My memories of San Francisco consist of steep hills, shiny high-rises, and a gritty urban centre, so I’m delighted to discover, on my return, the peaceful green pocket of the Presidio. This 1,491-acre reservation at the city’s northern tip was a US military base from 1848 until 1989, then repurposed as a national park; the buildings, avenues and surrounding woodlands kept pretty much as they were. Although there have been some – not unwelcome – changes: the impressive row of red-brick military barracks on the park’s upper perimeter is now a cultural research library, a Walt Disney museum, and, most excitingly, my home for this trip: the Lodge at the Presidio hotel.
So authentic is the setting that as I lug my suitcase up the path and across the wooden boards of the veranda it’s hard not to feel like I’ve been called up for service; arriving to be shown to my quarters and meet the rest of my regiment. Thankfully (both for me and any army, for I’m as disciplined as a raccoon) there will be nothing demanding about my stay.
Inside the hotel’s polished foyer, elegant armchairs invite one to sit and gaze out the windows at the Bay on one side, or the expansive Parade Lawn on the other. The Lodge staff, while always available to handle any queries or requests, have a ‘there when you need them’ approach, which actually makes the place feel even more like a residence.
I’ve lucked out with my third-floor Deluxe Double room, which faces the Bay and offers a view of the Golden Gate Bridge from one of the two original windows – they’re narrow, but this frames the bridge nicely while blocking out the intrusive sight of the freeway below. (The sound of traffic is thankfully little more than a white-noise whisper.) There’s a luxurious simplicity to the room, all creams and blue-greys with dark wood and antique-gold details, subtle nods to the nautical in a ceiling lamp that looks a little like a port window, and a striped wool blanket folded with military precision at the foot of the bed.
The bathroom is huge, with his ’n’ hers sinks and mirrors, and another door reveals a walk-in wardrobe, also home to a coffee-maker and a simple but considered minibar. Full-size bottles of Californian wines, minis of spirits, and craft beers from local Fort Point brewery accompany an enticing array of snacks. (It must be noted: for all the considered choices here, it does strike me as odd to be provided with those tiny pots of Coffee Mate creamer and wooden stirrers; although I’ve no doubt real milk would be provided if requested.)
A long day of travelling and riding the BART and a taxi through ‘Frisco at rush hour has completely sapped me, so when I flop onto the bed and find I don’t bounce on the mattress, but rather melt into it, I feel a tad overcome. How can a mattress be both satisfyingly firm yet yieldingly soft? And how is one supposed to get up again and go do things? Maybe that’s the point. I don’t have to; I’ve no call of duty.
But I do finally peel myself away to explore the park. In a city hotel one normally emerges into the throng of the street, but being in the grounds of the Presidio is akin to living in an open-air museum. I take a walk along neat rows of identical cottages where middle-class officers and their families once lived, and stop to read about the history of the former bachelor officer’s quarters, where unmarried soldiers used to co-habit. ‘The bachelor officer leads a happy and enviable existence,’ explains the sign. ‘His quarters exhibit a singular medley of luxury and slouchiness, elegance and homey comfort.’ not unlike the Lodge at the Presidio.
While there is no restaurant or bar in the hotel (there are a couple of decent bistros within the extensive park if you don’t want to go far) guests are offered a welcome compromise with free wine and cheese every evening, to enjoy at their leisure. It’s the perfect social preamble before heading out for dinner; however, my own cheese platter and glass of red goes down very well after a day of plane food, and sends me into an easy slumber.
I’m awake before dawn. Not due to a drill sergeant yanking me out of bed to do press-ups – just jetlag, which, for all its curses, requires no action. I make a pot of coffee, slip back into the marshmallowy comfort of the bed and listen to the lulling foghorn out in the thick dark of the bay. I appreciate the quieter, slower pace this hotel offers; not to mention the green surrounds, water views, and a sight more ‘elegance and homey comfort’ than those officers were afforded.
Breakfast, held in the dining room, is a Continental affair: hot and cold cereals, fresh fruits, good thick Greek yoghurt (none of those artificially flavoured pots ubiquitous in lesser hotel buffets), and an excellent selection of pastries from a local bakery. I consider whether cereal, fruit, yoghurt, and two buttery kouign-amanns is being greedy, but something has to get me and my untrained marching legs up and down the steep San Francisco streets. That’s if I can bring myself to leave the Presidio. ‘Hup two, soldier’, I think, and take another bite.
New Zealand-born writer and editor Claire Nelson’s gripping memoir Things I Learned from Falling is an inspiring and harrowing account of her surviving a shattered pelvis while in a remote part of Joshua Tree National Park. But she has also taken far less traumatising trips and recounted them for the likes of Suitcase, Elle, Travel Weekly and The Sunday Times Travel Magazine, alongside her food journalism for Jamie Oliver’s magazine and more.