The foghorn on the Mendocino headlands moaned through the night like a lovelorn elk, the only clue to what lay outside my windows at the Albion River Inn.
Now, I have to admit that the breakfast selection at my Klosters hotel was superior to that of the choices offered here at the Hampton Inn in Laurel, Mississippi.
The tweed coat had been green when my father bought it for me in London that spring, but the nice old landlady at the little Scottish inn where we were staying when he was taken ill had firmly sent it out to be dyed the day before the funeral.