Precious Cargo

Up at 5.30, shower had no hot water in the fleapit we were staying in; leftover pizza is our breakfast. The harvest has begun!

I have never seen anyone work harder and faster than the Mexican team cutting the grapes. We were not loafing ourselves and we got some wonderful stuff, especially following the truck on twisting roads for two hours to the winery for the crush, me clinging to its tail like grim death as Stefan continued shooting, through high banks where the trees were hanging on by their nether roots with their gnarled front ones exposed, over spectacular sheer drops, dry golden grass, dim redwood forest, and then hair-pin bends for miles hanging over the spectacular Pacific coast, all spume and rocks and surf and precipitous cliffs.

So I didn't exactly have a birthday yesterday except for a wonderful mad romp over the Albany Waterfront, which used to be a dump and now is full of sculpture made of the wrecks and scraps left behind. Carolyn orchestrated it, and breakfast in Berkeley. We were meant to have dinner with Cissy and George but had to make our way up the coast.

The boys came for lunch on Monday but it was hardly a birthday celebration - just food, no flowers, cake, presents or singing. At least they came.