Airy, it was: a high saddle at the seaward end of the Mayacamas ridge. The newly planted vineyards splayed upwards from the crux of tracks that met there. Smaller ridges, hazy fingers of blue and purple, broke the view down to San Pablo Bay. There was a picnic table close to the edge, with straw underfoot. Afew orange and yellow calendula flowers had been laid carefully in its centre; ladybirds were discreetly mating on the clover. Idyllic?
