Our friend White Fang from our Noe Valley AirBnB. But Morris called him Shanu

We give Moira the chop

Then the lure of adventure began to grip us. Why not start at once? We’d never be any younger, any of us.......Jack London

Just read those few sentences from Jack London’s The Cruise of the Snark. Simple, everyday words that tumble onto the page and glisten like jewels. Just plain speaking. It’s what Americans do best.

We will meet up with Jack London later. But first, I’m going to say what happened when we left Bodega Bay Inn yesterday morning. And before that, a word about Jane – because this blog is meant to be all about her and not just me. Well, Jane is not so all sugar and spice and all things nice as she might seem. Of course, she is Miss Congeniality a lot of the time, always being helpful and thoughtful and stuff, and introducing herself to strangers and offering to take their picture and picking up litter when she really doesn’t have to. And that often makes me cringe and go a bit mad and want to shout.

No, it’s the other side of her that I admire. The James Cagney side. Here’s what I mean.

On our second day in Bodega Bsy, the evening before yesterday morning, Jane is sick of there not being a plug in our basin so she goes up to Kathy Bates’s big sister, looks up and says firmly: “May I have a plug for the basin? I want to wash some underclothes.” Kathy Bates’s big sister glares at her as might a buffalo be irritated by a fly. But Jane doesn’t waver. “No one’s never asked for a plug before this day,” says Kathy Bates’s big sister emphasizing each word very slowly. Jane holds her gaze. Kathy Bates’s big sister scratches her leg for a bit and then trundles off. Later she returns with a round bit of black plastic that was probably part of a hose outlet from one of the wrecked cars that litter her backyard. Of course, it doesn’t do the job. But Jane has won a victory and it’s the sort of thing I admire her for.

I’m quite different, as I expect you’ve guessed and I shall give you an example if you care to read on.

Yesterday morning we make a quick getaway after raiding “Wendy’s” kitchen and pinching a sickly-sweet cereal full of brown sugar and maple syrup. As we get into our Hyundai Elefanta automatic hire car I notice that “Wendy’s” Big Mom, alias Kathy Bates’s big sister, has hung some washing on the line in her backyard. It’s probably part of an under-garment from somewhere beneath her waist and it hangs like a damp grey parachute on the line. Big Mom herself, now not wearing the black body stocking I mentioned earlier, is standing on a broken step leading down from her kitchen. She has her arms on her hips and she is giving us a baleful look. If she had a gun I expect she’d be holding it. Behind her I see “Wendy” through a torn curtain.

We mount Elefanta, I put the automatic gear stick into Sport mode, give a nonchalant wave and a smirk in the direction of the harpies and step hard on the accelerator. My intention is to gun the car, to send the back wheels spinning like crazy so they send a cloud of dust over Kathy Bates’s big sister’s ballooning underwear. But Elefanta is no souped-up Gran Torino – and I’m no James Dean or Cliff Eastwood. The car gives a complaining bellow and a light on the dashboard starts flashing. The engine then cuts out.

Kathy Bates’s big sister and “Wendy” have disappeared by the time I’ve regained my composure and got Elefanta going again. We glide off silently with no departing gesture of defiance, because that is the only thing Elefanta allows itself to do. I start composing in my head what I’m going to write in Trip Advisor about Kathy Bates’s big sister and “Wendy”. And I tell you I can be pretty mean.

We head for Sonoma and Jack London’s home, which is now a historic state park. We soon leave the overcast coastal road and climb through mist to the ridge that stretches down much of California and forms a climatic divide. On the way we pass a troop of vintage Porsches, more than 20 of them in varied pastel colours and all looking strangely under-powered – less like powerful iconic sports cars than what a child might create if asked to draw a sports car. We stop at a little town called Occidental with well-equipped grocery stores and cafes, a white, painted wooden church and a wooded parking area. The sky is clear and the sun is now blazing down.

We switch on Moira, the name we have given to the English-English-voiced satnav. We call her Moira because she sounds like Moira Stuart, the television newsreader the BBC sacked because she was too old. Moira takes us safely to Jack London’s home, which is one of the places I most wanted to visit in California. We marvel at the care and attention that has been put in to preserving a writer’s home. Despite that it has few visitors – and we learn from the curator that most visitors are from abroad.

My father must have read London’s two big-sellers, White Fang and Call of the Wild, because I have copies of both books with his name inside them. London, from a poor background, is an inspiring figure. He was an adventurer, a stowaway, he rode the rails, he panned for gold, he was a sailor, fur trapper, hobo, war correspondent, early socialist and required reading for millions of Soviet children. He wrote 1,000 words a day and became a successful farmer, using traditional farming methods to rescue worn-out land. He died in 1916 aged 40. I sort of knew all that. What I didn’t know was how well he did for himself or the style of life he had in his last few years. The schooner Snark that he had built cost $30,000, large houses were put up and lavishly furnished, visitors included William Randolph Hearst no less, and his farm labourers were underpaid, so the curator hinted. But Jack, we honour you still and your rugged individualism. Walt Whitman led the way, Herman Melville inspired you, and in your wake came John Steinbeck and Ernest Hemingway.

Pondering on his life we rejoin Moira and head for our Travelodge in Napa. On the way we tire of Moira and her inability to pronounce names properly. We decide that the BBC was right to sack her, so we disconnect her in favour of Jolene, her American-English colleague.

Tomorrow: We do the wine country with Ted and Nancy. Read the next intoxicating instalment!