Waves and wine; Trip of a lifetime; Santa Barbara, Santa Ynez Valley, Big Sur: a Central Coast road trip makes a vintage romantic getaway

It's the life that Jan and Jon Brosseau have been building with their own hands since they bought land here in 1978. They're the owners of the Inn at the Pinnacles, a Monterey County bed-and-breakfast set in the middle of acres of Pinot Noir, Syrah, and Chardonnay grapes. During the week, Jon works in aerospace in the Bay Area, then the couple loads up their car with provisions and heads to the inn for the weekend. Their property sits adjacent to the historic Chalone Vineyard and a few miles from Pinnacles National Monument, the landmark volcanic outcrops that Becky and I are eager to explore.

Roughly 36 million people live in California, but we're the only 2 at Pinnacles. And for good reason. Just as Becky steps out, the threatening skies stop their threatening and deliver the goods. The rock formations disappear behind a curtain of rain and fog. The rain goes all Ringo on the roof and we listen to the pounding while scanning the skies for the slightest hint of blue. Finally we give up and opt for--what else--a glass of Pinot by the fire. Both warm with nary a hint of smoke.

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2 DAYS, 40 MILES

Pinnacles N.M. to Monterey Peninsula

"The hour of the pearl," John Steinbeck called it: The early-morning fog hangs low over Monterey Bay and muffles the calls of seagulls and the barks of sea lions as we walk past the Victorians of Pacific Grove, bound for Cannery Row.

The mist obscures the crossovers, the bridges used to transport millions of sardines during the heyday of Monterey's fishing industry. Fishing boats with upturned bows and low-slung sterns bob along the Monterey Harbor, with its corrugated-iron buildings and lines of heavy wheelbarrows for transporting fish. Otters swim close enough to hear them chew, and I prove my theory to Becky that every harbor has at least one boat named Sea Wolf.

Later in the day we head to Carmel, where people don't name boats, they name cottages. My tastes run more toward the rusted and weathered, so I find today's Carmel quotidianly quaint. We watch as husbands, hearing that most dreaded of spousal orders--"Honey, let's go in here"--look on with envy at jovial foursomes of guys straight off the 18th hole at Pebble Beach. Fortunately, Becky is not a professional shopper, and soon we veer off into the side streets, where we're able to get more of the feeling of the old arts colony that was home to some of the greatest artists that California ever produced: poet Robinson Jeffers and photographers Edward Weston and Ansel Adams.

The fog comes back just in time for our hike at Point Lobos State Reserve, south of Carmel. Harbor seals haul out in hidden coves, and the fog drifts through a grove of rare Monterey cypress, where lace lichen dangles from the branches and an orange algae crusts the trunks. Here nature is more perfect than art: wind-sculpted trees placed just so on granite rocks rhythmically washed by waves rising from a jade-colored sea.