Monday: Marin Headlands

Monday night: I’m sitting in the vast, high ceilinged living room of the Hi-Marin Headlands hostel, situated in a National Park, just a few miles from the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s a white clapboard building, whose provenance as historic accommodation for Fort Barry officers is apparent in the regular shaped rooms and long, low exterior.

The sky is fading to a translucent petrol blue outside and, through the long black cross-barred windows, framed by undrawn floor length, white linen curtains, I can see the silhouettes of the towering trees outside. There are lambent yellow glass pendant shades hanging on iron chains from the ceiling, and pleated calico shaded standard lamps are pooling light in the corners of the room.

I am curled up in a corner on a wide, squashy olive slub cotton covered sofa, The Cure’s Disintegration album is playing through my laptop headphones, and there is a paper bag of chocolate chip cookies just within reach.

I could sit writing here for hours.