She's ba-a-a-a-ck!

Well, folks, after a two-year absence, I'm happily back “home” in England. I didn't kiss the tarmac at Heathrow (I'd never have been able to get back up!), but I surely felt like it.

I was fortunate enough to organize THREE back-to-back house swaps this summer. Seems that my new residence of Charleston is just a wee bit more attractive to prospective vacationers than Charlotte. Imagine! Not that Charlotte is a bad place to visit, but without an ocean, to say nothing of distinctive architecture, culture, history and its own distinctive cuisine, it’s certainly no Charleston.

And if anybody surmises that my plan to be away from the Lowcountry during the hottest and most humid time of the year was deliberate, bingo! A no-brainer. It’s a win-win as far as I’m concerned, although I think my British visitors may be in for a climatic shock…

So here I am at House #1 – in the village of Ashburton in south Devon between Exeter and Plymouth. My exchange partner, Lindy, is a retired teacher; she is staying in my house in Charleston with her friend Jenny, a retired nurse. I got to meet them briefly before I left on my own journey. We each have arranged for our friends to reach out with hospitality, which is one of the nicest bits of house-exchanging, I think. Two of my neighbors at The Elms have taken them out to dinner and a concert already, and my exchangers have introduced me to several lovely ladies here in the village who have given me a warm welcome and taken me on outings, as well.

Ashburton is on the edge of Dartmoor National Park, a rather stunning spread of geography that includes windswept vistas and dense forests through which runs the River Dart. My house, in the center of the village within walking distance of lots of locally owned shops, has a little patio enclosed by an old stone wall covered with climbing roses. Virtually on the other side of the wall is a 900-year-old Norman church that chimes the hour round-the-clock. I find it very comforting.

Naturally, it wouldn’t be an Emily trip if there weren’t a few glitches along the way. I’ll try not to bleat on and on about all the annoying little issues that tend to crop up on my trips, but already I’ve had to contend with two amateur mistakes I’ve made from the get-go.

One: I failed to bring an ice tray. Because the Brits would rather pull their own molars than drink an iced beverage, I’ve learned over the years to bring my own plastic, throwaway trays. Had ‘em at home; didn’t pack ‘em. Stupid mistake.

Second: I ended up packing only one extra bra. What was I thinking?! Got over here with three – count ‘em – THREE new tubes of mascara, but only two bras. Got the eyes well and truly covered, but mammographic support? Tragically, my bosom-to-lash ratio must have been skewed in my mind.

So on my first full day in England, when I was also forced to sort out a proper plug/adapter/surge protector for my laptop, it occurred to me that I might as well address the foundation garment issue, as well. Headed to the nearest big town, Torquay. Fortunately, being in a civilized country proved fortuitous, insofar as the big-box computer store was right across the car park from Marks & Spencer (think Belk’s), who gladly served me a tasty lunch and sold me a fine, hefty bra. Popped into the neighboring Sainsbury’s and did a week’s grocery run all in one productive outing.

Like all of Europe I’ll be watching the outcome of the big referendum tomorrow, in which the Great British public will vote to remain or leave the European Union. Much drama there. The media pundits and politicians alike are predicting Armageddon regardless of which way it goes. It appears to be an extremely close call, with no clear winner in sight. Mark my words: Whichever side wins, the other will cry foul and will contest the result for years to come.

As I swan around the country over the next two months – details to unfold eventually – I’ll be sharing some of my escapades and observations. I’m not much of a photographer (don’t have the tech support, unfortunately), so think of these blog entries as my “word postcards.”

Of course, I can’t promise to ignore all of those household issues that can tend to drive me absolutely nuts. The ancient boiler in this house springs immediately to mind. Let me just get it off my chest: This contraption is programmed to cut on twice a day – one of which is 6 a.m. When it does, imagine a platoon of belligerent Hobbits armed with sledgehammers living inside it, hitting pipes as hard and as relentlessly as they can for three hours! The racket is enough to raise the dead not only in the cemetery behind me but throughout Ashburton! "LOUD and obnoxious" doesn’t even touch this noise.

So every morning at 6 I’ve been awakened by the Hobbits and their hammers knocking on the gates of Hell. Sleep is out of the question as soon as the cacophony commences, and for the three hours thereafter. As those of you who know me well can attest, I am SO not a morning person. Nothing of any consequence occurs before noon. One does NOT disturb Emily in the morning! Therefore, nerves are shot; good humor has evaporated.

I emailed Lindy about this deafening din; she claims not to have noticed it. In my mind, that’s like claiming that you live in the infield of Charlotte Motor Speedway and have never noticed the sound of the cars. However, she has given me the name of her boiler man, who is coming tomorrow morning to take a look at it. Stay tuned.

Having mentioned the boiler, however, I do intend to dwell mostly on positive things – the obvious being the huge blessing that I’M BACK IN THE MOTHERLAND! Hallelujah -- and God save the Queen!