I proposed using a vacation day to venture off the beaten path. To the Capay Valley, east of Lake Berryessa, we should go.

When Cheryl asked why Capay, I had trouble articulating a compelling reason. It had something to do with a sudden craving for tree-ripened apricots and peaches. And wouldn’t a drive in the country be nice?

I meant real country. Not a drive down a Napa Valley crossroad dotted with little Versailleses where the grapes are trained within an inch of their lives.

Perhaps my strongest reason stemmed from a junket to Capay Valley in the 1970s. A farm group was showing off the bounty of California agriculture. Reporters were invited to a barbecue.

I have sweet memories of arriving at a farmhouse surrounded by large oaks. Foods representative of California’s summer harvest were spread on tables under the canopy. The meal was sublime.

I left convinced that Capay Valley was an agricultural Eden. The luncheon had made me, a city guy, want to be a farmer. Or at least the son of a farmer who could go home occasionally to a place as charming as this.

The memory of lunch on the farm in Capay Valley had stayed with me, burnished by the passing of time. Capay became the gold standard for summer eating.

While shopping local farmers markets, as nice as they are, I would silently note that the mother lode of fresh produce was a county away, in a place called Capay.

Think the yellow squash and the corn at farmers markets are sweet? You’ve never been to Capay, young man. Capay corn will knock your taste buds senseless.

And where exactly is Capay Valley? Memory didn’t serve. I had to get out my Thomas Bros. maps to find the exact location, north of I-80, west of Woodland.

We put a cooler in the truck. We didn’t want our fruit and vegetable purchases to cook on the way home. I also slathered on sun screen and got out my shade hat. If only it had been made from straw.

We zigzagged our way to Capay Valley, with a side trip through Woodland, whose downtown, like ours, sports a 19th century opera house. That’s where the comparison ends. No upscale restaurants. No wine bars. Downtown Woodland’s strong suit is potential.

Traffic on two-lane Highway 16 into the Capay Valley was intense. At the head of the valley, a subdivision of large homes had sprouted next to farmworker cottages. I hadn’t expected commuter homes to have wormed their way into Shangri-La.

We continued on, passing a couple of farm stands and store clusters. In every direction, food was growing, seemingly on an industrial scale. I wasn’t seeing any cute family farms.

Pulling into a farm stand, we found a preppy guy selling expensive organic fruit. Three dollars a pound.

Cheryl balked. Three dollars! Did he think he was Safeway?

Three dollar peaches took the wind out of our sails. We ventured a little farther, then turned around. With gas at almost $4.50 a gallon, I didn’t think I could afford any more nostalgia.

Though my Capay quest had turned out to be mostly bogus, our foray wasn’t without value. We’d glimpsed a new source of inexpensive subdivision land.

Back on I-80 near Dixon, we stopped at a big produce supermarket. It rated low in ag chic, but they were practically shoveling bargain-priced food out the door. We loaded up on cheap apricots, peaches and lettuce. Cheryl even got a deal on a pineapple.

The next week, while taking one of our evening walks, we noticed an apricot tree laden with fruit just a few feet off the roadway. When I say laden, I mean loaded. Hundreds of apricots were coming into their glory.

Cheryl sidled over and felt for ripeness. Then she swiped one and bit.

Heavenly, she said. We should come back with bags and load up.

And ask permission? Of course, she said.

On our next walk, Cheryl marched up to the door and got the OK from the elderly property owner to pick. All the woman asked was that we not strip the tree.

Every day for a week we devoured apricots while walking. No matter how hard we tried to eat neat, these juice bombs defeated us. We returned home with sticky fingers and splattered clothing.

For our final pick, I harvested enough fruit for a crisp. Pardon my modesty, but it turned out great.

So simple. So scrumptious. So Capay Valley, circa 1975.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com