The fog has rolled over the vineyards from the bay, and a night where the temperatures plunged with the vanished sun leaves a chill gray morning for an early riser still contending with jet-lag. In this, Sonoma is also evoking memories of Namibia, where as with the coast of California a cold upwelling current produces a perpetual fog that advances over the arid inland.
It is good sleeping weather, and while the day promises to warm up rapidly, at the moment my fingers are cold on the keyboard and would rather wrap around the first cup of morning brew I hear being prepared in the kitchen. I am blogging out of doors because the WiFi access here is strong but highly localized and the best connection is poolside, under the spreading oaks and fig trees of this marvelous retreat in the winelands.
There are geese flying overhead, echos of a migration soon to commence along coastlines east and west. The sun is lifting above the fog, but where I sit there is not enough moisture in the air for my breath to be visible: another similarity with the cold desert mornings of African memory.