Vineyards, forests and rednecks.

On the road. Seriously driving in the olive green Rogue. At last. The real road touring has begun.

We head north out of San Francisco. The traffic on a Monday morning is dense and riddled with those moron killer lane-veering impatient drivers who have become the blight of San Francisco. Leaving accidents in their weaving wake, the radio reports boom out. We are lucky. Just a couple of gridlocks. An immense lineup at the bridge toll booth. Not too bad. We timed it well. We are out of town in two hours.

The day is shadowed by the sight of big American flags at half mast all over the place. America has a lot of flags so there has been a lot of lowering of them in sad salute to the 50 souls who were slaughtered by madman’s assault rifle in Orlando on the weekend.

Suddenly, we the landscape opens out.

We are among rolling hills dotted with trees and swathed in the gold of dry summer grass.

Good grief. We could be in South Australia

Bruce says they call this “chaparral” country here.

Soon we are in the Sonoma and Mendocino - California wine country.

Vineyards. Little wine towns. Cellar doors. Even a shop for “Wine Country Brides”.

I’d have loved to get close enough to see just what “Wine Country Brides” wear. My imagination runs riot.

With a backdrop of mountains, these Sonoma valleys of vineyards really do remind of our glorious Barossa. I can’t be grudging about it. It is a lovely area, far nicer than Napa.

Desperate for a pee, we stop in a flyspeck of a town where just about the only going concern is a nondescript shop called Badass Coffee. I am not too optimistic about the possibility of there being a loo in such a place. But there in the middle of seeming nowhere, open the door, and one entera a delicious gourmet coffee shop entirely inhabited by women, some with bubs. Young women are whipping up excellent hipster class specific region coffees and, indeed, there is a wonderful, clean, fragrant loo to welcome the traveller.

Talk about a comfortable comfort stop.

Less comfortable is the radio.

When the News&Traffic station zoned out, that Fox rabid right winger Sean Hannity zoned in. For a while one is fascinated, incredulous at the astounding warping of facts, invention of facts. Of course the Orlando massacre is top of the news. But from Hannity, it turns into an endless tirade against President Obama. Apparently Obama sanctions Islamic terrorism but condemns Christian atrocities. My mind went into spin mode again. What Christian atrocities are these?

Hannity’s technique of filling in air time is to repeat himself incessantly. Over and over he claimed that Obama could not and would not say the words “Islamic terrorism”.

I’d heard Obama talk about the massacre as an act of terrorism but apparently it was not satisfactory without the word “Islamic”.

We Aussie can only think of it as gun madness. There was a psychotic, bipolar Muslim who was legally able to arm himself with an assault rifle, for heaven’s sake.

The issue of guns does not come up with the Hannitys of the American media.

They are busy hating the Democrats. All Democrats. It goes on and on and on. And on.

I don’t know how their audiences can listen. We couldn’t. ’Twas a cultural experience too extreme.

And there were wonderful things going on outside the car.

We are now in Redwood country.

The landscape is becoming mountainous and densely covered in these tall, straight-trunked trees. Such graceful long arrows of trees.

They line the roads and cover the hill slopes in an exquisite mass of pointy symmetry. They have points within the points.

A sign to see the Grandfather Tree lured us off the road to park among assorted chainsaw carvings - they’re big in these parts - to see the biggest of the giants of the redwood forest. This massive tree is estimated to be 1800 years old. It is 24ft in diameter. It towers 265ft in the air - and its foliage is lush and healthy. It is truly imposing. One stands beneath it as a zillion people have done and simply boggles.

Beside it is a terrific ticky-tacky tourist shop with lots of “Baby Grandfather trees” on sale and myriad redwood carvings. I buy a cap. Sigh. I always buy a cap.

We drive on through the redwoods. They close in on the road, many of them gigantic, albeit they are purported to be second growth. They are so tall. So perfectly straight. We stopped again and I walk into the forest. It is very quiet. Dark. Occasional slivers of sunlight shaft through from the lofty canopy. The only other vegetation is a form of fern.

A river runs beside the road - a broad base with rocks and broad strands of pebbles. It is the river one has seen in scores of movies, the water so crystal clear and richly green at its deep parts. In some places it is little rapids. In others, it is tranquil pools.

And we drive on and on through more and more and more redwoods.

I keep track on Google Maps, plotting the forthcoming towns, choosing where to stop. What a brilliant facility.

There are some quaint backwoodsy towns. Lots of trailer parks. Funny little trailer homes set into the woodlands with trucks and trash around them. A bit unnerving.

It is a strange thing that the roughest rednecks live in the most beautiful of natural environments.

There are some eccentric, madly cluttered wood carving roadside shops.

Finally, we come out of the famous Avenue of Redwoods back roads and into the major roads to head towards the coast When we stop at a wee town for lunch, Google suggests places to eat.

For reliability of loos, we choose a Maccers and order a western ranch salad and a take-away coffee.

The loos are impeccable but, I tell ya, there are some pretty odd people around the place.

A few hours more driving and we reach the old redwood town of Eureka, our destination for the night.

It looks like a pretty down-at-heel town as we drive in. Expanses of old semi-abandoned industrial sites. Quite a large town, it seems, stretched along a bay wherein we spot a mooring of fishing boats. With Google’s help, we find our hotel at the far end of the town - and it seems a pretty dodgy end of town.

There are empty businesses, shabby houses, some of them derelict.

The main functioning business is a big Target store - and it is a tired old thing.

The Red Lion Hotel is one great big long box of rooms. I’d booked it two days before via Expedia, noting the reviews were quite positive.

It didn’t look too flash in the flesh, though.

Well, it's an adventure. In we go.

"Do I have an animal?" asks the receptionist? Er, no. "Not even a snake?" he asks. Hmm. How pet-friendly. I want to say I'm travelling with spiders but think better of it.

We are on the 2nd floor and the long corridor smells very musty indeed. So does the room, although it looks as clean as a new pin. The reception guy had assured me we had a lovely “partial bay” view. Um. Really? Well, there is a line of water over there across some rooftops. But, in the foreground, there is a strange metal business with lots of rusty machinery lying about within a cyclone fence. The last time I had a scenic view like this was at Coober Pedy.

I do my thing with cleansers and air-fresheners and soon the room is just fine.

We head off to scope out the town and choose somewhere for dinner.

Oh, there’s an Historic Eureka downtown?

Well, well, well. This ragged and fading town has the most exquisite old buildings in its centre - many of them functioning as charming arty stores and galleries. It also has a vast Co-Op grocery store which is just five star chic.

The range of beets and greens alone has me in a state of swoon. Suddenly I want a kitchen.

It’s briskly cool here by the coast. We have a good stroll to loosen up after all the driving and then repair to the hotel for our bloody marys.

Almost next door, across a bit of fenced off wasteland, is Annie’s Cambodian Restaurant. It is not flash. The exterior is tired. There’s an open wire door to the kitchen and plastic pails of old oil. But the cooking scents are wonderful.

I check it out on Yelp .

The reviews are rhapsodic.

And so we have an absolutely brilliant dinner a stone’s throw from the hotel.