Pot-tering in Oregon

Never in my wildest hippie dreams did I imagine shopping in a gourmet marijuana store.

Now that legal marijuana is on the market, the market has gone upmarket.

Oregon has been a pioneer state in this business. It’s always been an emancipated place.

Look at its attitude towards voluntary euthanasia.

So Oregon's a state where you come to shop for pot.

So we did, with Oregon being on our route.

Here in lovely Ashland, set in a very conservative building, Breeze Botanicals sells both medical and recreational marijuana.

A male receptionist sits behind a tall counter in what turns out to be the very salubrious shop-cum-waiting room. It offers nice alternative herbs and incenses and pleasant hippie domestic things.

The real shop, is behind a door marked PRIVATE.

Before being admitted, one has to show photo ID. This business is Adults Only. Even grey hair is not proof of age around here.

With our antiquity approved, we are escorted into the inner sanctum.

Therein, dense buds sit in glass jars in showcases and fancy glass pipes and chilums are arrayed in illuminated glass cabinets.

It’s very slick, classy, highly specialist - and mind-blowing. There are so many variations on the theme. Where to begin?

There’s waxy stuff that is a bit like hashish, but it is not hashish.  It’s some modern variation.

There is dope for every mood and every time of day.

A customer with a particularly strident voice is telling the shop assistant how much she really, really loves this shop. And she really, really loves this assistant. She has come a long way to do her shopping and this is just the best, best place ever. She would never shop for her pot elsewhere. Truly. Hand on heart. Oh, it has done her so much good. Thanks so much. She really feels centred now. And she really loves you people so much. In fact, come to think of it, she loves everyone.

Now that’s customer satisfaction.

I bet they get a lot of that.

We’re a bit shy. The young male proprietor, who actually comes from Georgia, is leading Bruce through the products, explaining how chic it has become to grow top weed, what pride the growers take, how they like to create specialist product, how pure and powerful it all is, how they’re always looking for new growers, how fastidiously tested and inspected all the products are...

Here, smell this.

There are lots of statistics. It’s all very scientific. Pure and organic. Scientist Bruce is impressed by the levels of analysis.

Indica indicators are all over the place.

And their product descriptions are lyrical cousins to the rhapsodies on wine labels.

THC is 12.31 per cent in the CBD God. It is sungrown. “Earthy and sweet, this strain is known to lean towards a relaxing yet creative high…”

THC 16.67 per cent in LA Confidential, also sungrown. “a well-rounded strain that delivers a fast-approachig sensation…"

There’s Big Wreck, Mango Tango, Old School Purple, Critical Cure, Lemon Cannabull, Swiss Tsunami, Strawberry Diesel, Jaego Kush…all sun grown.

Then there are indoor cultivars - Sativas such as Dark Star, Cheesy Dick and Candyland.

There are blends.

There are extracts.

There are concentrates.

There’s a whole Vape section.

There are oils and tinctures. Edibles.

More wild names. Sour Diesel. Skunk Dawg, Dream Lotus.

You gotta be stoned to think of these names.

Average price is about $12 a gram. Oh, and Oregon has a State Tax for recreational users.

It’s all a bit overwhelming.

Problem is, there is no sampling.

The building is smoke free.

From Trinidad to Shakespeare

Who’da thunk it!

Surprise is the traveller’s companion.

So, the Red Lion Hotel at Eureka looks drab, smells musty and has a Coober Pedy rusty machinery view.

Well, it turns out that not only does it give a good sleep in a pristine bed and make dogs and cats welcome, and even a snake if I had one, but also…

For $10 it turns on a five-star breakfast buffet.

New food alert.

Black bean and green pepper omelette. There it was in the row of bain marie beside the cheesy scrambled egg, the bacon, sausages, fried eggs, waffles, hash browns….an omelette as fine as a crepe wrapped around black beans and Mexican veggies and topped with a melt of Jack cheese.

On every table are cruets of green and red tabasco, along with tomato sauce etc, and, with a solid chili douse this brekky dish goes to places that no brekky has ever been before. All told, funny little Eureka with its fancypants old historic town and its semi-derelict rest of town has been a fond experience.

We take a brisk walk, pack the car and move on.

We are following the coast and when we leave the highway and branch inwards to check out Trinidad and its amazing rock formations, it just takes the breath away.

This is scenery to which tourism marketers can  apply a capital “S”. This is stunning.

Dramatic rock formations surrounded by pleasant surf rolling in to lovely bays.

There was Clam Beach - a vast expanse of rolling waves on a long grey curve of bay. Like Goolwa cockle territory, but grey.

Then the drama of Trinidad’s rocky outcrops.

Further north, we visit more superb rocky beaches. Better and better.

Crescent City clearly is resort heaven. Proud homes line the cliff road.

We linger a little, walk along the cliff path to the overlook. Others are doing the same thing. Americans exploring America. This coast is worth admiring.

And all that clean, grey-sand beach. Deserted. Lovely weather, but no people on the beaches.

Then I remember the temperature of the sea along the Pacific Coast of the USA. Freeezing.

People walk the beach. They fish from the beach. But if the water touches their bodies, they scream in agony.

Hah. That’s what Aussie has and this stunning coast lacks.

Onwards we plough, pausing for a quick coffee and salad lunch at a Denny’s. US chain family restaurants are terrific.

We order Caesar 2 salads and 2 coffees.  Bill: $13.

Now it’s time to head inland again.

Back into the woods we go.

Into the woods. The redwoods. Those beautiful redwood forests in which the strangest people choose to hide away.

And we are back on the Avenue of the Redwoods. Those grand, towering vertical trees. The deep, dark forests. The rushing river at the roadside.

They go on for miles and miles ….

….and miles…

All one’s initial joy and enthusiasm for the mighty redwoods has muted. It has turned into overkill.

Now those mighty forests are a redwood treescape which will never end.

They have turned into tight curves on steep inclines.

If I see one more *****ing” redwood, I will scream.

The tunnels of redwoods just go on and on.

I scream. Bruce says it’s not his fault. Ah, marriage.

Our ultimate target is Crater Lake. Tonight we have booked in to Ashland - a town in southern Oregon which comes very highly recommended by my Brainstorms buddies. It is famous for Shakespeare festivals, you see.

It’s a theatre town.

The landscape at last has opened up. We're in a glorious valley. Look! For heaven's sake, there is a mountain with snow on it.

The Cascade Ranges, says Bruce, are volcanic. All the way. Quiet now, but you can never trust volcanos.

Spread out there in this rich, broad valley, Ashland is the most utterly gorgeous town.

It brags a round theatre inspired by Shakespearean theatre. Its main street is adorned by Shakespeare’s name and British royal lion flags.

There’s a Shakespeare Theatre information office on the main street complete with dummies in costume - and very charming, well-kempt mid-life female volunteers who are keen to share their knowledge.

There are also bookshops.

I mean bookshops. I have never seen so many bookshops in one town. How do they survive with so much competition?

Survive they do. They are different in character. They are dense and interesting in content. And they exist in a market hungry for the old school, Shakespearean literature and the printed word.

I take to the Bloomsbury shop. So much of interest. I buy wonderful cards. I look for Germain Greer’s Shakespeare’s Wife amid the huge section of books on Shakespeare.

Sadly, the bookshop assistant was so far up himself he was almost out the other side.  He would not indulge in pleasantries. He was a very disappointing retail experience. I should walk right out. But I don’t. Grovelingly, I buy a tote bag and some cards.

I am the traveller on the road. I won’t be back. I have to seize the moment. But I also will report on it. Pretentious service in Bloomsbury Bookshop, folks.

Our Ashland Hills Hotel, which is a massive and salubrious place full of rather smug single professional women clearly in situ for a conference, has recommendations all over the place for dinner at the elegant Ashland Springs Hotel.

In its towering historic building in mainstreet Ashland,  its Larks restaurant is touted locally as the upmarket culinary spot of the town. Local produce. Top chef. For some reason (perhaps because we lunched at Maccers and Denny’s) Bruce rings in a dinner booking. We frock up and rock up. Nice table. Attentive staff.

From Billy, our waiter, I order a glass of my first Oregon Savvy. It is excellent.

My starter salad is swamped with dried cranberries and sultanas. Ugh, Too sweet. I eat the balsamic leaves.

Fired cauliflower, so lightfy browned and perfectly cooked, is a massive serving. Daunting. Can’t eat it all. Love every bite.

Bruce choose pork cheeks for his main I choose rabbit with homemade fettuccine.

Both meats are tasty but overdone.

Orana it ain’t.

Nice, it is.

We try to look impressed at its pretentious local fare.

It would be rude to seem otherwise.

But not for the first and absolutely not for the last time we murmur to each other that we humble Adelaideans  come from one of the most  elegant and zeitgeist-lifestyle  places on earth.

Terms of reference.

We are not overwhelmed by the cuisine. It was a nice meal.

What we did love was Ashland. A lovely, busy, vivid arts township in the Pacific Northwest.

Definitely worth your attention.