A beautiful, spring, Saturday morning, and I'd planned a trip to the daylily farm just outside Plymouth. It's a small town in the Sierra foothills about forty miles south-east of here, an easy drive down Sunrise Highway and then east on highway 16.
In all the years I lived in Sacramento, I had never been to Plymouth, nor the Shenandoah Valley, nor seen our local vineyards. It was like turning a corner and being in France; miles of gnarled, ancient vines all trim and ready to burst into leaf. Rolling hills and rustic buildings, with the occasional tastefully-fake-French-or-Tuscan restaurant or wine-tasting-inn tucked away behind stone walls.
It was totally beautiful, and I will be back.
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