All Saints

On Sunday I've arranged to meet Lisa and Dierk, old friends of my brother Sean and his wife Lara. They live in San Rafael, a town that lies on the other side of the Golden Gate bridge, at the foot of Mount Tamalpais. So I catch a train up the East Bay to Richmond, where Lisa will meet me. There are the coast mountains to the right and vast salt marshes to the left, dotted with bleak looking salt plants. 

My pals Bill and Denise aren't sure that Richmond is somewhere I want to hang about. They forget I live a stone's throw from Peckham. And yes, there are a few sad-looking characters but nothing that feels at all threatening. Midnight on a Saturday might be different, though.

Lisa drives me over the very long Bay Bridge to their place, a lovely home built on a slope with a pool at the bottom and, on the main floor, a huge terrace on stilts with a view over the trees to the Bay in the distance. There's a zip wire between the trees below the pool, probably mostly used by tomboy daughter Talia.

We grab daughters Zoe and Lara (dressed to jazz up a grey day) and head out to walk up Mt Tamalpais, which means 'lady lying down'. We're walking the Railway track trail – the train used to wind its very gradual way around the mountain and the path seems to go on for miles without gaining much altitude. At certain corners it blows a hoolie.

Lisa points out refrigerator trees ( ice cold to the touch and used to build ice boxes in the days before fridges) and redwoods large enough to be teenage hideaways.

We finally arrive at the West Point Inn, a hostel near the summit, and eat our sandwiches. Inside is a cosy wood-panelled mountain lodge with gigantic leather chairs and sofas, granite fireplaces and quaint stained-glass cupboards. There's a selection of tea, coffee and granary bars plus an honesty box for visitors.

We take the quick route down, via the fire department's building commanding views over the valley, an excellent vantage point for spotting forest fires. Lisa takes me on a loop via the John Muir woods and a great vantage point for bridge photos.

Back home, Dierk is back and we have a quick change then immediately head out to the Cinco de Mayo (a celebration of Mexican heritage held every May 5) dinner party that is being thrown by an old work friend of Lisa's, Sarah, and her husband Howard. They've just moved into a new house and it's gorgeous. All light and wood and a steeply sloping garden at the back and sun loungers by the chicken coop. Yes, really.

The dinner is Mexican and I make the big mistake of dipping my carrot into what looks like a tasty tomato sauce. When I try to talk my voice has gone and my eyes start to water. It is without doubt the hottest sauce I have ever tasted. When I've recovered, phew, there are wraps and beans and cheese and guacamole and tomato salsa and some great eggy stuff wrapped in corn husks – turns out they're tamales. 

I sleep in Lara's room and discover we have something in common – she collects snow globes. I'm so bushed I start to work on my computer in bed and fall asleep, waking 20 minutes later with it still propped up in my lap.

The next day Lisa takes me to the ferry terminal and I catch the commuter line over to San Francisco. The boat passes San Quentin, which houses California's only remaining death-row prisoners. 

That aside, what an uplifting way to commute. I see the bridges, the islands and finally the hilly outline of San Francisco. I spend the whole journey on deck.

The new Ferry Building is chock full of artisanal offerings – cheese, pork, bread and more organic produce than you can shake an Abel & Cole box at. I grab a coffee and peruse the map, trying to decide what to do with my day in the city.

In the end I go straight to the Museum of Modern Art where there's sculpture on the roof, a great interior and this bust of George Moscone, which I enjoy, having watched Milk on the plane. He was the charismatic mayor of San Francisco who was assassinated alongside councillor and gay rights campaigner, Harvey Milk.

I watch a visual piece called The Clock by Christian Marclay in a lush cinema set up inside the gallery. It's a film that last 24 hours and he has edited clips that show every minute of the day from probably thousands of films, many of which I've seen, many iconic, with big stars, many unknown or foreign. Totally absorbed, I stay an hour, from 13.17 to 14.17.

Then I wander around a few private gardens that are open to the public. A bird pecks me on the crown of the head. Was I too near its feeding ground or nest? The public art isn't a patch on what you find in London or New York, I mean... leaping children? I prefer this statue abandoned outside someone's front door, with a hoody casually slung over its head. Brilliant.





I stroll up to the Coit Tower and enjoy panoramic views and the murals (best vignette, below), moving Depression-era public art in the social realism style of Diego Rivera. I've been here before but it is my favourite building in the city. 



I dip down into the Italian neighbourhood around Washington Square then get a bus, 30, all the way to the Caltrans station for a train back to Sunnyvale.