Picton

Aah, Picton. It is picturesque, has a cute downtown, and offers numerous lovely food options (when you can find anything open, that is). Its beauty proved a saving grace, as it also has an air of unreliability about it, countless empty/'for lease' buildings matched in number only by real estate brokers, and dockworker drunks roaming and populating its streets.

One skinny woman, presumably in her 40s, with creased skin and long straggly gray hair, caught my eye in her worn, hip-length, brown leather jacket. She was walking past our outdoor cafe when she suddenly stepped toward the street. Fearing she would be hit by an oncoming car, I almost called out; then saw that what she was doing was leaning over the curb to spit, quite loudly.

Out hotel was the Yacht Club. The food at the Club was terrific, from the rack of lamb to the fish chowder. However, the rooms--or at least our room, coming from the Hapuku Lodge and Tree Houses--were awful.

Our bathroom was so ancient that it looked dirty even if it could be argued that it was clean. Nothing in it matched: blue tile in the shower area (separated only by a curtain from everything else), gray-on-gray floor (the very one I was thrilled to tear up in our Gloucester home), narrow greenish floral border around the sink, speckled pink solid-surface countertop, and large white wall tiles.

In the room itself, the carpet was stained and grotty, the wallpaper was peeling off the walls, and the furniture was bargain-basement. Everything was so ugly and busy. The floral bedspreads actually looked angry, with their tiny gnarled roses. The capper was that a card was provided upon which you were to record your impressions of the room! Seriously? At least the town was beautiful!