Nestled in a valley winding its way West toward the Pacific, with rolling hills and tan oaks on one side, and redwoods on the other, on the fertile strip of valley floor lies Boonville. Orchards hide throughout the valley with some trees well over a hundred years old and still bearing fruit. Known for its bizarre and dying dialect, Boontling, its fondness for what a visiting author called "the easy hedonism of the valley", and its curvy roads, Boonville is a refuge from the mundane flailings of suburbia and industrial squalor. With its blistering days and chilly nights, the afternoon breeze winding up the Navarro from the ocean, and the eclectic culture of its residents, it is the perfect place to grow our fruit, and soon, to build our cider house.