We are north of San Francisco, Wine country. Every turn reveals something new and startling. Yesterday we drove along the Russian River to the ocean. We drove through groves of Redwood trees, large for us, but not like the really big trees further north. The coast in this part of the world is so beautiful so fresh, so unspoiled.
It turns out that one of my ancestors moved here from Lancaster, Ma in 1870. He too wrote about being overcome by the beauty and climate.