pass, and I'd happily ride them all day until midnight, there is something magical about them.

The first tram we ride on, someone kindly offers me a seat... not what I'd wanted.  Thereafter I abandon all English politeness and inhibition and whiz my way round to board at the front, pole position - standing - and refuse all offers of a seat.  This is my place and I'm keeping it. Hanging on as we round corners, having a fabulous view of the famously hilly streets, hearing the banter of the driver with his passengers, all make me phenomenally happy.  Yes,  I could ride the trams all day.
Of course, we can't do that.  So, we head for the Wells Fargo Museum and spend some time there, tapping out messages in morse code, learning how to drive a team of horses, identifying bandits. Andrew is in his element with the banking ledgers and machinery.  It's a good museum.
When getting cash from the main Wells Fargo bank, the doorman tells us we can go up in the lift to the roof garden, take a seat, look at the views.  Well, who'd have thought it.

We leave Fog City on the Caltrain through the suburbs.  No city looks good from the train tracks, and this one is no different.  Litter, abandoned trucks, slum dwellings, hidden from the main part of the city, but still a part of it.  Somehow, it gives the place a bit more balance to know that it's not all bright roof gardens, slick businessmen and shiny buildings.

Train Travel

I have to tell you, for me, train travel is the way to go.  I'm not saying I'll never fly again, but if there is a train option, I will take it like a shot.

The California Zephyr goes on what is advertised as the most scenic route across America.   On its journey it goes from Denver across the Rocky Mountains, the high desert of Utah and then the Sierra Nevada, finishing at Oakland across the bay from San Francisco, and it is certainly beautiful.  The Colorado River runs alongside the track for a lot of the first day.  At first it's not much more than a small creek tumbling over stones, overhung by the high rocky mountains.

 Sometimes the terrain opens up to wide meadows, and here people have settled, building towns that survive on skiing in the winter and white water rafting and fishing in the summer.  We pass these white water rafters on our journey, bouncing along beside us or below us as the track wends its way up the side of the mountain. People bring little tents, and camp alongside the river, with just their boats to get them from place to place, when there are no roads. At one point we pass Moon Point, where anybody camping rolls down their shorts to moon their bare backsides at the passing train.  

The high desert of Utah is largely crossed during the night, but is still there in the morning, several hours later.  It amazes me just how huge this country really is.  Travelling by train highlights its enormous scale, and I keep thinking of the early pioneers and gold rush settlers who came so far with wagon trains, crossing the rivers, finding ways to get through the mountains and crossing these great dry plains.

Eventually the desert gives way to the beginnings of the Sierra Nevada.  Here we come to the Donner Pass, where a party of settlers were trapped at the beginning of the winter and cut off by the snow, eventually resorting to cannibalism to enable some to survive.

This is gold rush country, mountainous and deeply wooded. Here, even now, some communities still exist, and gold is still found.  I wouldn't live up here, so isolated, for any amount of gold.

But as well as the fantastic scenery, the train journey has something unique to offer the traveller. Every meal is taken in the dining car, and at every meal you are seated with people you have never met before.  We shared a meal with a couple of ladies, one of whom was the wife of a farmer from Nebraska and her friend, whose father had had to leave his farm because he couldn't make it pay. We learnt so much about the drought and the hardship endured by the farmers. These ladies were very much interested in Lady Di, and were quite surprised that we didn't share the interest to the same extent. We met an Australian Vietnam veteran, who still shakes because of his experiences so many years ago, and his friend, who had survived throat cancer, only to lose his wife a few years after his recovery.  With them, we talked rugby and cricket and some politics. 

We drew out a quiet couple by talking about their children, and enjoyed a lively debate with a hippy couple who had very different views from ours.  Everybody was interested in us, and everybody was interesting to us.   No conversation was small talk.  We got to know them.  Somehow, travelling by train made for a deeper connection, but no demands.  No addresses were exchanged, no facebook friendships made.  It was totally unique.

I may well not travel the same route again, and may never see such wonderful scenery again, but I would happily go by train again to experience the cameraderie we felt on this trip.

Moving On

I think its probably best if I gloss over the journey from Boston to Denver.   Suffice it to say, I am never ever catching a connecting flight again...

So, we arrived in Denver at 10.30 pm, two hours after our expected arrival time and too late to have dinner with our friends, Brenna and Carl.  We were tired, we were stressed, we were grumpy.  Thank heaven the hotel was absolutely gorgeous.  We woke next morning to a bright Denver morning and the world seemed a much better place than it had the night before. 

I knew nothing about Denver at all.  I'd looked it up on Google before we went, but there really wasn't a lot of information.  Let me tell you - I'd go back there like a shot.  It's one of the friendliest places we've ever been to.  Its a frontier town, with gold mining and farming history.  As well as being known as the Mile High City because, surprisingly, its a mile above sea level, it is also known as Cow Town, and you can see the farming history in the way the men walk, or rather strut around town. They look like they were born in the saddle. 

Having fixed to meet Brenna later in the day, we decided on a cultural morning and took ourselves off to the Colorado History Museum.  It's a well designed museum, with loads to look at and we spent a very educational few hours there.  If ever you should visit Denver (and I'd recommend you do), its a good place to learn about frontier towns and the difficulties of farming where there is little water.

Educated sufficiently we met up with Brenna in the bar at the Hotel.  The Crawford Hotel is situated sort of above and around Union Station - the main train station in Denver.  It used to be the hub of the city before plane travel took over.  Its been so well converted - there are food outlets and gift shops and an amazing bar that specialises in different beers and cocktails.  One thing Denverites are passionate about is beer - there's a Beer Triangle between Boulder, Fort Collins and Denver that includes more than 72 breweries.  Heaven!

The Terminal Bar at Union Station

Having consumed the obligatory cocktail at the Terminal Bar in Union Station with Brenna, we went to visit their home.  It's a lovely little brick built house, with a really homely feel.  Best of all was the very zen garden, criss-crossed with prayer flags.  A peaceful haven.  Carl was still working, so we had a whistle stop tour of the suburbs, finishing with a visit to a fascinating bar, with hanging fabric, and aspen trees holding up the ceiling, and where to wash your hands was an unusual exercise in intelligence, involving pulleys and chains...

We met Brenna and Carl when we were in India last year - they were on their honeymoon.  We got talking and said, as you do, that we'd look them up if we were ever in Denver.  I am so glad that we included their city in our trip and met up with them again.  Good friends.  Good times.

Boston, City of Champions

I love Boston.  I love the cleanliness, the bustle, the life of the place.  It just feels good.  If you wander around you find little side streets, with pavements out of shape because of the tree roots, and small cafes that sell the most amazing breakfasts and are so full of people you can't lift your elbows to eat.  If you've never eaten a fresh cooked English muffin with avocado and bacon from the cafe in Church Street, Boston, well - you haven't really lived.
Mind you, we had forgotten about the portion sizes in restaurants.  My first mistake on our first night (local time 8 ish, time at home 1 am ish), was to order a starter and a main.  The starter was gorgeous - deep fried courgette slices with a creamy dip.  I did think that two large courgettes cut into slices was a bit excessive, and left a fair amount.  Then the main appeared - aubergine in a tomato sauce with spaghetti.  Again gorgeous, again huge.  A family of six would have just about managed to eat it all.  I had no chance.  Ah well, lesson learnt.
The next morning was a chance to explore Boston a bit. After our wonderful breakfast we headed out to the harbour and watched the planes taking off and landing at Logan airport, and the boats pootling around.  Lovely.
  

 

Walking around a corner, we saw a whale watching boat, due to leave in ten minutes - serendipity.  I've always wanted to go whale watching, and never had the chance .  I have to tell you, it was just the best three and a half hours!  

Boston receding into the distance

 There weren't too many people on the boat, so no problem finding a place to watch from.  About an hour and a half out to sea, there was the first sighting - a young humpback whale.  It was a completely amazing experience to see him so close-to.  He hung around for about twenty minutes, rolling over and hitting his fin against the water.

Eventually he took a deeper dive and disappeared.  We hung around for a while and eventually were rewarded with a sighting of a group of three, who played around nearby for a while, before they, too, dived and left us.

Boston is known as the City of Champions.  To my mind, the true champions of Boston are the whales.