The hills leading down to the coastline were the colour of wet tobacco, dark and rusty brown, peppered with grey-painted houses of the local residents. Slate-coloured clouds formed the backdrop to the scene, an old eucalyptus tree's sickle-shaped leaves dropping to the ground as the wind shoved against them.
And constantly, constantly, the shshing sound of the ocean against the shore greeted visitors to the beach, even before reaching the sight of the coast.
Winter in northern California is all about rain.
Spring is so green and thriving. Orange trees bloom, filling the air with the delicate and fragrant scents of their tiny white blossoms. Plum trees flower with pink-tinged petals that drift down like large snowflakes when the wind blows too hard. Fruits and vegetables thrive and the farmers' markets vendor their wares, buyers thrilled with all the pickings they get to choose from the harvest.
In the summer, the heat and sunshine transform the hills to golden, the grasses drying out and turning yellow as the sun warmed the land and beat down relentlessly for months. Plenty of folks think that's why California is the Golden State. But the Pacific Ocean is at its bluest blue, teasing swimmers to the waves, only to have them flee from the cold water.
Fall is brief. Leaves go from green to brown with barely a hint of yellow, orange or red, and promptly release their hold to drift down and cover the ground. The rakes come out and leaf-stuffed bags get dropped at the curb, waiting to be taken away by waste management trucks.
Then the rain returns and the cycle begins anew.
