Chapter One

Idyllwild. May 1974

We came into the town in our jeep, George and I, two hippie kids and a dog. He was tall, with longish dark hair over his collar, in a red plaid flannel shirt, jeans and hiking boots. His Findhorn clothes. I thought he was so adorable. Myself in those days, with gold Rapunzel hair I could sit on, in a dark Fair Isle jumper, long green corduroy skirt, hiking boots, and heavy beige knee socks – climbing socks.

We came around the bend into the town, over the little bridge where Lily Creek rushed by. It was spring and the snow had melted but it was still rather chilly at 5000 feet. There was smoke coming from the chimneys in the shops, and clouds wreathed the mountaintops and the tall dark pines. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.
'Well, here we are. Shall we go find it and then celebrate, or fortify ourselves first?' There was a café with breakfast served on thick plates in the centre of town. I could hear him thinking of ham and eggs, and laughed.
'Let's find it first, and then we can eat all we want!' He shook his head, smiling. 'Impatience!'

We got out of the jeep, with its small trailer behind, and crossed over the wooden frontier fence at the State Park, heading for the woods above the town to the trailhead. The woods were close and wet, and after a few yards, as dark as midnight.
'We should have brought the headlamps,' George said, going ahead, but he held out a hand behind for me. There was the trail, across from the visitors centre, winding up the mountainside. We followed it until we came to the ridge and a collection of large flat granite rocks marked the break in the trees, and sunlight filtered through. The damp undergrowth smelt rich and boggy. He looked for the next part of the route, to the right. Down we went, then up again, and with a sharp right turn, down into the little vale where it was flat for acres. In the small clearing, there was a cabin- two rooms and a lean-to. It was a clubhouse once for tourists when there was a golf course here in the Twenties; there was an amphitheatre about a hundred yards away, overgrown.
'We should have brought the dog, he'd love it.' George said. The dog, Fergus, was a rough collie, left at the jeep.

We went and tried the door with the key given us at the ranger station. It was creaky, but sound – a heavy oaken door with fancy Arts & Crafts style hinges. The cabin was built in the 1920s, during the boom in the National Parks, thanks to the writings of John Muir. Inside, it smelled musty and was dusty, but sound. There was a wood stove fitted into the inglenook on the right-hand wall, and two doorways, one leading into the second room and the other into the lean-to kitchen. The whole structure was a sturdy log cabin, panelled inside, with the doorframes made of small trees. George went over to the near one and examined it.

'No visitors, that's good.' Termites. His head barely cleared the lintel. He smiled at me. 'But it was made for short people.'
'Funny man.' I went through the door into the second room, which was very sunny with windows on two sides. 'We shall freeze in the winter.'
He agreed. 'But it will be nice in the summer. We could do a double-glazed, eh? Sod on the roof; that would help both ways, heat and cold.'
'I like that idea.'
'You would,' he gave me a quick kiss, 'with daisies.' I had to laugh, for he was right. Wildflowers were the first thing I thought of.

'Well, let's go see this old kitchen,' he said. 'Do you think it has an icebox? Shall we have to store up ice in a hole in the ground through the summer?' He went into the lean-to, which ran the length of the cabin. It had once been a screen-porch affair, with a long table-ledge against the outside wall, a wooden Arts & Crafts table at one end, with a sink and a small iron range against the inside wall. There was an icebox – wooden, and zinc-lined. He looked at me with a face of dread, but upon examination we found it to have been converted to electricity, albeit with a 1930s cotton electrical cord.

'What the hell –' George muttered. He went and looked up under the windows. Sure enough, there was an electricity line, and a pole. 'So you think they could get cable up here?' he laughed.
'We'd do better with a generator,' I said. 'Off the power grid and all that.'
'We'd never do solar, or even wind here,' he said. 'Is there a way to harvest energy from snow? We'd need running water and a wheel.' There was a stream yonder, Bear Trap creek, beside the amphitheatre, but it was a spring creek only, we were told, and a trickle in the summer. I looked about. The kitchen – the whole place – was filthy.
'It needs a good clean.'
'We'll be on it, darling girl, we'll be on it.' He looked about. '...I'm hungry. Let's mark the trail and go fetch Fergus and get something to eat down at that cafe – introduce ourselves to the neighbours.' He smiled at me encouragingly, and we went out.

From his pockets, he produced a wad of blue surveying tape, which he tied to branches along the route.
'Hansel and Gretel,' I said. He regarded me drolly. 'I only hope there's not a witch at the end of it, ready to stow this hungry boy in the oven. Come on, cupcake, I'm famished.' Up the trail we went, and then down again to the jeep, where Fergus had attracted a retinue of hikers, feeding him bits of their lunch. They were oohing and aahhing over him.
'Greedy beggar,' George said, and let him out. 'Come on then, you playboy, and you can work your charm outside the cafe. We put him on the lead and walked down into the village hand-in-hand. Leaving Ferg tied to a post, we went inside the cafe and got him a bowl of flannel hash, before sitting down ourselves in a booth at the front windows where we could keep an eye on him, drinking coffee out of thick cups while the food was prepared. George sat across from me, his hair falling into his eyes, full of mountainy hippie charm, playing footsie in a tangle of ankles.
'Are you getting fresh?'
'Not enough legroom,' he said, deadpan. 'Like that blasted airplane.' Ten hours in an airline seat from London to Los Angeles, and then the long drive to the mountains.
'But we're here now,' I said with affection. He had come all this way with me to fulfil a hippie child's dream.

'Yes we are, my lady.' He shook his hair from his neck – sweet Sir Galahad- and leaned back as the waitress brought the food – heaping plates of eggs and potatoes and ham steaks, with lashings of more coffee. He asked the waitress for the grilled tomatoes, and she went to fetch them.
'And what shall you do, lady, now you're here?'
I laughed at our old game,' Make jewellery and art glass for the tourist trade. And you, good my lord?'
'Make music, and carve recorders and fiddles, God willing.'
'It'll be like Sweet's Mill!' I said with enthusiasm. The famous summer folk music camp in the Sierras.
'I should like that,' he said seriously. The waitress returned with the tomatoes – sliced, mushy, and a little burnt. He regarded me with irony, but thanked her courteously.

'Are you folks visiting?' the waitress asked.
George turned his dazzling smile on her. 'No, we've just got the cabin up by the lake. So we're noobs. My lady makes fancy glass and art jewellery, and I make instruments.'
'Well, I can see you don't mean medical supplies,' she said, with a glance at the hair curling down his neck. 'Welcome. I'm Shirley. It seems like you two will fit right in. This is a very artsy town.' She nodded. 'You'll want to talk to Joe over there. He's the head of the arts council and the chamber of commerce.' She indicated a reedy, redneck-looking Cracker by the woodstove in the corner. He was also wearing a red plaid shirt and boots.
'Thank you ma'am,' George said, 'that's very kind.'
'There's a community meeting on Wednesday night,' she added, 'and a jam at the tavern tonight.' It was Sunday. This was obviously not a dry town. 'You'll be most welcome. Bring whatever you play to the meeting; there's always a sing-song after.'
She went.

'Sweet's Mill indeed!' I said. 'Well, aren't you the go boy?'
'It never hurts to be charming,' he said innocently.
'Even to zaftig waitresses in polyester uniforms. Incorrigible!'
'Ah no, cupcake, that would be you.' There was a long slow moment of deep intimacy, before he said emphatically, 'Eat!'

Shirley the waitress, nothing loath, told Joe about us and he came over to our table as he was leaving. He was a weedy man, beige of colouring, not as tall as George. His energy was very bright and clean and cheerful. Introductions were made all round.
'Hi,' Joe said, nodding at me, 'I hope that you all will be happy here; we're always glad to have new people in who understand us.' He glanced over this shoulder. 'Shirley will have told you that I'm the head of the arts council. I paint and play the banjo and bass, so I look forward to seeing you at the jam. There's one every Friday and Sunday down at Mosey's, that's the tavern yonder.' He nodded.
'We'll be there,' George said.

We talked briefly about our music and school experiences. Then,
'So do you teach?' Joe asked cocking his head.
'I have done. I hadn't thought about it.'
'We have kids in the school who might benefit from music lessons, if you're willing. They've already got piano and violin, but a fiddler would be great.'
George nodded. 'I'll speak with them thanks. Claire plays a few other things besides guitar too, if that helps.'
Joe turned to me.' It sure does. I'd be happy to include you in that offer.'
'You're very kind Joe.'
He coloured. 'Well, I'll leave you all. My old lady will be looking for her groceries. I only stopped in to say how-do to folks. I'll see you tonight.'
'Will do,' said George. He looked at me when Joe left. 'Well, we're set!'

When Shirley the waitress came with our bill, she said, 'You all should know that there's a logging road that goes up pert near your place, so you can move in your things, if that's your trailer.' She nodded at the window.
We said that it was. She gave us directions to the logging road, which began before the curve of the road from Pine Cove outside of town. We collected the dog and herded him down to the jeep, then made our way in a circle around the village, because it was easier that way. Out of town we went, and up the step, sharply curving logging road to the right we went. It was a dirt track, bumpy and rutted.

'Bloody hell,' George muttered, after about a mile of this. 'Thank God for the jeep!' I laughed. The man who loved speed and off-road everything was suddenly the princess and the pea.
The road wound around until it came to the opposite edge of the clearing on which we would live. Below us, half a mile away, there was a lake, a reservoir – glistening in the brilliant cold sunshine. He pulled up the brake.
'All right, sweetheart, it’s shanks mare from here.' He looked over his shoulder. 'About a quarter- mile. Good thing we don't have a lot of stuff. It won't be too bad.' He climbed out of the jeep and let the dog out, going back to open up the trailer.

An hour later, we had everything at the cabin, all outside in heaps, because there was no chance of rain, so we could clean. We started in on this, with a broom and rags and buckets. Start to finish, our first basic settling in took about four hours. We plugged in the icebox and the record player, lit some candles, and sat at the table in the kitchen with our lunch. We had enough basic groceries for a couple of days. I was achy, but pleased. It was nice to sit in the wooded quiet and watch his beautiful face. I loved him so much, and I really couldn't imagine any other life but this, with him. He was deep in thought now, gazing out at the woods. There was no need for idle chat.

'We need wine!' He said suddenly.
'Eh?' I had picked up his peculiarities of speech.
'To celebrate!' He got up and went to his footlocker in the bedroom, and brought back a bottle of Bordeaux. Rummaging through the drawers, he found the corkscrew and opened the wine, returning with it to pour it into our mugs. Raising his, he gave me that long slow look that was so dear, that look that made the world hush and time stand still.
'Here's to perfection,' he said softly. 'My whole heart, for my whole life. Thank you, darling. You have made my life beautiful Thank you for the gift of you.' What could I do, but cry?

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the hammock that we strung up in the clearing, reading Cymbeline, with the dog beside us, until the slanting sun told us it was time to go into town for the jam session. Going indoors, we collected fiddle and guitar, pennywhistle, bodhran, and bones, and slung them about ourselves.
'Easier to walk, don't you think?' he said,' in case we have a pint too many?' I grinned. He was no teetotaller, nor ever had been, but enjoyed the bounty of life with joy. I would feel really silly wearing a headlamp with a velvet skirt at midnight through the woods, but he was right. No point in falling off a cliff in the jeep. The dog would see us home, anyway. George wore a green paisley shirt and striped pants, every inch a hippie. You wouldn’t know he had trained with the Royal College of Music. This was a different kind of 'long-haired music' altogether. He pulled down his cap and whistled to the dog and we were away, wending our way through the woods. It was deep twilight when we got to Mosey's, and from the end of the small main street we heard the crowd and a reel, and knew that we were right on time.

Mosey's was a typical Sierra mountain tavern, with wood panelled walls, a big mirror over the bar, various animal heads and old saloon advertisements on the walls. During the day it was full of tourists, but at night it became 'the local'. It had a reputation for being a colourful and somwhat of a dangerous place, we soon learned, where all the musicians and oddballs hung out. There was a group of musicians in the middle of the room near the fire, and we joined them and unloaded our gear. George went to the bar to order whiskeys – fortification for the long night- and brought them back for us.
'No proper scotch,' he said to me. 'Something called Jack Daniels. I hope it's all right.' He handed it to me apologetically, and a couple of the men laughed.
'Obviously, you're not from around here, brother.'

Joe Wheeler was among the men in the jam circle, and he stood up and shook George's hand.
'Boys. This is the guy I told you about, and his woman.'
'Claire, George.' There were nods all around. The only other woman in the group that night was Joe's wife Maggie, a raw-boned dark-haired woman, who reminded me of the West of Ireland. She had a pennywhistle in her hand, a bodhran at her knee and a mandolin behind. She wrinkled her nose at me and rolled her eyes, telegraphing 'Oh, your man is cute!' I laughed and took a sip of the whiskey. I had never had Jack Daniels before either. It was woody and not bad. I looked up at George, who had taken a long swallow. He looked back at me, then the group. 'Well, it’s not Laphroaig, but it's pretty good.' With a wink at Joe, he sat down and tossed his hair out of his eyes and he picked up his fiddle.

'"Lads of the Fair"', said Joe, and everyone nodded. George looked up from tuning his fiddle in surprise. We knew it, but he obviously didn't expect it here, only bluegrass. Joe began to play and away we went:

Come, bonnie lass, lie near me,
And let the brandy cheer ye,
For the road frae Fife to Falkirk's lang
And cold and wet an' dreary.
My trade, it is the weaving
At the bonnie toon o' Leven;
An' we'll drink to the health o' the farmer's dames
Who'll buy our cloth the morn

'For ye can see them a', the lads o' the fair,
Lads frae the Forth an' the Carron Water,
Workin' lads an' lads wi' gear,
Lads wha'll sell ye the provost's daughter,
Soldiers back frae the German Wars,.
Peddlers up frae the Border;
An' lassies wi' an eye for mair than the kye,
At the trysting fair o' Falkirk

'Come, Geordie, lead the pony for the path is steep an' stony,
An' it's three lang weeks frae the Isle o' Skye.
An' the beasts are thin an' bony.
We'll tak the last o' the siller.
An' we'll buy oursels a gill or two;
An' we'll drink tae lads who'll buy our kye.
In Falkirk town the morn.'

There was a good deal of bluegrass too, afterward, and how amazed they were at George's smooth following of songs he had never heard. There was some trad British and Celtic music too, just enough to make us feel at home. Maggie and I were hand in glove with bones and bodhran, making up a fine percussion section.
By the middle of the evening there were folk up on the floor dancing. In the last set before the break, George touched my elbow with a nod. Pub language: 'Are you dancing?' We left the jam and got up into a queue of four couples for a longways set.
In the loo at the end of the night, Maggie asked me, 'is there anything that fella of yours can't do?'
I grinned, 'If there is, I haven't discovered it.'
We made out way home through the woods with the dog, not too unsteadily, and settled in to the sound of crickets, and a hundred billion stars. It was cold, but we had a woollen coverlet, a couple of quilts, and each other. He was silent so long I thought he was asleep, until he gave me a kiss on the forehead and a fierce embrace.
'I love you, my lady. You have made my life.' His voice was unsteady.

And the morning and the evening were the first day.