Citizen Caning. Anxiety at the Hearst Castle when Charlie Chaplin loses a game of tennis. (Silent)

3.48 p.m.

Highway 1. Scenic coastline on one side and brown grass with angry cows on the other. We've done the Hearst Castle tour. (My general impression of Hearst was that he was very rich and had a lot of stuff. More opinions later.) Randy's fantastic wealth made us hungry so we stopped by the side of the road near Big Sur to eat an expensive and unhealthy lunch - a kosher chicken hot dog and fries for me and a bowl of spatchcock chilli for David. As we sat at the picnic table, we were gently rained upon flakes of ash carried by the wind from a coastal bushfire that had been raging for the last week. Some ash got in my dog and it didn't taste too good.

4.38 p.m. Highway 1

We're driving into thick bushfire smoke. There are lots of fire engines and firemen all over the place. Strangely, many of the fire fighters are sitting by the side of the road eating apples. Maybe they cool you down.

I imagine that Cary Grant, who stayed at the Hearst `ranch' San Simeon more than thirty times (`It was a great place to spend the Depression,' he once remarked insouciantly), must have driven down this very road quite often. I like Cary Grant, even though people often mention that I am nothing like him.

California Dreamin'
On such a winter's day.

10.40 p.m. Carmel-by-the-Sea

Had dinner at Clint Eastwood's Hog's Breath Inn. We had to go there because Clint used to be mayor of the town and I believe he still carries a six-gun. I don't recommend it - I got screwed to the tune of $17.95 for a measly fettucine alfredo! Here in cute little Carmel-by-the-Sea they've banned obscene eyesores like streetlights and street signs, so walking around in broad daylight you don't know where the hell you are. Even indoors in Carmel-by-the-Sea they reject anything stronger than gaslight. They must be afraid of being spotted from the air and bombed or something.
Still, it's quaint as hell, it really is. Even though they screw you for fettucine.

Insolent Pair Ejected from Hearst Tour

The Hearst castle tour is a very worthwhile but very strange experience. First of all, it's not really like just visiting a dead guy's house - it's more like emigrating there. Even when booking your ticket you have to give up all sorts of secret information, like your blood type (`Mine's generic,' I said. `My parents were too cheap to give me a specific type.') and your mother's maiden name (`Guinevere,' David told them). When you pick up the tickets you have to show your passport. `Where do I pick up the duty free?' I asked the ticket lady.
`On the bus,' she said, but I think it was an order rather than an answer.

The bus took us up the steep hillside to the wild and sprawling opulence that William Hearst (and dozens of freeloaders like Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford) called home. It was an incredible place, and it made me very unhappy about living in a three-room apartment in Melbourne, where the only antique I own is my car. Still, a gaff like San Simeon is just one of the benefits of being the media baron son of a mining baron who bought half of California at 15ó an acre. (As opposed to being the half-wit, drop-out son of a middle-level executive in the flooring biz, who backed the winner of the Melbourne Cup in 1974 and made a cool five quid.)

As we were traipsing across one of the Mesozoic-age floor rugs I put up my hand and asked the tour guide, `Are we allowed to see where Mr Hearst kept Rosebud?'
`You're thinking of Charles Foster Kane, Sir.'
`Where's his place? Is it near here?'
`He was a fictional character. He has no "place".'
Then David put up his hand. `Whereabouts is the Grotto? Will there be any Bunnies on view later?'
`That's Hugh Hefner,' she said. A few other tourists were staring at us.
`Is it true that he used to have his staff disinfected before they could serve him food?' I asked, genuinely interested.
`That's Howard Hughes.'
`Are we allowed to mention the alleged kidnapping of Patty by the Symbionese Liberation Army?' wondered David.
`Where is Symbia, anyway?' I asked. `Do you happen to know Ma'am?'
Then, to the delighted applause of the rest of the tour group, we were roughly grabbed by two security humps who escorted us back to the bus.

Some tour - we didn't even get to see Bubbles the Chimp. On the other hand, food-wise it's exceptional: they have a `breakfast montage' special where you and your wife eat in silence every morning for twenty-seven years.

The Good, the Bad and the So-so. Co-starring Clint Eastwood as `the mayor with no name'. Rated ®.

I'm tired. All night long the phone kept ringing. `Hello?' I'd say wearily.
`Play missy fo' me . . .'
`What!?'
`Play missy for me . . .'
`Play mixie's sore knee? Speak up lady, I can't hear a word you're whispering.'
`Play "Misty" for me!'
`What the hell's that s'posed to mean?'

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