Road Trip Day Three, Continued: Checking In

The desk clerk told me that Reggae on the River was held at Benbow Lake this year – a little too close to the Inn, she said, as they had to chase more than the usual number of squatters off their lawn, and in one case out of an attic. The people we had
seen were real hangers-on, as
the festival happened months ago.

The Benbow Inn was dreadlock-free when we checked in, and my only concern was the giant stuffed teddy bear “having tea” in the lobby, which reminded me of all the cluttered bed-and-breakfasts we’ve stayed in. I need not have worried - our room is tastefully furnished with antiques - no feared Victorian bric-a-brac. There’s even a small window in the shower – cute!

Almost time for dinner, but here’s what I’ve learned: the hotel is on the Register of National Historic Places, built in 1926 to provide distinctive lodging and recreational opportunities for travelers on the just-completed Redwood Highway. (Check it out: www.benbowinn.com.) Its architect was Albert Farr, known in my neck of the woods for The Wolf House, Jack London’s Glen Ellen home. Situated to enjoy views of the Eel River, the hotel was created in the English Tudor style with intricate wood and stonework. Several presidents have stayed here, though probably not Reagan or he’d have come to know some redwoods. Two of the on-holiday-from-Hollywood guests included Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy. Most notably, the restaurant is superb, the recipient of the Wine Spectator’s Award of Excellence for ten straight years. And if it wasn’t awesome there would be a problem as there doesn’t appear to be another place nearby for dinner. My client was right - this place is secluded!

We dined on the terrace with view of the romantic gardens. Though it was chilly, I was comfortable wrapped in my ever-present pashmina. We lingered over a molten chocolate cake baked just for us – heavenly indulgence! I heard a “swoosh” sound nearby and saw a shadow flitting by in the moonlight. Huh. And again. I looked over at a nearby table and asked the equally puzzled-looking woman seated there, “Was that a...bat?!” Sure enough, illuminated by the moonlight in a perfect Hitchcock-ian Halloween tableau, BATS!! Lots and lots of them streaming from the eaves and even some of the attic windows! Were they seeking insects? Chocolate cake? Or had they developed a taste for tourist blood?! Michael was nonchalant about the whole thing but not I; it was time to get indoors. I fled with the cake and stopped at the front desk to share my possible-near-death-by-exsanguination experience, but the night manager was not buying it. She said the bats were harmless and had been in residence for decades. In the 1960’s, sensing the discomfort of “certain guests” (she didn’t have to say it: the namby-pamby Maddies) the hotel owners paid some teenagers 5¢ per captured bat and they nearly went broke. (Eeeew - and what might they have done with all the bat bodies?!) She did offer us a complimentary sherry in the bar, you know, to steady our nerves. We liked that – and the polished wood was lovely, like an English gentlemen’s’ club. I could picture Ralph Lauren kicking back in his own cozy lair. We were trying to picture him swatting at bats with a vintage tennis racket in his signature classic whites when my eye caught something else that made me shiver. This time it was not a bat, but my client, the one who recommended this place to me. She was ensconced in a dark corner canoodling with a man I knew was NOT HER HUSBAND! Unbelievable! We had to get out of the bar – and the hotel – without her seeing us!