My traveling companion and I stood together at twilight, in the kitchen of the Bunkhouse at Windermere. We watched as the lights of Santa Barbara and Goleta slowly began to flicker and glow. There was an insistent, thick fogbank standing just off shore, creating the illusion that the Channel Islands were nestled in their own valley of clouds.

We turned off the interior lights, and stood at the windows, smiling as the jeweled necklace that is the coastline grew brighter and more defined, inviting and thrilling all at once. The very VERY last rays of the sun went down off the western edge of the world. And there before us was an excessive, over-the-top holiday-like display of reds and greens, golds and whites — just dancing. It is hard to believe that such a phenomenon takes place on a nightly basis.

What is more, the reverse occurs in the dark-before-dawn each morning! I do not sleep much anyway, and the mere hint of morning light bounces me out of my pillow and quilt nest. There is a rustic swing on the “front yard” of the bunk house, and I sat there, very still, watching and waiting for it. Slowly the lights went off from east to west, from the coast to the hills, and jewels were tucked away while the sun began its journey.

My traveling companion and I have both been to Windermere many times. Before, it was just a spectacular ranch. Now, it will never be anything less than magic.