Loving my corner of a small world

Down Under in Austreye-ya, I continue to feel like I've joined a big, jolly club. Other than just being here, I don't think I've done anything to deserve membership, but I'm evermore glad I've been accepted, at least temporarily. I can't say enough about the congeniality and kindness I've encountered out here.

If the Aussies could bottle their temperament and send it to the world's warring hot spots, armies would disband. Terrorists would stop blowing themselves up. There would be a massive outbreak of peace.

OK, maybe the Aussies haven't perfected cheeseburgers and fried chicken and country-style steak with rice and gravy yet, but they have won my heart in many, many other ways. They've welcomed me with open arms, have innate generosity of spirit and display a quick, wicked sense of humor.

So while there haven't been daily outings to gardens and stately homes as I have sought out on past trips, I have revelled in my interactions with new friends. Well, I should admit there are no stately homes to see, and given the fact it's winter, the gardens are hibernating. There are compensations, not the least of which is the proximity of the ocean and beautiful, clean parks running alongside it. Still, it's the people who win my attention this go-around.

Today, for example, my new friend Carol gave me a Reiki session, which involved sharing her healing energies to target my dodgy back and the poor circulation in my feet and legs. Tonight I feel the best I've felt in weeks!

And last Saturday night I joined the Friendship Force chapter again for another Trivia Night. They all embraced me a long-lost member -- even though I had attended only one previous meeting -- and gave me the same grief they gave to one of their own. In case you're ever asked about the planets, follow my advice and answer "Pluto." Pluto became the theme of the night with my team. It was not the right answer, but it was MY answer, and nobody let me forget it. My one triumph of the game was the name of the American President who banned broccoli from the White House (George H.W. Bush). Then we played a silly dice game called Beetle Drive, which involved -- well, simply suffice it to say that it leaves you limp with laughter by the end. Good, wholesome fun with good, wholesome folks. I loved being accepted as one of them.

And hands-down, the best Small World story EVER has come out of this trip. The other night, some neighbors of Eileen, my house exchange partner, invited me to their home for dinner. They're in Eileen's book club and thought I'd like to meet someone from the club before next week's book discussion. What a lovely gesture, I thought. Jim and Christine are both retired educators, well-travelled and avid bird-watchers.

So as we're chit-chatting before dinner I discover that like myself, they love England. Oh, where in England have you been? I ask politely. Well, the last trip we took over there was last year, to East Anglia, they said. It's a great place to see massive quantities of birds from Scandinavia who migrate there for the winter. We did a house-swap in Norfolk.

Oh? I say innocently. Last year I did a house-swap in Norfolk.

Ours was near Diss, but it was really out in the country, they said.

Mine was near Diss, but it was really out in the country, I replied.

They started looking sideways at me. I looked sideways right back.

Them: We house-swapped with a couple named [withheld for privacy purposes].

Me: I house-swapped with a couple named [withheld for privacy purposes].

Epic lights bulbs go on.

Them: Did you ever figure out how to use the microwave? We didn't...Me: I did eventually, but only after I called [owner's name] and had him walk me step-by-step how to use the contraption. Until them I was surviving on cold cereal. Them: And they had this Medieval-style drying rack in the laundry room...Me: ...that you had to raise to the ceiling on pulleys!...All:...but everything else in the house was out of the Starship Enterprise!

Them: And they had lights that cut on automatically every time you went into the toilet. But a heating system that never manufactured any heat. We could see to pee but froze the entire time! Me: And an entire room just for controlling all the electronics, which required an engineering degree to operate. Aaaack!

By this time, of course, all three of us were cracking up to have discovered that WE HAD STAYED IN THE SAME HOUSE!!

What are the odds that I would have stumbled across a couple half-way around the world on a different continent in a different hemisphere who had house-exchanged with the same people?! Is that cool, or what?!!!!

I've suggested we invest in a lottery ticket together.

Hippies, Aborigines and travel karma

Sometimes on my trips -- usually independent affairs involving destinations off the beaten path and activities I find on my own -- I actually behave as a tourist. One such day came last week near Cairns in my "vacation within a vacation."

Not surprisingly, it's the only time in Australia so far that I've run across any other Americans. Leave it to our tribe to suss out the Truly Tacky and call it Culture.

I'm speaking of the village of Kuranda in a rainforest high above Cairns that is billed as an Aborigines settlement with lots of native art.

Here's where your definition of "art" gets a bit murky. And it's when I suspect that my travel karma -- usually so excellent -- has started to slip.

You wouldn't have to go far to find a similar cluster of junk masquerading as "art": Think Gatlinburg, TN, or Glastonbury in England's West Country, or Haight-Asbury in San Francisco. These places have perfected the science of sucking tourists in and not letting them go.

Imagine hippies from the '70s stuck in time and opening a marketplace. "Authentic Australian Souvenirs" consisting of boomerangs made in China, and pouches allegedly made of kangaroo scrotums. (I'm not kidding.)  All the usual tourist suspects: Glass beads and T-shirts and wind chimes and incense and skin care oils and mass-produced "original, authentic" watercolours of local birds. And if the retail merchandise doesn't grab you, there are the Butterfly House, the Koala House and Orchid House, a combo ticket for which goes for the stunning bargain price of $48.

In other words, shopping to kill time until your train leaves and you can escape. And about as Aboriginal an experience as a Puccini opera at the Met. Definitely not good travel mojo in my book.

Naturally, I was underwhelmed. Only a few minutes in Kuranda made me yearn and pine for the upscale mercantile trappings of Walmart. Not only did I feel like I was yanked back to the early '70s -- not altogether unpleasant, mind you -- but that I was a captive and my pocketbook was under assault by aliens. "Leave me alone, you rascals," I felt like screaming. "I'm not fooled by this crap! I have taste!"

Kuranda's shopping district aside, the highlight of the day was the journey up and back. The package I bought offered two choices: The SkyRail, which is an enclosed gondola suspended high above the trees by a cable, and the 100-year-old locomotive that lazily weaves  through and around the mountain. I took the SkyRail up and the vintage train back down. Both were stunning -- what's not to love about waterfalls and virgin forest land? -- but I liked the daring SkyRail better. That sucker evermore gives you a ride!

OK, so I "did" Kuranda. It's what one does if one is in Cairns. I had ridden the sleek overnight Queensland Railway for 24 hours (in my own luxurious Railbed) to get there, so in for a penny, in for a pound. But to tell you the truth, I feel faintly embarrassed by it -- like the tourist rulers have taken advantage of me somehow. I want to claim to somebody, "You're not the boss of me! I know better!"

The next day I flew back to Brisbane, planning to take the Airtrain from the airport to Eagle Junction, where I was to catch a regular commuter train back to Petrie, the station closest to my house. From there I hoped to take a taxi back home, but the later I arrived, the less likely it was that a taxi would be available. Naturally, I missed the 8:00 train at Eagle Junction. It was cold and damp and by this time I was rapidly losing my enthusiasm for this journey.

The only other soul on the platform was a nicely-dressed gentleman who could have been a Qantas Airline safety engineer or an axe-murderer. Who knew? But by this time of night, I didn't much care.

"Excuse me," I said in my best Suzanne Sugarbaker voice. "Do you know whether the next train stops in Petrie?" Yes, said the maybe-axe-murderer. "Do you think there'll be any taxis around the station by the time the train gets in?" I ask. "I doubt it, to tell you the truth," said Axeman. "Where do you need to go?" Figuring I'd find out his intentions soon enough, I told him "North Lakes."

"I'm going nearby. I'd be happy to give you a lift," he said. And so my new best friend Gareth, a Qantas safety engineer who had a car at the station, and I chatted like long-lost buddies for the next hour. Found out he grew up in Shrewsbury in Shropshire, one of the English villages in which I've had a house swap! Small world, huh? As promised, he brought me straight to the house, and even carried my bags in before going on his merry way. How's that for courtesy? Is it any wonder I love the Aussies?!

And best of all, I found that my good travel karma is still intact.

Finding Nemo and celebrating Daddy

Back from a delightful "vacation within my vacation" -- one that had special meaning because of its timing. And rejoicing that I didn't barf up my spleen in the process. Let me explain:

Last Tuesday, July 7, would have been my daddy's 100th birthday. He was a blue-collar worker in a textile mill, and as his only child, I thought he hung the moon and all the stars. When I was growing up, all the mills in Lexington closed during the week of the Fourth of July. Likely as not, this meant that Daddy had his birthday off. We didn't have any money to go anywhere, and neither Mama nor Daddy wanted to go anywhere anyway. But that week was a real treat for me because it meant that I'd get to spend a lot of time with Daddy, just the two of us. We'd go blackberry picking, fishing, visiting down in the country and just hanging out. So to this day, the week around July Fourth translates "vacation" in my mind. And of course, I associate it with Daddy's birthday.

Daddy had done all the traveling he ever wanted (and quite a bit more) during the War, but he understood my desire for adventure and never stood in the way of my taking a trip. He died in 1987 before I started traveling overseas in earnest, but I think he would have delighted in all the places I've had the privilege of visiting in these last 20 years or so. And I think he would have cheered the loudest when I was finally able to check off perhaps the biggest item on my Bucket List: the Great Barrier Reef.

Making this trip out to Australia was indeed inspired by the Reef, and once I knew I'd be here on Daddy's birthday, arranging a Reef package to coincide with that big anniversary was a no-brainer. Queensland Railway happily obliged me, offering a dynamite package that included a 24-hour, 1,000-mile train journey from Brisbane north to Cairns (pronounced Cans), day trips both to Green Island on the Reef and to Kuranda in the rainforest nearby, three nights' hotel accommodation and transportation during the entire stay.

Think "planes, trains and automobiles," plus buses, catamarans, semi-submerged submarines, glass-bottom boats and gondolas suspended by cables hurling above the treetops. You name a conveyance, and I rode it last week!

In all modesty, regarding the ocean-going components of this outing, I must congratulate myself for not heaving up breakfast, let alone a vital organ, overboard. To say I am prone to seasickness is to remark casually that The Elephant Man has a mild case of acne. I avoid looking at pictures of boats; my stomach lurches at the thought of a Jacuzzi. I am the quintessential Taurus: This bull must remain on terra firma, or epic nausea ensues. I've been told my face takes on a greenish hue not seen in nature.

But to get the full Reef experience, one must board water vessels of some type. I had come all this way, and so by golly I was evermore committed to conquering my punies. I was going to enjoy this excursion or die trying! Down went the Dramamine, chased with a couple of ginger tablets provided by the crew on the Big Cat, the catamaran holding 299 other passengers bound for glory off the coast of Cairns. In choppy seas.

Oh, boy.

Just let me not hurl. Just let me not hurl. Just let my head stop pounding. Just let me get on dry land again before I die, please God.

After about 90 minutes of rocking and pitching and all manner of vile heaving back and forth on the waves (which felt like 90 hours) we dock. I've made it!!! Land never looked or felt so good!

I took a pass on snorkelling, since the wintertime ocean temperature was too chilly for me, but I did get a big impression of underwater life from the glass-bottom boat and the semi-submarine, a claustrophobic contraption in which several dozen souls are crammed like sardines sitting ten feet below the surface of the sea.

The glass-bottom thingy did entirely too much bobbing up and down to suit me (can one's head actually explode from excessive bobbing?). But once I transferred to the sub, I got my equilibrium back. From the windows on either side of the sub you're about as close to marine life as one can get without actually being submerged in the water. It's a pleasant feeling, especially since there's no sense of movement.

In fact, this was when I had the "Aha!" moment. The Great Barrier Reef, given its mammoth size (visible from outer space, they say) has had great press. It deservedly earns kudos for receiving excellent PR. And it's impressive, no doubt about it. BUT. From the tiny portion I saw, its fish and marine life are rather underwhelming and far less colorful than, say, what I've seen in the Virgin Islands, Aruba, Mexico, Hawaii or Costa Rica, and particularly in the Bahamas -- which sets the gold standard for your underwater sea show.

The GBR's fish on view on this mostly sunny day ran the gamut from dull brown to dull gray. The coral, likewise, was an undistinguished brown and gray and all the drab tones in between. Interesting textures, but otherwise unmemorable. There were a few huge turtles that played a starring role, and a few stingrays stirring up the sandy-colored sand. I did see a couple of clown fish -- like "Nemo" from the movie -- who stood out like champs because of their distinctive orange stripes. Otherwise, it was all rather monochromatic and, dare I say, disappointing.

But I did it, was grateful to a benevolent Universe for allowing me this adventure, and surviving to tell the tale. And unlike the majority of my fellow passengers, mostly Japanese, I actually looked at Nature's grand sights around me rather than surgically attaching myself to one or more electronic devices. Why, I ask you, does one bother taking a voyage to one of Planet Earth's greatest wonders and then spend the day attached to your phone?? 

Despite the churning, rocky seas on the return trip, I made it back to Cairns with my tummy (and dignity) intact. I'll never be a sailor, but I had achieved my goal, ticked a big item off my Bucket List, and remembered my beloved dad, Roland Hedrick, in the process. All in all, a hugely successful outing. Happy 100th birthday, Daddy!

Next blog entry: I travel back in time to a hippie haven in the rainforest.

Koalas, starvation and Fourth of July at the mall

Wishing there were some other Americans around today...The Aussies don't quite seem to "get" the Fourth of July thing, not that they're supposed to, of course. But I've been yearning and pining for a flag and a proper hot dog all day.

Had occasion to go to the local mega-mall today -- my version of the seventh ring of Dante's Hell. Trust me, I wouldn't have gone within ten kilometres of the place if I had had a choice. But I discovered quite by accident that in order to ride the TRAIN, one has to acquire a "Go-card" in advance. And where are these Go-cards sold, you ask? If you answered "The train station, you idiot," you would have been WRONG. Most of the suburban train stations, including the one closest to my house, are not staffed most of the time. Therefore, to buy a Go-card, which serves as a ticket, one must go to a Newsagent.

Now, in all of my surburb of North Lakes, to the best of my knowledge, there is only ONE Newsagent, which is located in the deepest, darkest bowels of the biggest mall in the Southern Hemisphere. It occupies approximately the same land mass as Iowa. Finding the Newsagent is not easy, since there are NO SIGNS either inside or outside the mall to indicate where anything is located. In fact, there are only a couple of entrances into the place, and no directories once you manage to find a parking spot and get inside. Think needles and haystacks.

To no one's surprise, half of the population of Queensland, and virtually all of its teenagers (I suspect reinforcements had been bused in from New South Wales), were at the mall today. It was mobbed, and I was soon longing for the joys of prepping for my next colonoscopy. But motivated by my need to ride a local train Monday to begin my journey to the Great Barrier Reef, I soldiered on.

During my 12-mile hike to the Newsagent I did have one fascinating encounter: A man carrying a box of fresh Krispy Kremes! Naturally, I accosted him with drool running down my chin. WHERE did you get those Krispy Kremes? I cried. He allowed he had bought them at a service station along the highway rather than at the mall. Damn! Had they been for sale anywhere in that vast cavern, I would have liberated my own box and stuffed myself into a sugar coma. Unfortunately, the man was very friendly but was disinclined to share. To be fair, I wouldn't have shared with a stranger, either.

Speaking of food, I think I've been in  Australia long enough to make some generalizations. As we'd say in Davidson County, the food out here ain't any 'count. Maybe I just haven't been to the right places yet. But most of what I've tasted so far has been underwhelming, if not outright inedible. I'm starving out here, folks! And prices for both groceries and restaurant meals are outrageous. My futile attempt at locating a hot dog at the mall's food court led me to the unimaginable: Hungry Jack's, the Aussie version of Burger King. Yes, folks, my Fourth of July fare consisted of a Whopper with cheese combo meal, which set me back AU$11.60. Even with the Coke served in a paper thimble, it was possibly the best thing I've consumed since I got here.

The mall aside, since my last blog posting I've had a couple of memorable outings: The first was my lovely Sunday drive up into the mountains in what's called the Hinterlands of the Sunshine Coast. It reminded me of  the area surrounding Banner Elk and Blowing Rock, except the crafts selections left much to be desired. I did locate two independent book stores, which are always treats.

The second was my visit to Brisbane's Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary. As I posted on Facebook, my blasted camera died so I was unable to get any shots of the animals. I was hoping to get a couple to accompany this deathless prose, but alas, it was not meant to be. One potential photo in particular was of a kangaroo -- boy parts exposed in all their mature glory -- who was fast asleep and pooping at the same time. The zoo keepers also had koalas who would pose for visitors to take photos with their own cameras (for a fee, of course). The sullen wombat, airborne birds of prey and herd of kangaroos on the hop were really Kodak moments, but one that shall live only in my memory, since my stupid camera was as dead as a doornail. I must believe all of my would-be shots would have won National Geographic prizes.

More disparate observations...The joy of sitting in a nearby public park overlooking the ocean on a sunny day with a good book. The persistent sunshine, even though it abruptly vanishes at 5 p.m. The genuine friendliness I continue to encounter everywhere. The movie theatre that runs ads for the local funeral home catering to all sorts of hobbyists, including bikers (they have a special motorcycle tricked out with a casket-bearing sidecar). The multimedia campaign on radio and highway billboards for Dr. Snip ("Walk in, Walk Out"), advertising vasectomies!

Thwarting terrorism and other advancements

Before I get into a report of my latest activities, I need to reassure everyone that we are all a little bit safer because my vast, QUEEN-SIZED BUM has been thoroughly vetted by the fine folks at LAX Security.

Let me rewind -- back to the boarding process at LAX on my way out here. At the checkpoint  the TSA agent decreed that I would have to have a full body search because -- wait for it -- the radar screening had indicated that I was in possession of suspicious substances around my waist and on my backside.

She showed me on the monitor: Large globs of yellow where there oughtn't to be anything. Dully, I said, "Huh?" She said I could have the pat-down there or in private, but that she had to make certain I was not carrying any lethal substances about my person. I said, "Bring it on. I've got nothing to hide," and so Brunhilde started patting. And patting.

Naturally, she found nothing but FAT in my OVERLY GENEROUS BUTT. No bombs, no weapons, just butt fat. Alert the media, please.

I'm still not exactly sure how my oversized butt is linked to the threat of terrorists, but I'm sure everyone on Virgin Australia Flight #8 flew just a little bit more securely knowing that it had been cleared before take-off.

OK, so back to Australia and my comings and goings out here. I continue to be very favourably impressed by the friendly and generous people I encounter everywhere. The Australians seem to have a uniformly cheerful disposition. Nobody has been rude or impatient; to the contrary, everybody so far has been eager to help, laid back and kind. When they say, "No worries, mate," they mean it!

Except for the Brisbane Planetarium and Botanical Garden, I really haven't done much in the way of  "touristy" things yet. Instead, I've been busy making friends. For example, I've been to two quiz nights sponsored by two local clubs -- Friendship Force and Quota Club, a woman's service organization. Trivia contests are apparently huge in Australia. I'm rubbish at them -- can't remember my own middle name if pressed -- but they're a marvellous way to meet people and have some cheap laughs.

At the Friendship Force meeting, the theme of the evening was "L." Everybody put together a costume evoking the letter L. The winner had dressed as "Laundry." Afterward there was a trivia contest in which the answer to every question began with, of course, L. Since we didn't play in teams, it was up to each of us to pipe up with our answer. If you got it right, you won a "lolly," or hard candy. What struck me from the start was that nobody cheated; those thumbs on those smart phones remained still the entire evening. Even without electronic aid, I got a few correct answers -- the name of the 16th President of the U.S., Lincoln, was my big hit of the evening -- so I went home with a few lollies, thank heavens. And these nice folks invited me to their next trivia night in a couple of weeks.  I can't wait.

At the Quota Club, on the other hand, my table went down in flames (finishing eighth out of nine teams). I should've warned my teammates of my utter uselessness at trivia, but we had a good time, anyway, and I made two new jolly friends who are meeting me for tea in a few days.

A lovely woman whom I met at the community center and I have hit it off like a house afire -- we've already met for lunch and have two concerts on our calendars in the next few weeks -- and she has even offered to give me a lift to the train station when I head north to the Great Barrier Reef next Monday. Sweet!

My exchanger's book club has also invited me to their next meeting, so I'll have the opportunity to meet even more of my neighbors then -- despite my admitting I haven't read this month's selection because I thought it was crap and refused to finish it. Quoth the member I spoke with on the phone, "Oh, I think most of the books we're supposed to read are crap. In fact, we all think most of them are crap. But we show up and have great discussions, anyway. You'll fit right in!"

You see why I really love these folks?!

And those are just the Aussies: Thanks to a mutual friend back home, I've connected with a delightful couple who grew up in Charlotte/Rock Hill who are living in Brizzy for three years. We had dinner Saturday down at the coast -- all of six miles from here -- in a seaside café and counted our blessings that serendipity had brought us all to this wonderful place.

G'day from Down Under!

Well, y'all, I'm happy to report I'm HERE -- North Lakes in the Moreton Bay region just outside Brisbane, Australia, my home for a total of seven weeks.

First impressions: It's so ordinary in its familiarity that I have had a hard time remembering I'm in a foreign country. OK, the majority of the folks talk like the luscious Hugh Jackman, an Aussie native, and cars drive on the left-hand side of the road. But the 15-year-old suburb where my exchange house is located could be mistaken for Florida -- palm trees, hibiscus, birds-of-paradise and other vegetation under clear blue skies.

I haven't spotted a kangaroo or koala yet, but my back yard is a haven for native Australian birds. My hands-down favorite is the flock of rainbow lorikeets -- with blue heads, red beaks and bright plumage of green and every other color of the rainbow. They're like parakeets on steroids and are truly brilliant.

Further to set the stage: The house in which I'm staying has all the comforts one dreams of in a home exchange arrangement, but which one seldom gets, as we've discovered over the years. As a result, I'm afraid my blogs from Oz may be rather on the dull side, given the fact that I have already figured out how to use the microwave...and that the washing machine has a cycle that's less than three hours...and there's a fully operational desktop computer with Internet service...and there are actual, by-god utensils and cookware in the kitchen, as well as a well-stocked linen closet!!!

On top of these marvellous attributes are the facts that the place is a spacious ranch-style home (no stairs!) and a car with automatic transmission. And a clothes dryer. A clothes dryer!! And it WORKS! The owner still prefers the Medieval method of drying her washing on the line outdoors, but hey, this diva can go native only so far, especially when she's on holiday. I hung a load out this morning just to play nice, but when dark hit at 5 p.m. -- yes, 5 p.m. -- and those clothes were still damp, into the dryer they went.

Weather-wise, Queensland is considered semi-tropical, so even though it's smack-dab in winter here, the temps have been very mild so far -- about 70 to 74 in mid-afternoon, but as soon as the sun goes down, the thermometer goes into a nosedive. It's doing a number on my psyche to know that it's June and yet have to accept that these are the shortest days of the year in the Southern Hemisphere. Fortunately, my first four days here the sun was shining brightly, if only for a few hours at a time.

Before she left, my hostess graciously showed me how to turn on the "air conditioner" -- which is the contraption I fervently hope is really a "furnace." I kept asking about turning on the heat if it gets cold enough to warrant it. (Remember my swap in Lancashire, where it was so damp and cold I had to burn a fire every night?) And my Aussie exchanger kept saying, "Oh, you won't need the air conditioner." Well, heck,l no, I'm thinking, I shouldn't need the "air conditioner" in the wintertime! But then came my "Aha" moment when I finally understood her definition of terms: In Aussie-speak, an air conditioner provides both cold AND HOT air.

However -- and here is where I knew I wasn't going to spared at least some domestic drama this go-around -- I am supposed to use this heat-producing unit very sparingly because of the cost of energy and the threat of committing gecko homicide. Yes, you read this correctly: Gecko homicide. It seems that the local gecko population seeks out air conditioners for warmth at this time of year, and as soon as these mechanisms are cranked up, the little lizards are pulvarized -- leaving the air conditioners as dead as they are. 

I have no reason for doubting this unfortunate possibility, since my hostess pointed out a pile of gecko poop in the fuse box as proof. On the other hand, if it gets cold in this house as winter wears on, I may have to sacrifice a lizard or two. I'll do so with deep regret, but don't say I didn't warn them.

Regarding the décor in the house, it's perfectly sophisticated and acceptable -- not necessarily my taste, but then who shares my passion for purple? At least it doesn't look like Early Goodwill, or something that the cat rejected for breakfast. (Remember the house in London?!) The TV has a great picture and receives more than three channels, most of them in English, and all the furniture is fabulously comfortable. No chiropractors will be required!

So domestically, gecko threats aside, my cup runneth over. Those of you who have followed Our Intrepid Traveler might remember the various challenges she has had with her various domestic arrangements over her years of house-swapping can appreciate how I'm sighing with relief. True, I don't expect a replication of American conveniences when I'm abroad, but it's a wonderful thing when so many of the mod-cons materialize at one time. In fact, it's the best place all-around that I've ever drawn in the lottery known as house-swapping.

And did I mention that I'm only six miles from Moreton Bay, which opens into the Pacific Ocean? I've already sussed out the public park that extends along the shore in nearby Redcliffe on the bay.
So even though I haven't yet delved into the many tourist treasures Austray-a has to offer, I'm happy here in my home base -- and after a 29-hour trip, that constitutes Living Large!

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?