There's a tidy little open front tavern tucked under a stand of eucalyptus, with comfortable stools along the bar and separate tables alongside the hut. The smell of a brewery wafts through the clear air, with promises of things to come. An adjacent gravel footpath is spanned by a crudely-joined arbor with a smallish hand-lettered sign hanging from the top that says "Mudcat Tavern: Pacific door." The trail disappears around the back of the hut.

A duck sits at the edge of the path idly watching people stroll by.