Day eleven: 10 May: London and thence home

St Pancras station looks like this from the air.
Showering in my 'hotel' (I do not use the word advisedly) was entertaining, as I had no towel, and in all the excitement of seeing Anna and Kieran I had forgotten to buy one. Okay, and I'm too mean to spend the money. Katy has since pointed out that I slunk through Richmond without visiting her, so now I am in trouble with all John's daughters. I will make it up on my next visit, by which time there will be more grandchildren to admire. But I digress. I was about to have a shower. The shower cubicle I selected was in a room with a toilet, rather than in a room with another shower, because I was keen to shower alone. I placed my toileteries on the toilet seat, there not being anywhere else suitable to put them, and ventured inside the shower, carefully stepping over some old soap left by someone else. I remained calm in the face of adversity, telling myself that a shower was a clean place, so it didn't matter if someone dirty had been in before me. It was slightly reassuring to think that at least no-one would have peed (shouldn't there be another 'e'?) in the shower, as the toilet was so alarmingly handy. I had to hold the shower head in my hand, as when it sat in its holster the water aimed directly at the wall in such a way I couldn't seem to get between the wall and the water. So I held it with one hand and with the other attempted to reach the soaps and shampoos on the toilet seat and generally make myself squeaky clean. And when it was all over I dried myself on my sarong. I have had better cleansing experiences than this.

I can almost hear Hong Kong Kate giggling as she reads this....

After the showering fiasco I packed up my bag and started to skid it down the several flights of stairs. Not surprisingly, a young man appeared from nowhere and offered to carry it down. I could tell by the state of the carpet other people had called him this way. Where was he when I checked in I wondered. Then he charged me a quid to leave my bag there for a few hours while I inspected London. I locked both my bags and tried to look menacing rather than ripped off, but I don't know if I managed it.

Last time I visited London Anna gave me a nice Oyster card to use, so the day before I had bought one of my own, as part of my new independent adult identity. The way I read the instructions it had a daily cap of about seven quid, so I paid ten quid for it, but then had to top it up with another ten. Turns out if you don't swipe it properly it charges you the maximum journey cost. I have never had a cheap card that cost me so much before. Finally I realised I could top it up with my credit card (as I was running out of cash), and stopped worrying and started living. So I stuck twenty quid on it, and there I was, all over London with my Oyster card, swiping in and out of St Pancras, in and out of Kensington and in and out of everywhere else for that matter. It was marvellous. I love Oyster cards and I visited all the undergrounds stations I could, riding up and down the escalators and generally having a good subterranean time.

The funny thing about London is that there is no agreement about which side of the road to walk on, because although the cars drive on the left, on the tube (I am au fait with the local slang now) they stand on the right. I couldn't work out why I should stand on the right, but did as I was told, but when I got above ground I was quite flummoxed because there were no instructions, and people were walking all over the place. I decided to walk down the middle.

I visited a church in St Pancras in case my ancestors' names were in the cemetery. One of these days I will get a surprise and actually find an ancestral name in a churchyard. My mother was a Browne, and so was her father and his father before him, who was born in Stepney, which is in Hackney (i.e. not St Pancras). But it was fascinating looking around the Eurostar station and seeing people arrive from France with their bagettes and cans of snails. It made me hungry, so I bought some wonderfully hot and strong coffee and some porridge at a Pret a Manger, which was one of the few places I could find a decent gluten-free breakfast.

Then I inspected Hammersmith where I used to live in Biscay Road, and where I heard Jethro Tull and Joan Armatrading play at the Odeon (not on the same day though) in the seventies. Let me just say now that the seventies were great, and if you are old you will agree, and if you are young you are probably listening to the seventies music, and still agree. Then I took the tube to St James Park and took the Birdcage walk to inspect Buckingham Palace, just after the morning guards had gone for an early lunch. There were all kinds of film crews and police around, so I guess they knew I was coming. Feeling a bit resentful, I swept my red cape around my shoulders, put my head down so they wouldn't recognise me, and wandered into the midst of it all. I avoided the horses by staying close to the fence. Turns out (as I discovered later) that Mr Brown (not my relative) had popped in to see the Queen and tell her he was leaving Downing Street because no-one had voted for him (sour grapes I guess), and Mr Cameron, just 40 minutes later, was on her doorstep offering to take over the reins of the country. Pshaw. If the British used MMP instead of FPP they might have had a government that had actually represented what the people wanted. As it is, they now have a well hung parliament, which on reflection is not such a bad thing for the British, and I'm sure it hasn't happened before.

All the excitement was making me tired, so I walked to Hyde Park corner to see Apsley House, which didn't really grab me (luckily), and then wandered around Park Lane and up towards the National Art Gallery near Trafalgar Square. Actually I can't remember exactly where I went, but I was getting pretty knackered, and my pedometer was showing about 30,000 steps, but I do recall going past where I had my first ever coffee and cake after a movie, somewhere near Park Lane, and noted that it was now a Starbucks. Eventually I staggered into the art gallery and up to Seurat's Bathers, but there were too many people with the same idea for me to enjoy myself. I took in a couple of old time favourites such as Picasso's Child with a Dove but I was just too tired. All that rice risotto at Horsley Park had left me in a protein deficit state and now I couldn't even walk around London. So I took a tube back to the hostel, got my bags, and went to Heathrow to unwind. I had a plane to catch and movies to watch.

After several hours of writing postcards, drinking tea, and recharging everything that could be recharged, I headed to the Emirates departure lounge to wait for my flight.

Here is how I knew I was nearly home: there was a guy strumming his guitar in the departure lounge of the flight to Sydney, women without make-up, and and ordinary looking people with faces like relatives heading home. I was very happy to be going with them.

Day ten: 9 May: Horsley Park to London

I had spent at least three hours on the internet looking for a nice cheap B&B in London and eventually decided it was a waste of my precious time, so put a deposit on a place with wifi in Bayswater. The wifi was quite an issue, as heaps of places didn’t have it, and some had it for a ridiculous add on price, while others had never even heard of it. Anyway, I consoled myself, Bayswater is a nice area, so it would be worth paying $100 for. Ha bloody ha.

Francoise directed me to what seemed like a very nice habitation, but on arrival I was told my room had been sold, and I would have to go to their sister place along the road. It seems the three hours on the internet was not well spent after all. Fair enough I said, but how was it that I could book a room with a deposit and not get one? Then I remembered my days as a hotel manager, and knowing the answer, decided not to push it. The sister place was such a close relative that I was asked to pay straight away, but in cash. That really irritated me, as I had fifty quid left for my last day and was planning to spend it wisely on visits to castles and lots of wine. Alas, I was forced to spend it on a lousy hostel, which is what my nice habitation turned out to be. Françoise and I walked to the sister hostel, then up three steep flights of stairs to my room, which turned out to be so far away from reception that wifi couldn’t get to it. In fact it was so high up I got vertigo just looking out the window. However, it had a bed and a basin, a mouldy patch in the corner of the room, and no soap or towel. Here's a review I found of it - it's pretty accurate. I found other reviews that were far worse but I don't want to depress you.

The West Two offers basic accommodation and the furnishings are old and tired. It is poorly maintained, facilities are poor and the atmosphere is depressing.

I sat down and wondered why I hadn’t gone to stay with my lovely cousins in Richmond and then remembered that I had decided to be an independent adult now, this being my third visit to London in three years, and it was probably time I tackled the place in an unsheltered way, on my own, paying for meals and beds and stuff and learning how to get around without advice (except from Francoise). But when I thought about it, I realised none of these features was offered as a virtue by either Socrates or Plato, so perhaps I could lean on rellies after all - just a little.

So I sent them a message to say I was in town, and if they had nothing better to do, I would visit them and return Kieran’s book, The Spiritual Tourist, a wonderful dissertation on various spiritual persons and their astounding feats and personal habits. Then I went and looked for the shoe shop in Kensington High Street where I bought some lovely black boots when I was 22 and lived here, but which finally fell apart at the Hamilton field days a few years back (the boots that is, though I was somewhat under the weather as well). Amazingly it was still there, but selling Mr Clark’s shoes. I also found a marvellous good food shop of several storeys, and was caught photographing the cheese room – apparently the market is so good the owners don’t want anyone to find out about it, and don’t let us take photos. So I can't show it to you. I promised not to. While strolling around Kensington I suddenly remembered my text to Anna, opened my phone, and lo there was a response from her saying to hurry around and say hello. So I scampered back to the B&B to get the book and asked Francoise to take me to Richmond, which she did. I think she likes Richmond.

It was wonderful to see them again, though I only saw two year old Bella very briefly, it being her bed time. However, I did get a chance to catch up with Jeanette, the mother of my cousin’s daughter, and we had a bit of a chat on Skype. It did seem odd that I had to travel to London to talk to her, as we both live in Auckland. She doesn’t see Anna and Kieran and Bella as much as she would like to, and even asked Anna to show her the new bump, which will in due course hatch as another grandchild. Anna and Kieran are very entertaining and welcoming. Kieran cooked up lashings of protein for me, which was a huge relief, as the chefs at Horsley Park thought rice risotto was an adequate evening meal, which I disagreed with, but couldn’t seem to do much about.

By the time I had quaffed a few glasses of wine (Kieran had to go for more supplies), talked to Jeanette, gossiped, mused and attempted to interpret various aspects of life with Anna and Kieran, I realised it was my bedtime, and I had to go 'home'. Kieran wanted to send me in a taxi, but I was brave and took the bus and underground, and in due course Francoise and I found ourselves back at the B&B. I had been clever of course, and asked Francoise to make a note of the location, so we had no trouble finding it again. I have my moments.

I quite like London. I lived there for 18 months in my youth, and was looking forward to seeing other places I would recognise, such as Hammersmith station, St Martin in the Fields (I was in the choir), Charing Cross Station, a number of pubs, and the National Gallery. So even though my ‘hotel’ was cheap and nasty, I was a happy camper and fell once again into a deep and meaningful sleep.

Tomorrow: St Pancras, Park Lane and the gallery, all on ten quid

Day seven: 6 May: Horsley Park

If you don’t mind sleeping next to a castle but not in it, Horsley Park was good. The tv worked, my colleagues from CHME were there to enjoy meals and drinks with, and I had a duty to perform. I include a photo kindly sent to me by a delegate who was with me during the castle's chapel inspection, a photo of the castle that I didn't sleep in, and a picture of the sort of room I did sleep in. Note the absence of castle windows, knights, and BlackAdder. The castle would have been more fun. In due course I entertained/bored (choose one) a selection of hospitality academics for 20 minutes with my paper, and some time later the conference came to a close. I am not going to tell you what happened in between because misunderstandings might arise about what we are supposed to do at conferences, and I wouldn’t want that. If you are really desperate, leave a comment, and I’ll direct you to some of my papers. They’re on sex and theft and deviance and stuff so you probably wouldn’t be interested anyway.

Day six: 5 May: Salisbury to Surrey and the Unusual Schoolboy Incident

Connie scrambled a good egg but Salisbury eggs were pale bought ones, not nice yellow free range eggs like the Totnes ones. The poor chooks must be on a different diet. Still, the coffee was hot and strong, just like Rodney. After breakfast I ventured in to Salisbury to check out the cathedral as a sight-catching thing, seeing I was in town. As cathedrals go it was quite spectacular, with lovely Gothic arches (I like high Gothic) and plenty of interesting tombs and chapels. People were very small in those days, as they didn’t have Vogel’s bread and Vegemite to build them up nice and strong (like Rodney), so the little men lying around the cathedral were quite short, and had their arms folded nicely across their chests in a sort of penitent pose, perhaps to protect them from vampires. The spire of the cathedral is the highest in Britain so the local people make quite a thing of it, putting it on all kinds of tacky souvenirs to sell to sight-catchers like me, but I wasn’t sucked in. In fact it is so high that it put a bit of stress on the marble pillars holding it up, and you can actually see the bends in them as they strain to take the weight of the spire. Don’t let anyone tell you marble won’t bend, because it does. Apparently the foundations are only four feet deep, but set in wet gravel, which rather bafflingly keeps the whole thing steady. Apparently the gardener has to water underneath the cathedral every day in case the gravel dries out and the whole thing collapses. I just hope there is never a drought in Wiltshire or the gardener gets sick.

The Magna Carta was housed off to the side of the main building. It was written in 1215 in Latin, so I couldn’t read all of it, just the bits about tables, masters, and love, which is about as far as I got in Latin. I have often wondered why the early Romans were so pre-occupied with tables, masters and love, and daren’t ponder on this too much in case I form the wrong conclusion. Still, it was good to check it, and it’s reassuring to know that even in those days people learned Latin at school, just like I did.

After that I went back and had another look at Stonehenge, but there were still heaps of people perving at it and the weather was freezing, so after a quick circumnavigation, Very Worried, Francoise and I headed off to Leatherhead to the conference hotel. We weren’t going to get caught staying in the wrong hotel again, so I wanted to arrive a day early. We got to Horlsey Park at about 3pm and were devastated to discover that I wasn’t accommodated in the castle. I nearly turned around and went home, but then I remembered that I had promised my boss I would give a paper at the CHME conference, so I decided to stay. The room wasn’t the best, being at the entrance where people could perve in and see me parading around in my next to nothings, so they gave me a room change and I went upstairs. Quite frankly, I think this was a sensible move, as the complaints my next to nothings would have generated with other customers would not have been easy to deal with. By the time I had unpacked and ironed my clothes, done some washing, and generally sorted everything out, it was getting on towards 4pm. It was about then I discovered I had donated my power adaptor to the Salisbury B&B, and would therefore be unable to use my laptop, clean my teeth, or check my Blackberry until I got a replacement. So Very Worried, Francoise and I headed into Guildford to buy a new adaptor and return Very Worried to the rental car company. All went quite well until I ignored Francoise’s instructions and wound up doing rather repetitive circles in the middle of Guildford. It was busy and difficult to find my way out. Very Worried was true to her name. I eventually asked Francoise to take me to the nearest point of interest (which turned out to be a railway station), and waited for her instructions about how to get out of the inner circle. ‘Phew’ said very Worried and Me, as we changed lanes and eased out of the middle of Guildford. We were a bit on edge about inner circles after our visit to Stonehenge.

Because I was running out of time, I took Very Worried to her depot, and then decided to return directly to the conference castle by train, so asked Francoise to take me by foot to the closest railway station. En route she kindly guided me past a local Curry’s shop, which contrary to expectations sold electronic supplies, and was not even remotely connected with India or saag dahl. I bought myself a nice new adaptor, walked to the local railway station, and took a train to East Horsley, which is how I encountered the Unusual Schoolboy Incident (USI).

As I sat there quietly doing my knitting and observing people come and go at each station, a gaggle of dapper schoolboys got on, and sat in my carriage (I guess that's obvious - I would hardly be reporting a USI that happened in the next carriage!) I clenched my teeth in anticipation of the kinds of conversations I would have to listen to, as I am used to the school boys on the Auckland trains. They usually talk loudly (Mondays are worst) about who they had sex with, how much they drank in the weekend (extra kudos if they threw up or passed out), how stupid their parents are, and sometimes how fast they drove their father's car, narrowly missing getting captured by the local constabulary. But these boys were very strange. They were chattering about some kind of bail out of Greece, and how Greece should not perhaps have been admitted to the Euro-club, though not all agreed, and some had counter arguments that appeared to have some logic to them. They were citing share prices and talking about CPIs and other acronyms I hadn't met, and generally arguing quite excitedly. I decided they had been set a group assignment and were in opposite teams, but as I listened I realised they were having proper conversations about proper things and were actual dapper privately schooled well educated youths who fully expected to be running the country or at least a profitable organisation within it, either before they left school or shortly after. I put away my knitting and got out a crossword puzzle.

On arrival at East Horsley, Francoise kindly guided me past the local curry shop, where I celebrated my safe return and bought some channa dahl for my tea. So it all worked out. Francoise and I were quite sad to say goodbye to Very Worried, but happy we could still walk around and have adventures. I changed her settings though, to make sure she didn't take me on the motorway.

In due course I went to bed and watched a crappy movie before falling happily asleep in my very comfortable bed, even though it wasn’t in a castle.

Day five: 4 May: Totnes to Salisbury

The breakfast was good and I slept all night, which is an excellent past-time for world travellers like me. It was filling, colourful and a delicious start to enormous breakfasts but stuff all else til dinner. My host was hospitable, and provided decent coffee, lashings of orange juice, muesli, yoghurt, and scrambled eggs. Proper yellow ones. I ate so much I nearly burst. Furthermore, there were no dirty marks on any of the silver, there was no dust on top of the pictures, and there were no plastic flowers. The carpet had been recently vacuumed, and I could see out the windows. She probably has a diploma in hospitality from AUT.

I decided to drive to Dartmouth to fill in time until the museum in Totnes opened, and on arrival joined a castle inspection club called English Heritage, so I could visit castles regularly and pretend to be a princess in every town I went to. Dartmouth castle sits at the mouth of the Dart river, and was a bit scary for even a modern princess, especially where the dungeony place met the sea, so I pretended to be a knight instead. The castle was built to protect the harbour in 1388 and extended in 1481 with a tower for guns. Quite a bit older than our house in Titirangi. I wandered around it happily, taking photos of bleak bits of rock and peering at the outside world through little gun holes. Then I asked Francoise to take Very Worried and me to Totnes, so she directed us to a ferry, which took off as soon as we drove on to it. My karma was just as good as it was a few days earlier when I was upgraded on Emirates.

On the way to Totnes I went back to Berry Pomeroy near my B&B and checked out its wonderful castle ruins, which I loved, but I got too cold to listen to the entire free audio. This castle was built by Mr and Mrs Seymour and is reputedly the most haunted castle in England, with reports of a ghost galloping across the ruins from time to time. I didn’t see the ghost, which I was quite relieved about, as the audio information said if I did, I would die shortly after, which meant I couldn't return Very Worried to the rental car place, or deliver my paper in Surrey. This castle is older than Dartmouth castle, and was finished in around 1305. I had a ball wandering around looking at where the various rooms had been, and imagining what life must have been like 700 years ago. A tad chilly I expect.

Eventually I got so cold I headed back to Totnes, where I hoped to find evidence of the Poulstons in early Devon. Sadly I sent up a one way street (most of them are actually) the wrong way, which was embarrassing for all of us. Francoise tried to tell us not to go there but we ignored her. Eventually we found the museum which of course was closed, it being a Monday. I got back into Very Worried, and asked Francoise to take us to Stonehenge. We had had quite enough of big towns and needed some fresh air.

The road to Stonehenge fairly quickly opened up to two lanes, then three, then about six. Francoise was brilliant, and every time we came to a major intersection, she not only showed me a diagram with huge arrows telling me which lane to use, but then she showed me a photo of the intersection so I could admire it, know it to be the same as the one on the other side of the windscreen, and follow the arrows into exactly the right place. It gave me a sense of security to be able to see a photo of where I was going, because I therefore knew that Francoise and I agreed exactly on where we were. We were here.

The surrounding fields were growing mustard and various other crops, and it occurred to me that the crop circles that regularly appear in these areas are probably UFO graffiti. A mustard field must look very enticing from outer space.

Stonehenge was horrendously busy and just as cold as Berry Pomeroy – in fact colder, because it started raining as I arrived. It was a bit like the Parthenon visit, with people taking photos of each other in front of it, but not really looking at the monument. Sightseeing is sort of sight-catching – you look at something and put it in the ‘been there’ box. I am no better than anyone else, and popped Stonehenge into my 'been there' box and got back into Very Worried as soon as I could.

I took a while to find accommodation in Salisbury, turning down four places for being too far to walk with my suitcase, not having wi-fi, or being too expensive. Eventually I got one I liked, very nice, run by a Connie Booth look alike, who even had a performing arts diploma on the wall behind her. What a giveaway. I found a small supermarket and some salad for dinner and caught up with my work emails.

Day four: 3 May: Totnes and Berry Pomeroy

After a walk with Jane and Fudge and the usual luxurious breakfast with plenty of decent coffee (Russ – note this for your future reference please – this is what people have for breakfast) I set Francoise for Totnes via Exeter and said goodbye to everyone who was up. Which was all those under 10 and over 16.

Jamie told me most of the roads would be dual carriage-way, which was less worrying than a motorway, but as it happened I did end up on an M5 sort of road later. The thing about the motorways in England is that they are very very safe. Because people can travel at any speed they like, they are not constantly distracted by looking in the mirror for cops and jamming on the brakes ever time they see a black and white car. The only thing that really puzzled me was that they had speed camera warnings on the motorway so I am not sure what they were looking for. Just in case they were worried about slow drivers, I kept my speed up. The lights at the roundabouts had me flummoxed but I got through them okay and somehow ended up in Exeter. I parked my car in a tower of some sort, visited the cathedral, and actually found my way back to the car park and located my car again. I was a bit disappointed in the cathedral though I don’t really know why, as I usually love them. The astronomical clock was good (a bit old though) but the Gothic wasn't as high as I had imagined it to look. Apparently Hickory Dickory Dock originated here.

As I got further south out of Dorset and into Devon, I saw a lot of thatched roofs (Margaret's family did them). The roads were incredibly narrow in places, with hedges on each side, so Very Worried and I took things quietly. Several times I drove up a narrow street the wrong way and then had to try not to look silly. Many streets were only big enough for one fairly slim car. We made it into Totnes safely, but couldn't find a park anywhere close to where we wanted to go, so we parked somewhere we didn't want to go instead. Which is how we found the amazing organic supermarket down a back street, where I bought falafels for my dinner and a small bottle of Mateus. There were heaps of organics shops around, and the place had a sort of wholemeal bread and organic apples feeling. I bet the locals wore macrame underwear.

Eventually I decided to look for my B&B at Berry Pomeroy and got lost, but oddly, turned up at Higher Poulston Farm. It was mostly cottages for holiday-makers, but I found the farm part with dairy cows and a tractor or two, and lots of mud. I felt very important wandering around what was surely my property, as I am a Poulston and the visitors probably weren't. I wanted someone to ask me what I was doing there so I could explain that it was my family farm, but no-one took any notice of me. So I took a photo of the gate and the cows, and left. I had travelled thousands of miles to inspect it and my job was done.

The B&B was clean and good but I had forgotten my dongle (a Vodafone gadget that finds the internet wherever you are) so I couldn't do any work. I washed my clothes, ate my falafel and and drank the Mateus and several cups of tea, then went for a walk. I found a road that had a castle at the end of it, but decided to go back the next day by car, as walking on such narrow roads is a bit nerve-wracking - there was nowhere to run if a car decided to use the same bit of road as me. The church-yard was very good, but apart from that and a couple of houses, there wasn't much to the village worth reporting on. Actually there wasn't much to the village.

Day three: 2 May: Poole

Being still on New Zealand time I had it in mind to get up early and take Jane a cup of tea in bed, but she was up with the flatulent sparrows too, so we went for an early morning stroll with Fudge, the not so young hound. Jane and I don’t spend enough time together for our liking so we were very pleased with ourselves and for keeping our secret from Amy. We talked about the usual sorts of things sisters-in-law talk about when they get together, such as why the pines in Bournemouth make people feel tired, and addressed the health, relationships and education matters of various members of the family. Our conversations must remain secret, so if you want to know more you will have to wait for our memoirs.

Jamie took me to Bournemouth to collect my car, which disappointingly was not red, even though I had especially noted this as a request on my online booking. I also slightly resented that they thought I might have an accident as the car had VW written on it at the front, which I think stands for Very Worried. I therefore took out full insurance just to be sure. I shook for the first few minutes of driving, mostly because I wanted a pee, but also, because I fully expected the English roads to behave differently to ours, and be sort of soft and billowy to drive on, or perhaps turn into large crevasses and swallow me up. Fortunately they didn’t do either of those things, and before long I had learned to trust them, and drove more or less as I do when at home. I had been warned that Britain is a surveillance society, and watched out for the speed cameras. The English are so careful they even have lights at some of their roundabouts, and they are frankly roundabout crazy. I hate roundabouts, because when I go into them I can never work out how it is that I can turn left without hitting the person in the left lane. Someone explained it to me once, drawing it on paper for me, but I wasn't convinced. I know it doesn't work, because I often get tooted at when I turn left, and sometimes have to go around twice as I am too scared to get off. I had loaded up Francoise (my GPS) with Western Europe maps, and Jamie had marked his house as my UK home in case I got lost, so it was just a matter of following the voice instructions (called Jane) and maps to my UK home. I have no idea where I was or how I got there but it worked. I parked Very Worried neatly in their drive alongside the BMWs and she tried to look comfortable there and sort of succeeded, being the same colour. Grey.

Frankie and Jamie's place is a kind of Waterloo station, with all kinds of friends and relatives coming around all the time, so I finally met Jane’s and Jamie’s mother, Jill. I felt comfortable with my initials, as they are the same as theirs. I even gave Jane (Poulston) my hotmail name a few years ago. Jill was lovely – I do wish I had met her when she was younger, as she seems like someone who enjoys a party. It was also wonderful to meet Amy's cousins Mike (who is very funny) and Charlie (who looks just like Edwin), and I knew I would be sorry to leave them the next day.

Later in the day, when everyone had gone home, Jane packed up some stuff for Russ, so I stuck a wee note in amongst it to say hello. He sure does have a tea problem – she sent him about four enormous boxes of PG Tips. Perhaps there isn’t any tea at France and/or he’s tired of their wine. It must be hard working on the hard all day, which is where their boat is.

Frankie showed me her garden – I was pleased to see they had some flax in it. I saw a red fox in the garden, from inside the house, and a squirrel (which was not in the house). Frankie says squirrels are just rats with fluffy tails, but as I like rats that didn’t put me off. They are very cute and I think if Annie could keep a squirrel she probably would, although perhaps Falcor wouldn't like that.

We had had a good day with lots of people for lunch and all kinds of stuff going on, but Jamie wasn’t satisfied with that – we also had to go and meet his mistress at the yacht club, and have a drink there. We went outside and huddled pathetically in the red cape mum gave me a couple of weeks ago, but stayed long enough for me to see that their boat had all the usual boatie attachments such as a mast and sails and stuff. I was very relieved about that, and now I worry less about their safety.

The photo is of us having breakfast/lunch/dinner/coffee. Note Jane at the kitchen sink polishing a boat propeller. She has some very odd habits.

Next instalment:Finding Poulston Farm

Day two: 1 May: Poole - waking Amy

This is a picture of Amy, my brother's daughter, and my favourite blonde niece. As you can see she looks a lot like me, except for the hair colour. Her mother invited me to stay with her brother Jamie, and his wife Frankie. We really like people called James in our family. It's my father's third name (after Edwin and Alfred), so my daughters Annie and Rosie both have partners called James. You would think that Jane's parents might have more imagination than to call one of their kids James as well, but they did. And his mother is called Jill. No imagination, as I said. But I digress.

Jane suggested I catch the bus from Heathrow to Bournemouth. Now if you have done your homework and read last year's blog, you would have noticed that I went to Bournemouth by mistake then, and knowing Jamie lives in Poole (Annie says it is pronounced Pu-ill) I wasn't going to be conned into going there by mistake again, so I checked, and sure enough - if you want to visit someone in Poole you have to go to Bournemouth. England is a funny place.

The bus to Bournemouth had a dunny (called WC) at the back. I spent most of the journey wanting to have a pee and wondering if I pulled the chain at an intersection and rushed out quickly, I would see my pee as we drove away. I was too scared to try, and anyway, I had my bag on my knee in case someone stole it. My bag, not my knee, silly.

Jane collected me much to my relief, as I had now traversed the world without error, being passed from husband to sister-in-law without a hitch. I shared a brief moment of pride with my alter ego as I got off the bus. Jane laughed at my large red suitcase but I explained that one needs a lot of shoes in different shades of red for an academic conference. When we got to Jamie and Frankie's, I went upstairs and woke Amy from her afternoon nap (poor lass had jetlag) but so as not to confuse her, I told her I was her Aunty Yoga. My sister Yoga is heaps older than I am and looks quite different as she has grey hair and round glasses. Amy is smart and knew it was me but couldn't quite get a grip on why I was there. She lives in Vancouver and I live in NZ so I guess it was a bit odd that we should meet in Surrey. She is my absolutely favourite blonde niece, as I said (if you had paid attention I wouldn't have needed to tell you twice).

I was pleased to have my Francoise me GPS with me, all loaded up with Western Europe maps, but the interior of their house wasn't on it, which was shame, as it was quite large and I needed a navigation system to find my way around. They had a lot of visitors as well, and it took me several hours to work out exactly which ones were my hosts and which were their children's friends etc. Even the dog had a guest around for dinner, though I think he just got canned food.

Last time I was supposed to visit them, Jamie killed the fatted lentil for me, but as I had stuffed up my itinerary (http://poulston.blogspot.com/2009/05/12-may-stroud-to-bournemouth.html

he had to put it back in the freezer for this year. Actually it was very good, and didn't taste a bit like my mother's ice-cream, which usually spends a year in the freezer before we eat it. He cooked a wonderful Indian meal, and I scoffed it happily, having been without a decent meal since somewhere over Croatia. I managed to stay up until 9.30 by watching slides on tv and sleeping on every fourth one, then waking in time to answer a question and then surreptitiously slipping into sleep again. I was very happy.

Next edition: Poole - learning to drive in England

Day one: 30 April: Titirangi to London, first class

For some reason I am having trouble with my photos. The first one was supposed to be the new New Lynn (no, I don't have a stutter) station. It's not relevant to the blog because I caught a shuttle to the airport, but I have to put it somewhere, so here it isn't. Instead, we have photos of Annie, James, and Falcor. One of them is my daughter, and the others are her closest and most special friends.

I suspect that I have few blog followers, so I am issuing a warning. If you don't read this, then quite simply, I am not going to bother writing it. My mother doesn't use a computer now, having already struggled with the concept of putting a card into a machine rather than communicate with a bank teller when she wants some money. She is very good at the card in the machine trick now but I don't think she's ready to read my blog. So, as I can't rely on her as my blog follower, I am obliged to confront the possibility that I am the only reader. Still, as long as I find it amusing, I suppose it's worth the effort. But I digress.

It took about three hours to get to Sydney, then about an hour to purchase some gin and send a text to Annie to say it was disappointing to be in Sydney and not see her. I did look out the window as we were landing, but the wing was in the way. I carefully chose my seats some weeks ago and chose badly, and have no idea why. Here is a picture of Annie's ferret (see above)

The Sydney - Dubai leg was uneventful, which was a relief, as there were no spare seats, so any event would have been too much. I spent most of the journey wondering why a journey was a leg, but a leg wasn't a journey, even though it was part of it. Air space is often busy when I travel - I suppose other people find out that I am travelling and want to go on my flight. I watched Lovely Bones, which as expected was not as good as the book, but well worth watching. Then I watched It's Complicated because I like Meryl Streep (perhaps if she reads this she will leave an appreciative comment) and made a good start on the Young Victoria before landing in Dubai.

Dubai airport was not as fascinating as the first time I saw it, so I spent most of my time walking up and down, trying to get my pedometer count up to 10,000 steps. After doing this for an hour or so I realised I didn't have it on, so it had been a complete waste of time. After a couple of hours it was time to go to London, so I boarded the A380 that Emirates had kindly arranged for me, not knowing the delights that were ahead.

World Travel is sort of like having an injection of experience. Flying over India to the gentle hum of an A380 while sipping champagne is a little surreal, yet people do it every day. Common as frost in winter. I am particularly lucky though, as my Pisces ascendant kicked in some time during the journey, displacing mercurial thought processes with a spectacular strength, which in fact is how I came by a seat in first class. Until this time, I thought it was sufficiently heavenly to glide through the sky in cattle class, watching endless movies, checking the view outside, and enjoying regular intakes of food and wine. But after 20 hours or so it had begun to wear thin, and I was feeling smelly. I had left Auckland at 6pm Thursday feeling nice and clean, but after 3 hours to Sydney and an hour or so there, and then about 16 (after 7 or 8 hours I lost count) or so getting to Dubai, I was starting to lose the plot. My hair had gone all flat from the ear phones, my feet were sweaty (even though I surreptitiously washed them with my face–cloth before landing), and my nose felt bad, as I had had a nose bleed during one of the breakfasts. So by the time I met Dubai airport I was a little jaded. After an hour or so wandering around there and wishing I had brought a towel so I could have had a free shower (I love anything free – I got it from my mother) I was over the international traveller thing and wanting it to be in London. I clambered into my window seat, turned on the Young Victoria movie and was ten minutes into it when I saw a minor fracas developing in the aisle, so decided to take an interest. It seemed that a couple was being put asunder, with one in business and the other in cattle, and the steward was trying to resolve it with a swap. He asked me if I would move two rows forward, and if the gentleman next to me would go into business, so they could have our seats. I brightly said I didn’t mind going upstairs, and amazingly, the British chap in the next seat turned to me and said I could do that if I wanted. I couldn’t believe it, so I offered to toss a coin but he said no, I should take it. I asked him if he were British, and he said yes, he tried. What a gentleman indeed. If he is reading this, he will know that I am forever in his debt. So I threw down my ear phones, picked up my shoes and socks, grabbed my bag, and rushed upstairs before they changed their minds.

It was wonderful. I was given as much Bolly as I wanted, I had a window seat without a wing in the way, and I was able to stretch my entire 5 foot 4 inches out and still have room to spare. I hooked my phone to a charger, drank everything in the minibar, and ordered another Bolly. And in due course when I had to go to the loo, I found to my delight there was a bar at the back of the ship, so I casually hung out there for a while, ordering Bolly and eating canapes and swapping business cards with other high flyers. Although I felt as if I had a badge on that said 'free upgrade', they were very nice, and no-one seemed to see it or mention it. I love Emirates. They even gave me a little gold card to get me through customs quickly.

Next edition: Finding Poole and waking Amy