chicken love

I know my boyfriend likes me. He flew across the country for my birthday. But he likes chickens better.

Case in point: 3 photos of me. 8 photos of chickens. More. And the 3 photos of me? I'm with chickens.

We rented a sweet little cottage in Inverness, near Point Reyes, last weekend. The owner had show chickens. Wild-looking things with poofy feather headresses. Don King and Big Bird. The hens were attractive, more sedate. I get the attraction. Still, it's hard to lose attention to a foot-high clucker that poops on the porch.

It was a nice birthday. We hiked for 10 miles (Alex says 12) in the Point Reyes National Seashore and had a nice dinner at the Olema Inn. We sipped Lindemann's Framboise lambic beer in the hottub at midnight. I got presents.

We shopped for most excellent cheese at the Cowgirl Creamery and bought hats at Cabaline Country Emporium & Saddlery. We looked at stuffed badgers in the Bear Valley Visitors Center. The weather was fine, the food was excellent, and weight was put on by all. Nice, nice.

Off next week for a rendez-vous with Alex in Philadelphia and a trip up the the family reunion in the Adirondacks. We're staying, probably for the last time, at the ever-pricey Albedor, than I'm taking Alex off to the Sagamore for his birthday. Should be an action-packed week. Time to pack again!