Lunch at the Manor with "Cousin Robert"

Even after 19 trips to the U.K. and nearly two months of extraordinary experiences on this visit alone, it was a "pinch-me" moment: Having lunch literally with the "lord of the manor" in his private living quarters in a stately home maintained by the National Trust -- a manor that dates back to the 1470s.

How, you ask, did that come about?

My cousin and traveling companion on this leg of the trip, Little Margaret, was a Floyd before her marriage. Our daddies were first cousins; there's a Hedrick woman tangled up in the family tree somewhere. Margaret, the historian, can quote chapter and verse how it is we're related. Anyway, her daddy was Marshall Floyd of Denton and Margaret, always known to me as Little Margaret, was an only child like myself. We've been close friends all our lives, both attending Guilford College and discovering a common love of travel that led to her joining me for the third time now abroad.

Last spring, while sorting out a possible itinerary for Little Margaret, our friend Susan and myself, I found Great Chalfield Manor, a National Trust property not too far from Highclere Castle, the "Downton Abbey" site we all three wanted to see. A visit to Great Chalfield in neighboring Wiltshire, if for no other reason than by virtue of its proximity, made sense.

Quite by accident I then discovered that the donor tenants of Great Chalfield are a couple named Floyd. Wonder whether there's any connection? I wondered. And being a bold American and former fundraiser ("if you don't ask, you don't get"), I wrote to Robert and Patsy Floyd to see whether it might be possible to meet them while we were on the premises.

Not only did they say yes, they invited the three of us to lunch! In her email response, Patsy even offered some tantalizing tidbits of Floyd family history -- a William Floyd of New York was a signer of the Declaration of Independence, a Julie Floyd married Sir Robert Peel who became Prime Minister, and a Sir John Floyd had a distinguished career as a professional soldier in India. It seemed likely that these Floyds and Margaret's ancestors may have intersected at some point.

Naturally, we couldn't accept the Floyds' gracious invitation fast enough!

Margaret got to work on the internet and with Denton relatives to dig into her genealogy further. By the time our lunch at Great Chalfield rolled around, she was armed with additional tempting Floyd facts -- including some bits about her earliest documented ancestor, a John Floyd, born in Wales in 1570. His sons, Nathaniel and Walter, were the first known Floyds to arrive in America -- in Jamestown, VA, in 1623.

Robert, our host, was obviously fascinated by the history Margaret had dug up, and offered some morsels of his own. He brought out photos of some of the Floyd men, one of which bore an eerie resemblance to Marshall Floyd, and a well-worn copy of Burke's Peerage, the Brits' "Snob's Bible." The conversation never lagged for a moment. I could've listened to Robert talk for hours. Very posh and aristocratic, don't you know.

By the time lunch was over, Robert and Little Margaret (who by now had morphed into "Lady Margaret") had pretty much agreed to claim kin with one another whether there is firm evidence or not.

Even if we hadn't had the opportunity to meet these charming people, we would have loved Great Chalfield.  Robert Floyd's grandfather bequeathed the property to The National Trust in 1943 with the understanding that his heirs could live there as long as they chose to do so. Robert and his wife, Patsy, have made it their home for most of their marriage, raised their three boys there, and continue to manage the property for The Trust.

One of the key features of the moated seven-acre estate is the Arts & Crafts garden, which is Patsy's domain. It's absolutely exquisite. Adjacent is the tiny Parish of All Saints church, which has occupied its prime spot across the manor's courtyard since 1316.

A delicious lunch, lively conversation, a glimpse into the lives of genuine English aristocrats -- and their dogs -- in their own kitchen, a stroll around a beautiful garden on a warm sunny day, and making new friends: Days just don't get much better than that!

And if my cousin turns out to be kin to these good people, doesn't it follow that I can claim kin, too? If it's between a drafty, unpainted shack in the Flat Swamp township of Davidson County or Great Chalfield Manor, guess which one I'd select as my ancestral home?

A day in Downton!

Way behind in my blogging...and now we're already packing up to come home. The time has galloped these last two weeks with Little Margaret and Susan here. We put 1,300 miles on the car, saw some extraordinary sights and wore ourselves just about slam out -- in a good way, of course. When we all eventually get to The Home, we don't want to look back and regret passing up an opportunity to see that one last English garden.

Anyway, the two headliners this week -- which had to be pretty doggone splendid even to rate, given our weekend in northern Wales -- were HIGHCLERE CASTLE, home of the PBS drama "Downton Abbey" to which we three are addicted, and Great Chalfield Manor and Garden, a National Trust Property in Wiltshire which Little Margaret now claims as her ancestral home. More on that probable family connection in a later blog.

First, Highclere. Oh. My. God.  Picture it: Driving up a narrow lane lined by majestic Cedars of Lebanon. Sheep and horses grazing contentedly in pastures on nearby hills. White puffy clouds lazing carelessly in the warm English summer sky. And then up in the distance, on a level, perfectly manicured green field, one finally spots the familiar, stately home of the "Earl of Grantham," taking the breath away. I get chills just thinking about it!

The only thing missing was that fabulous theme song wafting in the background...

Actually, Highclere is owned by the Earl of Carnarvon and his family, who move out for several months a year to another, less imposing house on their huge estate to accommodate first the film crew, and then hordes and masses of tourists who pay a pretty penny to wander around the property inside and out for a few weeks each summer.

If you ever have a chance to visit the place, DO, whether you're a fan of the TV show or not. For "Downton" fans especially, it's a must. For the casual lover of English stately homes and history, it's still totally cool, with a bonus exhibition of Egyptian artifacts brought back by one of the late Earls of Carnarvon, who discovered the tomb of King Tut. 

TV's fictitious Downton is located in Yorkshire a couple hundred miles to the north. But never mind: The spirit of the show is housed here at the castle in the rolling hills of Berkshire about one hour west of London. Imagine wandering through the Earl's library; the formal dining room; the ladies' sitting room where Lady Violet holds court after dinner; the bedrooms of Cora, the Countess of Grantham, and her daughters Lady Edith and the late and sadly lamented Lady Sybil; and even where Mr. Pamouk, the naughty Turkish gentleman, was laid to rest! The entire first two floors are open to visitors, all of which open into the center gallery that plays so prominently in many scenes. I got a particular kick out of descending the main, red-carpeted staircase -- you know the one that Mary and Edith both came down as brides? Yes, it's just as grand as it appears in the show.

The furnishings are plush and magnificent, reminiscent of bygone days when the English aristocracy, thanks to the infusion of doweries by wealthy brides, could afford to plunder castles of deposed kings from the Continent and buy their treasures for a song. The architectural and design detail in the rooms wreak of wealth. In fact, a Rothschild heiress from the late 19th Century who married the present Earl's great-grandfather is responsible for much of the finery seen there today. One expects Carson the Butler to swan through at any moment, organizing a hunting party for Edward, Prince of Wales.

Interestingly, the house is not as big in person as it appears onscreen. Odd, that. But the ambience and grand character of the place absolutely lived up to my expectations. Even if Highclere Castle weren't associated with a crazy-popular hit TV show, it would be an imposing place. And the history of its real-life family is every bit as fascinating as the world created by the show's writer, Julian Fellowes.

On our day at Highclere, Margaret, Susan and I had lunch in a tent on the expansive grounds reminiscent of the annual fete Lady Grantham holds for the villagers from fictitious Downton in the show. I want to believe Mrs. Patmore whipped up my tuna-and-cheddar sandwich with her own hands. Alas, we weren't wearing hats. Lady Violet (the unequalled Maggie Smith) would not have approved.

Making memories of a lifetime

Whew! What a week! My cousin Little Margaret and our Guilford College friend Susan arrived last Tuesday and we've been on a blazing streak of fun ever since. Let's see how many superlatives I can haul out to describe it all...

On Wednesday we headed to Glastonbury Abbey, down the road just a few miles. The magnificent ruins there are associated with the establishment of Christianity in the British Isles, as well as Arthurian legend. In fact, it's said that King Arthur and Queen Guinevere are buried there. Since there's nobody around now who can dispute it, many people like me still choose to believe it. The enormous Benedictine abbey fell to ruins after the bishop's execution and the dissolution of the kingdom's monasteries in the 1530s, thanks to King Henry VIII 's break with Rome and Catholicism.

Anyway, as serendipity would have it, we had the abundant good fortune to run into one of the Abbey's history interpreters. This congenial volunteer was in full costume depicting "Sir Richard Pollard," Henry VIII's debt-collector, who was all too happy to give us a personal tour, fill us in on Glastonbury's history, and help us sort out for ourselves the facts from the myths. Joseph of Aramathia, the Virgin Mary's brother, allegedly brought his nephew Jesus there as a lad. Fact or fiction? It makes for a great story.  "Sir Richard" was a gem, and enhanced our visit to this holy place immeasurably. It was a terrific kick-off to the week.

For supper that evening we went to the local pub, the Puriton Inn, and happened upon biweekly Quiz Night. These trivia contests, played in teams, are very popular over here. For the sake of British-American relations we felt it only fitting that we participate. Our team, Guilford Girls, were in first place after the first three rounds! We were feeling pretty smug indeed.

And then we hit the rounds on U.K. sports, shipping lanes, rail routes out of London and other obscure stuff that would stump even the cleverest native Brit. Down the Guilford Girls went in flames. Our only saving grace was on "What is the title of the American national anthem?" When the answer was read and we lit into a spirited vocal rendition of "Oh, say, can you see...," we were cheered roundly. Unfortunately, our patriotic fervor did not match our final score: Even bartering some answers from the table next to us, our team came in dead last. We stayed late, made some new friends, and had a buzz from laughing so hard for three hours. Quiz Night was the most fun we had ever had for a mere one pound!

Thursday was our Wells day -- Wells Cathedral for an organ recital and a stroll through the Bishop's Palace and gardens with its moat and famous swans under gorgeous blue skies. Delightful!

On Friday we struck out to northern Wales, home of the famous Llangollen International Eisteddfod (music festival). I had attended this extraordinary event last year and enjoyed it so much I wanted to go back and share it with friends. We checked into our charming B&B, Ye Olde Boot Inn, in Shropshire and soon off we took to the sheep meadow in the picturesque valley beside the River Dee that has been the home of the Eisteddfod since 1947.

The highlight of Friday night's concert were the Welsh choir Only Kids Aloud accompanied by the British Sinfonia Orchestra. Ahhhh! We were in tears from their first note. These children, who range in age from 9 to 14, were simply angelic. There were also two South African vocal ensembles that help reinforce the international nature of this well-established festival, whose motto is Blessed is a world that sings; gentle are its songs.

Punctuating this beautiful message was Terry Waite, the British cleric who was imprisoned for several years by the rulers of South African apartheid. Like his friend Nelson Mandela, Waite -- who grew up in the Quaker faith -- became a symbol of the oppression in that country and has written eloquently about the struggles to create a democracy there. He is now the chairman of the Llangollen Eisteddfod. In his brief remarks he reminded us of how vital it is that people of the world respect and embrace one another's differences to try to maintain peace. His point was that music and experiences like the festival are a wonderful step toward achieving that goal. Amen to that!

Incidentally, we Guilford Girls had the privilege of chatting with him on Saturday. We made our common Quaker connection known (he was familiar with Guilford, of course!), and were able to commend him for helping maintain the eisteddfod as a powerful symbol in promoting positive relations internationally.

Saturday we heard choirs from England, Wales, the Czech Republic, Iceland, the Philippines, Costa Rica and elsewhere compete for the Choir of the World trophy. Ironically, the choir we heard first, a mixed ensemble from Argentina, ended up winning the big prize that night. They were top-notch and deserved to win, in our opinion. We also saw folk dancers from Northern Ireland, Scotland, India and Kurdistan compete for the Heritage Dance award. The pugilistic Kurds, sadly, gave me a headache; the joyful Irish won hands down and I was happy with that.

Sunday we checked out of Ye Olde Boot and headed even deeper into Wales. To my mind, it's a largely undiscovered tourist gem -- by American tourists, at least. Our goal for lunch was a castle in the purpose-built village of Portmeirion on the western coast. This fanciful tourist destination was the brainchild of an industrialist who created his own little Italian seaside resort there on the edge of nowhere -- with a Welsh postcode.

After adding a few strategic pieces to my collection from the Portmeirion pottery outlet shop, we began the long, long, long drive home. The design of this day may not go down as my finest hour as a travel planner. In fact, as the hours and miles dragged on and on and on, more than once I questioned my right to plan a trip ever again! What was I thinking??! OK, the scenery was second to none -- the heart of unspoiled, undeveloped northern Wales populated mostly by sheep; the breathtaking Snowdonia Mountains; the road hugging the northern coastline. Truly awesome and awe-inspiring.

But after being in the car for what seemed like half of our natural lives, we were all bone-weary and evermore ready to get back "home."  Yesterday the British highway signage left a great deal to be desired, and while we knew where we were supposed to be headed, we couldn't seem to get there. It didn't help that my map was out of date! No, I don't use sat-nav (see previous blog postings), and I wouldn't have believed anything that accursed gadget told us, anyway. It also didn't help that many people over here (a) don't know how to give directions, and (b) can't even show you on a map where they are!

Let's just say that if I ever tell you I'm going anywhere near the cities of Chester and Birmingham in an automobile, just shoot me.

Eventually, of course, after losing our will to live and getting so punchy we were giggling like deranged hyenas, we finally rolled bacl into Puriton. This little house never looked so welcome!

Today, tired but content, has been a domestic day. We wouldn't have climbed back into that car if our lives depended on it. If memories could be framed, we'd have a gallery-ful.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" and other Fourth activities

Just wrapping up a distinctively low-key Fourth of July weekend -- with nary another American in sight. My neighbors across the street did wish me "Happy Thanksgiving!" Friday morning, which I did appreciate thoroughly, and was as close as I came to being able to wave my flag. They meant well, bless their hearts.

I have to give them big brownie points for friendliness, as a matter of fact, since they actually spoke to me first. Over here in England, neighbors are a bit more reserved and seldom initiate contact with me. Once I make a point of speaking, they're usually just as friendly as can be.

Friday evening, July 4, I was really feeling the need for human contact, so I sallied forth to a nearby village for a concert featuring three community choirs. I read about it online and thought, "How bad can it be?" After all, I do love me some choral music, and applaud anybody else who, like me, sings. It's a healthy, wholesome thing. Whether you've got any talent or not.

Well, the fact that I'm not disclosing the name of the village or the choirs should tell you something about the evening -- or at least the half I heard. Let's just say that they tried, bless their hearts. The proceeds went toward a local charitable organization, so kudos for that. The venue was full. My ears didn't actually bleed, but I'll never get that hour of my life back. The best part of the concert was the few measures the men played on kazoos. That's right, kazoos. And may I just remark to choral directors everywhere that the world does not need any more ABBA or '80s disco covers by singers who can barely manage unison, let alone two-part harmony?  

Having escaped Friday night's epic choral flop, I hesitated striking out Saturday evening for more home-grown talent. Again, tact dictates my withholding the name of the village. Held in a 13th Century church, it featured both a brass band and a choir, comprising all local amateurs. The band was rousing and quite wonderful, as a matter of fact, playing pieces all composed by Americans. Their renditions of John Williams' theme to the movie "Jurassic Park" and a Duke Ellington piece were absolutely stirring -- shown off to great advantage in that ancient space with such live acoustics. Loved them!

The choir, on the other hand, tragically answered the question once again, "How bad can it be?" I wanted so much for them to be good...and I admit that on their medley of British songs associated with war -- "White Cliffs of Dover," "It's a Long Way to Tipperary," "There'll Always be an England" and others -- I got a bit of a tear in my eye. The rest of my tears, I'm afraid, were coming from entirely different emotions. I made an early escape after the band finished its second set and before my eye-rolling got too obvious.

Speaking of war-associated music, this is the 100th anniversary of the beginning of the Great War, also known of course to Americans as World War I, and over here there is a coordinated effort to remember that tragic time in British history. I think we Americans have forgotten what a huge sacrifice the Brits made in that war. The fact that they still honor the hundreds of thousands of soldiers who died is very touching. And of course the 70th anniversary of D-Day in June was also a big occasion.

On another, entirely different note, one couldn't be in the U.K. and miss another milestone that was taking place a mere 15 miles from me last weekend: The Glastonbury Festival, the world's oldest and largest continuing pop/rock music festival. It was held for the first time in the early '70s as a latter-day Woodstock, and has been going strong ever since, pulling in aging and would-be hippies from all over the country. Last year, the Rolling Stones were the headline act and drew the biggest crowd to date. This year, the headliner was none other than our own Dolly Parton, and organizers estimated that the crowd of 150,000 was the biggest in the festival's history. You couldn't have paid me cash money to get in that crowd of crazies, but I'm evermore proud of how well Dolly was received.

My technical headaches seem to have tapered off a lot, although in keeping with the theme of the trip so far, there are still the occasional hiccups. Case in point: The sat-nav. It is cursed, I'm sure of it. The other day, in an ill-guided attempt not to let it get the best of me, I plugged it in on a trip into Taunton, the nearest city of any size.  I wasn't on a deadline to get anyplace at a certain time, so figured it would be a good time to master this device once and for all. My destination was a Waterstone's book store in the center of town.

It wasn't long until that blessed thing was  insisting that I had made a wrong exit off a roundabout, and was "recalculating." We went through this rigmarole about five or a dozen times, with the sat-nav "recalculating" and me getting more and more annoyed. I had studied the Taunton map before I left home, so I knew I was getting close, but the beastly device kept telling me to turn right, turn left, turn around, and I was simply going around in circles. I lost my cool entirely when it kept telling me to turn right while I was waiting for a funeral procession to pass! You all know that we in the South come to a stop for hearses to pay our respect; it's the thing we do, and I didn't care what that bloody disembodied voice was saying!

Anyway, as soon as the procession had passed, I decided to use my own good judgment (and maybe out of pure stubbornness), and turned left. Voila! there on my RIGHT was Waterstone's. And wouldn't you know it, that ridiculous little box was intoning, "Your destination is on the LEFT."

I pulled the plug on the sat-nav then and there, and have retired it permanently. I mean, puh-LEAZE, if the thing doesn't know its left from its right, why should I listen to the bloody thing??! I can go around in circles well enough on my own, thank you very much.

Feeling grounded

One of the many advantages of house-swapping is the ability to behave as a resident, not necessarily as a tourist. I know it may sound crazy, but I actually enjoy piddling around the house -- doing little chores like watering the tomato plants, setting out the recycling bins, doing the laundry. It makes me feel like a true Brit, not just a visitor.

I've grumbled about the almost universal absence of clothes dryers over here, but the fact is, hanging wet clothes on a line outdoors has become a nostalgic, Zen thing to me. It takes me back to the '50s and '60s on Eastside Drive in Lexington, NC, with Mama and her clothesline. I wouldn't want to go back there, but there are worse things than having to rely on sunshine and wind to dry one's laundry. It makes me stop and think about the lengths we Americans go for the sake of convenience.

Since my last blog posting, I've had several adventures, even though quite a bit lower-key than the likes of Cambridge or Sissinghurst. One evening I drove a mere seven miles down the road to the village of Moorlinch, where, ironically, I did a house swap in 2001. I remembered the pub there, the Ring o' Bells, as serving really top-notch food and excellent local cider. I was glad to find things hadn't changed a bit, even with new management. It's still a friendly, welcoming place.

Saturday I went a bit off the grid on what's called the Jurassic Coast, which stretches along the English Channel in Dorset. My target was a concert in the small parish church in the seaside resort village of Lyme Regis, whose terrain resembles an egg carton -- up and down, up and down. This Medieval gem of a village is packed so tight it's hard to see how one more single vehicle, building or person could be squeezed into it.

After finding a parking spot (no mean feat) I had a daunting hike up to the church, perched on a cliff overlooking the Channel -- a stunning site. It was completely worth it. The visiting City of Bristol Choir sang their hearts out, especially on big English anthems by Hubert Parry and Handel. The acoustics in the ancient church didn't hurt, either. A fine, rowsing evening of choral music.

The Jurassic Coast has a well-earned reputation for beautiful scenery, but for my money, there is no more spectacular coastline in the world than Cornwall's. Tuesday I met my Cornish friend Carolyn for a day out along the northern coast of Cornwall, where the Atlantic has been doing battle with the land for eons. The visual result is just heart-stopping.

Our rendezvous point was Port Isaac, where the TV show "Doc Martin" is filmed. (If you watch PBS, you may have seen it on Saturday nights.) Tourists were packed in like sardines, but we didn't let that stop us. Ate in a café on a cliff overlooking the water, and then drove in and out of several coves up and down the shore, oohing and aahing the whole way. Even Carolyn, a native of the lovely Cornish coastal town of St. Ives, enjoyed the sights just as much as I did. I just felt so blessed to be surrounded by all that amazing  beauty. It literally took my breath away.

Yesterday I went to another National Trust property, Lytes Cary Manor and Garden, just down the road a bit here in Somerset, and wound up at Wells Cathedral for choral evensong and an evening organ recital. The guest organist was marking his 80th birthday by giving a concert by composers who were either born or died in the year of his own birth 1934. Despite his age -- or maybe because of it -- he could evermore pump those pedals! A terrific show all around, capped off by wine and birthday cake for the entire audience. Another wonderful outing.

These day trips represent the gentler, less hectic side of house exchanging  -- having a home base from which to see some sights that are often off the beaten tourist track.  Now, if I could just figure out how to get the washing machine to take less than three hours to run a load of clothes...

I'm ba-a-a-a-ack!

The postcode here says I'm in England, but the house is straight out of "Star Trek." Yes, I'm on another home exchange, and as usual there are rather...remarkable...features. What would one of these residential adventures be without oddments of some description? After all, if I wanted to replicate what I have in Charlotte, why would I ever leave home to begin with?

Don't get me wrong: It's an extremely nice four bedroom, three-and-a-half bath house, built only two years ago. In contrast to the monastic-like cell in which I stayed last summer, that Welsh flat, this place is downright plush. Its owners, my exchangers, are a retired engineer who loves guy stuff and everything state-of-the-art, and his wife, a retired nurse. If anything, it's the exact opposite of the Spartan digs in Cardiff with the minimalist furnishings, the kitchen equipped with nothing but a dull paring knife, the bathroom with no soap and only one towel...I could go on and on. I did not grieve when I closed the door on that sad little place for the last time.

Arriving here on Thursday, I felt like I had stepped into the 23rd Century, albeit in East Anglia. For the geographically challenged, that's the county of Norfolk northeast of London. My tiny village is between Diss and Norwich. Being flat and bordering the North Sea, this area was the site of lots of American Army air bases during WWII. Now it's still rural with farms and windmills alike dotting the lush countryside.

Back to my current exchange house.  The large solar panels on the roof should have given me a clue about what I was in for, and my exchange partners did duly warn me it was a modern house. Indeed, it's an homage to ecology and the environment. Every measure has been taken to conserve energy -- and to drive guests crazy! As most of you know, I don't have a technological bone in my body, and let me just tell you, trying to figure out space-age appliances just about sends me over the edge.

For instance, the stove: It's an invection thing, or maybe it's induction? Conviction? Convection? Whatever. The manual runs over 50pp, and is written in a variety of languages, including Greek. I am not kidding. Greek. Once I read that the operation of this stove by anyone with a pacemaker could result in death, I lost my appetite.

OK, I've still got the microwave, right? Er, which one of these things mounted on the wall is the microwave? You know you've gotten old when you cannot even suss out which appliance is the microwave, let alone how to operate it! Mine at home is either On or it's Off. Punch two buttons and you're in business. Not here. Oh, no. There are so many buttons it looks like a Boeing cockpit. Hauled out the manual. After 17 steps, I gave up. Ate cereal.

The next night, after a good night's sleep and with my American resolve in overdrive, I approached the oven. Thought a nice ready-to-eat chicken-and-mushroom pie would be just the thing. Surely the oven is easier and more straightforward...HA HA HA HA. Ate cereal.

The TV set-up is somewhat more straightforward: There have been only six remote controls to master (I'm not lying here) and an entire closet devoted to its satellite wizardry. Nevertheless, I'm proud to report that I've been able to find my brilliant Alibi, ITV and Drama channels for a proper fix of mysteries. And I've just about gotten used to the motion sensors on the lights in the bathroom, the water-heating system that shuts off after 8:30 a.m. (yielding tepid water for my late-night showers) and the curious absence of a clothes dryer. They're putting a man on the moon, metaphorically speaking, in the kitchen and they didn't bother installing a clothes dryer in the utility room??! These challenges are offset, on the other hand, by the icemaker that dispenses crushed ice -- unheard of over here -- the boiling-water tap for tea and the room-to-room climate control that keeps the house at a steady 72 degrees.

And my exchangers' car is a dream: Automatic transmission PLUS air-conditioning!! Over-the-top comfortable. It's a Russian make, I think. Of course, it has many technie features. I'm touching none of 'em.

It's too bad I inherited my mother's pear-like frame instead of my daddy's keen intellect regarding machines and technology. He'd have a field day in this place. Me, I'm either going to get into the groove of this household or go barking mad. I've got three more weeks here before I move on to the next exchange. Don't count me out yet. But tonight I'm dining on cereal.

At home in Somerset

No huge headlines here...Just getting me from East Anglia to the opposite side of the country last weekend was a major operation, but a smooth one, owing to the extraordinary effort on the part of my Somerset home exchanger, Carol, who drove all the way out there to pick me up. We spent the night at her sister's house relatively near Heathrow to be in position for her and her partner, Gerry from South Africa, to fly to CLT the next morning. From the airport I drove myself to her house in Somerset in what is called England's West Country. A brilliant plan, really!

Then on the American end, thanks to my Charlotte friends, Carol and Jerry were able to get first to a hotel, get oriented to Charlotte, meet my first set of exchangers briefly before they left, and then settled into my house. Pentagon strategists couldn't have done it better.

Since I had been going at full-tilt for a while, it has been rather nice to slow down and just chill this week. I've been to the cinema in Taunton, about 12 miles away, three times for a movie fix ("Jersey Boys" had me singing out loud, and "Fault in Our Stars" was an excellent tear-jerker), checked out the village pub here in Puriton, grocery-shopped and had my hair cut -- just regular stuff.

One day I did a trial run into Bridgwater, the nearest town, to test the sat-nav. Now, as I've already admitted, when it comes to technology, I'm a few epistles shy of a testament. There's apparently an energy field around me that fouls up anything the slightest bit technological, and heaven knows, I'm simply not wired to understand electronic wizardry. Add satellite navigation systems to the long list of things that make me go AAAACK.

I should first point out that I have my own, somewhat infallible, internal compass. I'm an avid map-reader. I trust maps; they're solid, and they're visual. Show me on a map where I'm supposed to go, and I can usually find it (except, notably, in Oxford, but that's another story). I don't like relinquishing control to a disembodied voice. It's creepy, to tell the truth. But I'm not so cocky that I believe GPS technology can't be useful on occasion.

Of course, the fiends who program sat-navs don't always take into account a system of streets laid out in Medieval times.

And so it was that I faithfully followed the directions oozing out of that blasted device -- and ended up in a one-way alley that dead-ended in a pedestrian mall! No place to turn around, of course. Only option is to back up an entire block and pray no other vehicles hem me in.

Got out of the alley without loss of life or limb and onto a regular street, only to find that the independent book store I was looking for had closed several months ago. The outing wasn't a total loss because a W H Smith, the U.K.'s equivalent to Barnes & Noble, was on the next corner. But I think I'll stick to my own navigational skills from now on.

The theme of Technology Kicks Emily in Her Overly-Generous Butt continued, however, when this very laptop lost its internet reception that night. I may not be very computer-savvy, but like most people these days, I view the computer as my lifeline, especially when I'm away from home. So I was in a pluperfect panic. The next day I hauled it to the pub, which has WiFi, and determined the problem was obviously not in the machine, but rather in the connection here at the house. But what to do now?

Fortunately, my exchanger's niece and her partner, Polly and Rich, came to my aid. They graciously changed their plans the next evening to come over, and within a half-minute, Rich had found the router, reset it, and had me up and running again. How do people KNOW this stuff? OK, I realize it helps that he's a third of my age...

Lest y'all think I'm a total mechanical wash-out (no pun intended), I have figured out how to use Carol's washing machine and dishwasher all by myself. So there! And her shower has hot water all the time. And the microwave is either "off" or "on." It's a sharp contrast to the house in East Anglia, but after a month on the Starship Enterprise, I'm rather grateful for simplicity!

Visiting the cemetery and other treats

A packed week. My dear friends Mark Blonstein and Don Faircloth from Greenville, SC, joined me in East Anglia for three nights and we stayed on the go. It was terrific having "playmates" for the last stretch of my stay out there. (For the record, even Don, a trained engineer, couldn't figure out all those technological marvels in that house! The satellite reception pooped out Thursday on the TVs, for instance, and even his considerable expertise couldn't get Sky back up and running. A whole room devoted to electronics, and the wretched TVs were dead as doornails. Nice to know it wasn't just me that was flummoxed by all those doodads!)

Anyway, as I was sayin'. Although it was a long haul from my exchange house near Diss down to Kent, Mark and I had our hearts set on going together to the magnificent Sissinghurst Castle and Garden near Cranbrook.

Most of you have probably heard me carry on for years about Sissinghurst. For my money, it's the quintessential English garden. It was the labor of love of a quite celebrated couple, Vita Sackville-West, a writer, and her husband, Harold Nicolson, a career diplomat, beginning in the early 1930s. They continued planting and designing and creating indescribable beauty in the garden until their deaths in the '60s, when they willed it to the National Trust. I first went there in 1998 and fell in love with it. I think so highly of it as a place of peace and beauty that I've instructed my friends, including Mark and Don, that my ashes should be scattered there.

I'm a member of the Royal Oak Foundation, the American arm of the British National Trust, which preserves, maintains and operates over 500 historic properties and areas of natural beauty like the garden at Sissinghurst throughout the U.K. And so when I pay my dues every year, I view it as contributing to my own personal "cemetery fund."

All of my friends will be invited to go to Sissinghurst -- I'm under no illusion that many will actually make the trip -- but if there's anybody around to make the pilgrimage with Mark, you're all instructed to leave a little pinch of me here and a little pinch there...I'm particularly fond of the famous White Garden. There are some magnificent white delphiniums,, lilies and roses with which I think I'd be most compatible. But save some of me for the purple irises in the cottage garden, too, please. There will be plenty of me to go around! And then into perpetuity, faceless throngs will visit the garden and admire these lovely plantings and not even realize what a good job I'll be doing in making them thrive. Can you think of a better place to be remembered?!

No, I have no intention of being scattered at Sissinghurst any time soon, but it doesn't hurt to have a plan. The thought of being buried in a casket doesn't appeal to me at all. And since I have such a strong psychic connection to this place -- England, and gardens, and Sissinghurst in specific -- this strategy just feels right. Eccentric, maybe, but ask me if I care!

So Thursday's long drive to and from Sissinghurst was worth the effort to me -- you know, to assure myself that the high standards of Vita and Harold are still being maintained. They are. In its summer finery, the property was as I remembered it -- dreamy. It's an absolute must on your itinerary if you ever make it to England.

Friday the boys and I spent a delightful afternoon at Sandringham, Her Majesty's estate in Norfolk. This is where the Royal Family spends every Christmas. It was bought in the early 1860s for the then-Prince of Wales, who became Edward VII, and has been a retreat for the British royal family ever since. It's never used for state occasions; instead it's considered more of a family home, owned by the Queen personally and not by the nation. It's filled with lots of family photos and mementoes. We also visited the little church on the edge of the estate. If you've ever seen news footage of the Royals walking to church on Christmas Day, that's where they're headed.

Back in my "home" village we loved the local pub so much that we ate there all three evenings, becoming practically locals. Though located in a rather isolated spot, the Crown boasts an excellent bill of fare. Of course, it's the only place anywhere for miles to eat or drink, so as you can imagine it was well patronized.
  
On Saturday the boys and I both left Norfolk -- them to head to Scotland and me to my second exchange house here in the village of Puriton near Bridgwater in Somerset. More on that military-like operation later. Suffice it to say that here, the technology is accessible. Not a single operator's manual or space-age doodad in evidence. Can I hear an Amen?!

Microwave 5, Emily 1; and other highlights

Yes, I'm finally on the scoreboard! After several defeats, I have finally managed to heat something to eat in the space-age microwave here at my exchange house.

As it turned out, the procedure was dead simple -- thanks to the one-two-three steps explained by phone by my exchange partner. My breakthrough also came right after my return from Cambridge. Now, I'm not sayin' there's a cause-and-effect here, but I do believe my IQ rocketed up several points just by driving onto those hallowed grounds of learning...

Cambridge scholarship or not, I'm still not planning to tackle the manuals for the Electronic Single Channel Timeswitch with Service Internal Timer (for the heated towel rail), the Norwegian ventilation system, the Small House Control Panel Installation for electrical wiring with chemical dosing pump (which comes with dire warnings of death), or the gravity rainwater harvesting system -- all of which are part of the home exchanger's packet. If I can't figure out how to operate the dishwasher, I'm not really interested in the solar PV electronic installation schematic, if you get my drift. I can foresee no scenario whatsoever that would lead me to climb onto the roof to install or repair the solar panels, can you?!

The quirks of the house aside, I've had a fine week. The highlight was Tuesday when I took the train into London for a day of Culture. Met my British friend Maureen at the V&A (Victoria and Albert Museum) to see two exhibits -- wedding dresses 1775-2012, and Italian fashion since 1945. Then on to Evensong at St. Paul's Cathedral, and finally the main event at Barbican Hall: A choral concert broadcast live by BBC Radio 3 by The BBC Singers and The King's Singers under the direction of Eric Whitacre. The ensemble sang pieces by some of my favorite composers -- Bob Chilcott, Morten Lauridsen and Eric himself, and they were evermore on fire! Heavenly!

The remainder of the week has been a bit more laid back. On Wednesday a new friend from here in the village and I went to a local garden center known for its rose garden. Not only do garden centers over here sell plants, most of them offer lunches and teas, as well, so Sally and I ate outdoors amidst the roses. How civilized!

Afterward we took a brief cruise on the Norfolk Broads, one of the unique features for which this part of England is known. The Broads are a series of shallow lakes dug centuries ago by the Viking settlers. When they arrived from Scandinavia, they were appalled to find the native Celts burning trees for fuel. Wanting the wood to build ships instead, the Vikings introduced the practice of harvesting peat in the low-lying marshes as an alternative fuel. After centuries of digging, many of these depressions flooded and now form a linked, protected system of navigable waterways that teem with birds and wildlife seen nowhere else in the U.K.

Yesterday I attended a brilliant two-piano concert in a tiny, ancient church in the village of Blythburgh near the coast. Had found it online as part of the big-time Aldeburgh Festival. Getting there was an adventure in itself; Blythburgh is barely a speck on the map, and its 900-year-old church seems on the surface as an odd choice as a concert venue. But the place was packed at 11 o'clock on a Saturday morning, with cars rammed into the adjacent meadow like those of groupies attending a rock concert. When those two pianists revved up all four hands on their big-ol' Steinways, you could hear a collective gasp -- "AAAHHHH!" In particular, Ravel's "La Valse" absolutely soared.

Being so close to the sea, naturally I sought out a "chippie" (fish n' chips shop) for lunch. The nearby Southwold Pier, which could give any Myrtle Beach arcade a run for its money, turned out to be just the ticket. The gray, ice-cold North Sea was having no takers yesterday, however, despite the fact that it's mid-June. It was so chilly even the seagulls stayed away. Maybe they were all inland visiting their cousins on the Broads.

The holiday seems to be going fast. I've settled into a rhythm of sorts. Pleased that I'm doing plenty to make the most of my time here, but not wearing myself out. In Charlotte I tend to get into a rut -- don't we all, at times? -- but over here I'm making deliberate decisions to do stuff and to maximize my time rather than to allow myself to drift. That's the great lesson of travel, I think: To remain conscious of the passage of time, and of how precious it is.

Emily: Cambridge Scholar!

During these annual pilgrimages to England I have had some stellar experiences -- for which I am mighty grateful -- but this weekend may have been one of The. Best. Ever.

I attended a seminar at Cambridge University. Yes, THE Cambridge University. It was through the university's Institute for Continuing Education, which is housed at magnificent Madingley Hall, an historic 16th century country house on the outskirts of Cambridge.

According to its website, the Institute "offers adult learners the opportunity to study at the University with options ranging from weekend courses to two-year, part-time Master's programmes, with thousands of enrollments each year from all over the world."

A session entitled "Behind the Scenes of History: The Ordinary Women who have Shaped Our World" had my name all over it. The "tutor" (the term for the seminar leader) was Jane Robinson, a prolific author and Oxford-trained social historian. The chance to go to Cambridge University, meet some interesting women, learn something new from a well-known scholar -- what's not to love?

Being able to stay on the premises of Madingley was also a big draw for me, but to tell you the truth I was expecting rather primitive, Medieval-standard living quarters. But no! This conference center is state-of-the-art -- on the level of a Holiday Inn Express, actually -- but with a candlelit Elizabethan dining hall in which everyone is served exquisite food on linen-draped tables. Following a prayer in Latin, of course.

My session: How can I describe it? From my arrival Friday afternoon to departure after lunch on Sunday, it exceeded all my expectations. I could have listened to Jane for hours -- and did, as a matter of fact: Ten-and-a-half hours, to be exact. The time galloped by, and I was not ready to leave! She introduced us to scores of "ordin'ry" women who have done "extraordin'ry" things over the centuries, and led us in discussions about what their contributions have meant to us personally. I was utterly mesmerized.

Her presentation was organized into seven general topics: History's first career women, the eccentrics who became the world's first women travellers, the fight for education for women, women writers and literature aimed at instructing women on "proper" behavior, the lives of women pioneers and immigrants, military wives and women on the battlefield, and the role played by the Women's Institute, a prominent organization in the U.K.

To supplement the original documents and books she herself had brought, Jane asked us to share photos or mementoes of a woman who shaped our own world. Thanks to my cousin Jack, the family's historian, I was able to share material from Jack's intrepid aunt -- my mother's first cousin -- Tela Beanblossom Apple, who was the first person in the family ever to attend college and died in 1997 only three months shy of her 100th birthday. "T" was a real original, a strong, beautiful lady who was loved and admired by everyone fortunate enough to meet her. She inspired me more than she ever knew.

If I do say so myself, my classmates seemed to enjoy my "show-and-tell," which included one of Tela's signature lacy handkerchiefs. To think how modestly proud she would have been to be remembered this way in this particular setting just makes me well up with tears. Of everybody in my family, T would have been the most curious and interested to hear of my weekend's experiences.

Mine was one of several continuing ed courses offered this weekend. There were men and women studying pollination, geology, fossils and Ovid's Metamorphis -- in Latin, of course. The rowdiest group were the creative writers working on their Master's degrees, but they kept to themselves mostly. The bee and rock people were much more sociable with us "ordin'ry women," and I enjoyed mingling with them at meals and over innumerable cups of tea, which appeared at every break.

Besides myself, Jane's group comprised four high school history teachers, an artist, a retired barrister, a couple of retired scientists, all from England, a obstetrician from Kurdistan, and a Ranger with the U.S. Park Service stationed in New York City. I was fascinated with them all.

The few images here don't come close to conjuring up the experiences of me, your enthusiastic Cambridge scholar, trodding the halls of an Elizabethan estate, heading up to the Prince Consort Room for her next session, sipping tea on the terrace overlooking the impeccably trimmed topiaries and manicured lawn, smelling the intoxicatingly fragrant roses climbing within the walled garden, dining on succulent British beef and Yorkshire pudding, having her head filled with marvelous social history which she has never even imagined existed, and pinching herself that she is blessed with such bountiful riches.

A glimpse into my future

Proud to report that I'm gradually conquering most of the technological mountains in my exchange house. Still haven't tackled either of the TWO dishwashers, but when I figured out how to get the oven to work -- and it actually yielded a hot entrée -- I did a Happy Dance worthy of "Dancin' with the Stars"!

Another victory: a hot shower at night rather than 6:30 a.m., which is the default setting of the water heater. The clothes washer was dead simple by contrast. And I finally purchased a clue and pieced together that the space-age chimes wafting from the computer room was an incoming TELEPHONE call!

Next up: The microwave.

After all, I'm an American, right? And reasonably intelligent. This house shall not defeat me. Failure is not an option. If I could only get that ding-dingy sound to hush up in the car...

Anyway, I've settled in reasonably well and am thoroughly enjoying this latest British sojourn. I don't identify myself as a tourist so much as a temporary resident. As such, I'm doing more of the stuff that the locals would do, and less of what visitors might expect. A perfect example: The coach trip Monday with 45 other retirees to a flower fete in a church in Walpole, a village about an hour north here.

My presence on the coach, or bus, dragged down the average age by several years. I got a glimpse into my future.

I was invited by a neighbour who's a very robust 86 years old. She lived in the U.S. a long time but has resettled back here in Burston where she was born. Her daughter lives in Huntersville, NC, of all places, so she's quite familiar with Charlotte. Dorothy is quite a lovely character who remembers vividly the American soldiers stationed here during WWII. Her stories are fascinating. Anyway, she was very gracious to include me on this outing with her and her friends, which in hindsight was an anthropological expedition as much as a trip to see some beautiful flowers.

Walpole's flower show is an annual fundraiser for their church, built in the 13th Century. Each year they choose a theme for floral displays in the sanctuary. This year it was "Proverbs," but was expanded to include pithy phrases like "A woman's work is never done," "Don't count your chickens before they hatch" (complete with live chickens!), and "He who dances must pay the piper." One old geezer was wandering around with a jar of jelly beans ("Don't take candy from strangers"), and there was the outline of a body drawn on the floor in front of the pulpit with a flower-draped mannequin above to illustrate "Look before you leap." All very clever and fragrant. These people do love their flowers, and as I've often seen over here, they're second to none in creating brilliant displays.

Tents with homemade refreshments, plants, handmade crafts and books for sale were set up on the church grounds. After everyone had had their coffee -- which they call their Elevenses -- and a wander through the stalls and the sanctuary we went across the road to the community hall for the standard midday English fare, a ploughman's lunch. And several cups of tea. Then we loaded back onto the coach to go into King's Lynn, where we had two hours to kill before heading home.

As it was Monday, most things of any interest in King's Lynn were closed. Had this been an American outing, there would have been widespread mutiny and loud obnoxious grumbling, but nobody uttered a whimper of complaint (except for me, who had the gracious good sense to keep my exasperation to myself -- for once). To pass the time, much more tea was consumed.

After what seemed like days and days, the coach finally deposited Dorothy and me back in the vicinity of home. It was all velly, velly English, but now that I've done it, I'm not sure whether I need to do it again. Our American impulse would have been simply to jump into our own car, motor up to Walpole, see what there is to see in about half an hour, head directly back home and get on with our lives. I just don't do groups very well. This gentler, more civilized way has its charms to be sure. But I do admit I was about ready to jump out of my skin before the long day was over.

Or maybe it was all that tea and coffee. Caffeine tends to do a number on me...

Tuesday I headed to the prominent Beth Chatto Garden near Colchester on my own. It was exceptionally beautiful, with a riot of color and textures against a background of birdsong, but I felt that something was missing somehow. Perhaps it was a herd of retirees.