The northern
towns crowning the Olympic Peninsula are of the rugged working class type
established when lumberjacks were lumberjacks and the concept of a lumbersexual
was a gay 80’s fantasy instead of a hipster style of dress. No doubt it’s the
foreboding landscape and apocalyptic feel of destitution that led to some woman
setting her Twilight novels in the town of Forks, Washington. We snapped a
picture at the town entrance sign and it must have been an odd time of day for
we were the only ones stood on what was clearly well trodden ground. I grimaced
so that should anyone be watching me they’d know I wasn’t there by choice. The
town has clearly benefitted from the books as a number of shops have sprung up
offering vampire related merchandise and the supermarket counters were adorned
with leaflets advertising Twilight tours etc. As we moved on to the slightly
larger but equally rough-and-ready Port Angeles, Emma was amused to tell me
that a local Italian restaurant named Bella Italia had been doing a roaring
trade in mushroom ravioli and coca cola since this was what the female
protagonist from Twilight ordered on her first date with her vampire lover. We
spent an uneventful night in Walmart car park with a dozen other RVs, only
occasionally peering past the curtains for signs of the supernatural.
The next wet day was spent relaxing in a coffee shop, writing blogs, uploading photos etc. When we decided to move on we had to make a decision on how we were going to get back on the main route north to Canada. The Puget Sound which separates Seattle and the mainland from the peninsula would add an extra few hundred miles on to our journey and we weren’t particularly set on going back to Seattle. The other options took us by ferry to Vancouver Island or Whidbey Island. I searched around for some free campsites in the area and other than Walmart again the options were slim. We settled on another casino in the improbably named Sequim (improbably pronounced ‘squim’) and were pleasantly surprised to discover free parking with a free electrical hookup. Deciding I wanted some entertainment for the evening, even if it was of the cheap Wednesday night local casino variety, I dragged Emma in to the Rainforest bar where I was immediately befriended by a terribly drunk local named Mason. On greeting me, Mason proudly announced his foreign heritage, as do so many Americans, although apologised that he hadn’t actually been to Norway nor did he speak any Norwegian but god damn it his blood was Norwegian. Only a short time later he was buying me drinks and I was warming into winding him up about American gun laws and why everyone here drives a truck. He told me stories of meth labs and trespassers to justify his M16 assault rifle ownership whilst I bought him drinks in return and he fed me a sugary bbq pizza. Before too long the bar tender was involved and the discussion moved on to his travels in the UK, scotch whiskey and cigars. As I ordered myself a cheap cigar (too many beers at this point) Emma slid to the other end of the bar, supposedly to avoid the smoke though I suspect her drink choice of lemonade wasn’t having quite the same effect as my Fresh Squeezed IPA was having on me and her enjoyment levels were perhaps a little short of enthusiastic. Mason, Sid the bartender and I wrapped up the night with me buying a round, Mason staggering off home and Sid disclosing to me a personal tale of bereavement which made me regret the last order of ale. I collected him on Facebook, invited him to stay in my bed in the UK (wherever that will be) and apologised to Emma for boring her all evening on the way back to the van. I left with a headache but also a pleasant sensation that the local people of Sequim, particularly patrons of the Seven Cedars Casino, were a really nice bunch of people, even if they were gun toting, heavy drinking, truck driving, boat building republicans.
As we drove to the north eastern tip of the peninsula we decided we would catch a ferry to Coupeville which in turn would set us on the road back to the mainland and northbound. The ferry left the pretty maritime village of Port Townsend and took a short 30-45 minutes to cross the calm open water to Whidbey Island on the other side. As we disembarked the ferry Emma and I were transported to the Cornish countryside and the rolling hills of southern England. Hedgerows lined the narrow roads which wound their way through gentle fields of grain, the horizon dotted with farm buildings and the occasional Dutch windmill. It was a rather surreal experience which reminded me of home enough to pang at my heart. The town of Coupeville was not dissimilar to the small Cornish fishing villages which turn themselves over to tourists in the summer months and we spent the day in the sunshine watching sail boats take to the water whilst drinking coffee.
Despite not finding any free camping opportunities in the area we decided to have dinner in town and online reviews and guidebooks pointed us to a restaurant named Christopher’s. We took a table at 5pm and pondered the menu whilst the overbearingly enthusiastic waitress fussed around us, earning her tips. Emma decided that this was the right place to have some seafood and ordered the special of Cajun style mussels and salmon. I couldn’t decide between surf and turf so opted for both in a dish of lamb and sockeye salmon. We hadn’t eaten all day so we ordered starters as well, Emma choosing the clam chowder and I selecting the fondue. As the waitress scuttled back to the kitchen we took stock of the already full dining room and in particular the size of the portions which started arriving at the tables. The eyes of the five little Korean women to our right nearly fell out when their plates of pasta arrived. As our sizable starters landed I noticed as well that everyone was being given salads. The waitress had asked us what type of dressing we wanted and although I replied without question I began to wonder whether this was a sneaky trick employed to get you to buy a salad. Rather than ask you if you want a salad I assumed they just asked what dressing you want and charge you for the greens. As I scoped around the room for the salad prices, memories of my dad arguing with salespeople rang around my head and I formulated my argument for when the bill came. Obviously I needn’t have been so paranoid, the salads were free, but what shook me more was the volume of food which arrived at our table. After the liquid cheese and bread I was pretty stuffed and Emma’s creamy clam chowder was not on the light side and we were perhaps regretting the choice to splash out on a fancy meal. My lamb ribs were served atop a pile of couscous and vegetables the size of my head and I had to dig around to locate the hand sized slab of salmon. Emma gawped at her 20 mussels, equally sized slab of salmon and fists of gnocchi. We tucked in without delay and relaxed a little when we witnessed the Korean delegates take most of their food away in boxes; at least we wouldn’t be paying for food to be binned.
It was a very pleasant meal although both of us have come to the biased conclusion that Welsh and New Zealand lamb is of far superior taste to the limited amount of lamb they eat in the States. Emma enjoyed her meal as well though it was hard not to feel that the restaurant had overcompensated for OK tasting food with huge portion sizes and excessive meat combinations. I looked around the packed dining room and noted the smiling faces of people who genuinely seemed to think that this was a truly fantastic gastronomic experience. It reminded me as well of an American friend of mine who, at the age of 50, was championing the merits of various fast food restaurants found in the states. I like burgers as much as the next guy and I by no means suggest that the cities of America don’t provide some world class restaurants. Maybe it is because I’ve lived in London for the past 8 years that I’ve been spoiled for choice of eatery or maybe it is because my parents treated me to exciting styles of cuisine (my mum cooked llama last Christmas) but I couldn’t help feel proud of the food we have on offer back home. I am of the generation where the notion of terrible British cooking is a stereotype of the past and I wanted to tell that to that dining room in Coupeville. I wanted to tell them to strip back the portion sizes, remove half the ingredients and serve their seafood as simply as possible. More than that I wanted to tell them to visit the seafood restaurants of Cornwall or the River Cottage Canteen in Axeminster; I wanted to invite them to eat a £12 dinner at Le Mercury in Angel, to tuck into potted saffron shrimp at the Bistro in Southport or enjoy a fry up at the Kitchen Table in Mumbles. Maybe it was the scenery from earlier, the thoughts of my mum and dad, or the fact that we were heading back to Canada, the home of our van and the start of our trip, but I had home on my mind and home firmly thumping in my heart. That in itself was a problem because I was so full the thumping was making me feel sick.
After the serenity of Whidbey Island it was back down to earth with a bump as we pulled into Camping World, Burlington for the night. I’d read online that these places allowed overnight RV parking although, with the store being closed, there was no indication of where or if we could park. We pulled up next to a row of 30 or so giant RVs and drew the curtains hoping that we’d just blend in as another vehicle.
The next wet day was spent relaxing in a coffee shop, writing blogs, uploading photos etc. When we decided to move on we had to make a decision on how we were going to get back on the main route north to Canada. The Puget Sound which separates Seattle and the mainland from the peninsula would add an extra few hundred miles on to our journey and we weren’t particularly set on going back to Seattle. The other options took us by ferry to Vancouver Island or Whidbey Island. I searched around for some free campsites in the area and other than Walmart again the options were slim. We settled on another casino in the improbably named Sequim (improbably pronounced ‘squim’) and were pleasantly surprised to discover free parking with a free electrical hookup. Deciding I wanted some entertainment for the evening, even if it was of the cheap Wednesday night local casino variety, I dragged Emma in to the Rainforest bar where I was immediately befriended by a terribly drunk local named Mason. On greeting me, Mason proudly announced his foreign heritage, as do so many Americans, although apologised that he hadn’t actually been to Norway nor did he speak any Norwegian but god damn it his blood was Norwegian. Only a short time later he was buying me drinks and I was warming into winding him up about American gun laws and why everyone here drives a truck. He told me stories of meth labs and trespassers to justify his M16 assault rifle ownership whilst I bought him drinks in return and he fed me a sugary bbq pizza. Before too long the bar tender was involved and the discussion moved on to his travels in the UK, scotch whiskey and cigars. As I ordered myself a cheap cigar (too many beers at this point) Emma slid to the other end of the bar, supposedly to avoid the smoke though I suspect her drink choice of lemonade wasn’t having quite the same effect as my Fresh Squeezed IPA was having on me and her enjoyment levels were perhaps a little short of enthusiastic. Mason, Sid the bartender and I wrapped up the night with me buying a round, Mason staggering off home and Sid disclosing to me a personal tale of bereavement which made me regret the last order of ale. I collected him on Facebook, invited him to stay in my bed in the UK (wherever that will be) and apologised to Emma for boring her all evening on the way back to the van. I left with a headache but also a pleasant sensation that the local people of Sequim, particularly patrons of the Seven Cedars Casino, were a really nice bunch of people, even if they were gun toting, heavy drinking, truck driving, boat building republicans.
As we drove to the north eastern tip of the peninsula we decided we would catch a ferry to Coupeville which in turn would set us on the road back to the mainland and northbound. The ferry left the pretty maritime village of Port Townsend and took a short 30-45 minutes to cross the calm open water to Whidbey Island on the other side. As we disembarked the ferry Emma and I were transported to the Cornish countryside and the rolling hills of southern England. Hedgerows lined the narrow roads which wound their way through gentle fields of grain, the horizon dotted with farm buildings and the occasional Dutch windmill. It was a rather surreal experience which reminded me of home enough to pang at my heart. The town of Coupeville was not dissimilar to the small Cornish fishing villages which turn themselves over to tourists in the summer months and we spent the day in the sunshine watching sail boats take to the water whilst drinking coffee.
Despite not finding any free camping opportunities in the area we decided to have dinner in town and online reviews and guidebooks pointed us to a restaurant named Christopher’s. We took a table at 5pm and pondered the menu whilst the overbearingly enthusiastic waitress fussed around us, earning her tips. Emma decided that this was the right place to have some seafood and ordered the special of Cajun style mussels and salmon. I couldn’t decide between surf and turf so opted for both in a dish of lamb and sockeye salmon. We hadn’t eaten all day so we ordered starters as well, Emma choosing the clam chowder and I selecting the fondue. As the waitress scuttled back to the kitchen we took stock of the already full dining room and in particular the size of the portions which started arriving at the tables. The eyes of the five little Korean women to our right nearly fell out when their plates of pasta arrived. As our sizable starters landed I noticed as well that everyone was being given salads. The waitress had asked us what type of dressing we wanted and although I replied without question I began to wonder whether this was a sneaky trick employed to get you to buy a salad. Rather than ask you if you want a salad I assumed they just asked what dressing you want and charge you for the greens. As I scoped around the room for the salad prices, memories of my dad arguing with salespeople rang around my head and I formulated my argument for when the bill came. Obviously I needn’t have been so paranoid, the salads were free, but what shook me more was the volume of food which arrived at our table. After the liquid cheese and bread I was pretty stuffed and Emma’s creamy clam chowder was not on the light side and we were perhaps regretting the choice to splash out on a fancy meal. My lamb ribs were served atop a pile of couscous and vegetables the size of my head and I had to dig around to locate the hand sized slab of salmon. Emma gawped at her 20 mussels, equally sized slab of salmon and fists of gnocchi. We tucked in without delay and relaxed a little when we witnessed the Korean delegates take most of their food away in boxes; at least we wouldn’t be paying for food to be binned.
It was a very pleasant meal although both of us have come to the biased conclusion that Welsh and New Zealand lamb is of far superior taste to the limited amount of lamb they eat in the States. Emma enjoyed her meal as well though it was hard not to feel that the restaurant had overcompensated for OK tasting food with huge portion sizes and excessive meat combinations. I looked around the packed dining room and noted the smiling faces of people who genuinely seemed to think that this was a truly fantastic gastronomic experience. It reminded me as well of an American friend of mine who, at the age of 50, was championing the merits of various fast food restaurants found in the states. I like burgers as much as the next guy and I by no means suggest that the cities of America don’t provide some world class restaurants. Maybe it is because I’ve lived in London for the past 8 years that I’ve been spoiled for choice of eatery or maybe it is because my parents treated me to exciting styles of cuisine (my mum cooked llama last Christmas) but I couldn’t help feel proud of the food we have on offer back home. I am of the generation where the notion of terrible British cooking is a stereotype of the past and I wanted to tell that to that dining room in Coupeville. I wanted to tell them to strip back the portion sizes, remove half the ingredients and serve their seafood as simply as possible. More than that I wanted to tell them to visit the seafood restaurants of Cornwall or the River Cottage Canteen in Axeminster; I wanted to invite them to eat a £12 dinner at Le Mercury in Angel, to tuck into potted saffron shrimp at the Bistro in Southport or enjoy a fry up at the Kitchen Table in Mumbles. Maybe it was the scenery from earlier, the thoughts of my mum and dad, or the fact that we were heading back to Canada, the home of our van and the start of our trip, but I had home on my mind and home firmly thumping in my heart. That in itself was a problem because I was so full the thumping was making me feel sick.
After the serenity of Whidbey Island it was back down to earth with a bump as we pulled into Camping World, Burlington for the night. I’d read online that these places allowed overnight RV parking although, with the store being closed, there was no indication of where or if we could park. We pulled up next to a row of 30 or so giant RVs and drew the curtains hoping that we’d just blend in as another vehicle.
No comments:
Post a Comment