what i am waiting for my very own email account at google!!!!

what I have been doing a holiday in the South West of the UK:
holiday_jottings
after arriving in the UK in early March:

One Sunday I had to travel via London northwards away from the balmy west country to Doncaster for the Christian Bookselling Conference. The railway lines in Dorset were undergoing maintenance so we were bussed to Salisbury. Or so we had hoped. We arrived at a village called Farmer Giles and several passengers informed the driver that "'e 'ad gone the wrong way", and just back a bit there was the correct turn.

Well back a bit did not eventuate and the bus increased speed, becoming almost airborne at times and clipping the verge of the road and bouncing over gutters.

The drivers face becoming grimmer and grimmer. I wondered whether I was on a haunted bus for a while that was never going to arrive anywhere. Eventually 16 or so minutes later the sign to Salisbury appeared, the bus took the right turn and all relaxed. We arrived with 4 minutes to spare to catch the London train.

On arriving in London it was great to rail on past the Christies Fine Art Auction building. Reaching destination, I had to change to the northern line at Kings Cross, asking both rail employees and the travelling public which way on the underground to Kings Cross elicited blank looks "just catch the underground". I recognised a fellow traveller from the Salisbury train looking blankly at the mass of lines and names on the wall and asked him "Going to Kings Cross?" He replied in an northern accent to the affirmative. Together we managed to figure it out and onto the escalators where I was soon challenged to move over to the right. I explained that I was a new arrival from Australia to the couple behind me who then told me that in London you keep to the right on the escalators so that people can rush past on the left. They explained that I should ask for the 'northern line" rather than Kings Cross.

Finally the northern lad and I got on a train, the wrong one, going in the right direction but across from Kings Cross, fortunately a station just past kings cross had a loop train going back.

Arrived in time for the train going north, my co-traveller turned out to be an army fellow going home to see family before being deployed to Iraq in April. His fear was like a fine tremor in the core of his body, but he made light of it saying he was looking forward to the holiday after the deployment.

So onto Doncaster. The train is an express so we whiz past many stations. I hear a tinkle of laughter from a passenger sitting some rows of seats behind me and think what is Sue from Canberra doing on the train. It dawns on me it is another Scots woman and it is just the lilt of the laugh i can recognise.

The English countryside changes about an hour and a half out of London. The hedgerows thin out and fencing of the ilk seen in Australia takes over. The wire is of a thinner gauge and more wood is used in the fencing. The thatched roofs that are still quite popular in the west country are nowhere to be seen.

A common security firm sign is CIA which made me grin. It was great to see a Chubb security van which was painted in the same way as Australian ones.

So safely arriving in Doncaster I catch a cab to the B and B. English cabs are nowt like the Australian variety. They are custom built with a lot of space in the rear. The driver is separated from the passengers who are actually locked in. In Oz we sit in the front with the driver if one is by oneself, otherwise you get in the back. Struggling to decipher the northern accent I learn a little about Doncaster.

The B & B is new. Very lush as my cousins teenagers would say. Glass Chandalier, gold fittings - I am almost too scared to move as it is a bit posh! No master keys here, three keys for three doors....Entrance, bedroom and outside door into common room. A conservatorium is provided for smokers. I may have a cigarette just to try it. I have not opened the packet I bought at the duty free.

Being Sunday I ring up the Catholic Church to find out about Mass times. I am surprised by the number of Catholic Churches in the area. I ring one recognising the church name as one I passed in the taxi. My accent puts the priest off, he thinks I am having a lend of him. He tells me to take my car out, and I tell him "But father I could not bring my car on the plane it is still in Australia."He has a good laugh on that:"your car is in Australia ha ha ha!" He finally believes me and gives me a walkable route to the church. He warns me to take put a raincoat on as showers will come. I go outside and meet mine host who affirms the directions.

Off I set down the winding road. No footpaths here. English roads in the main have almost no verge. The road ends almost at the fence. Twenty minutes later I spot the first turn which is a road thru a golf course. The showers kick in a gentle but cold drizzle begins for about 10 minutes. I pull my beanie on. I get to the Anglican Church and walk past it as I had been directed to head off onto the lane to the next village. A sign saying NO TRESPASSING Offenders will be Prosecuted greets me. I turn left and follow the now muddy lane away from where I am meant to be going. The best route now appears to be across a meadow, I climb thru some fences, down and out of a huge ditch and have one more field to cross. My shoes are getting mud caked.

A tractor with a burly driver appears and the farmers wife also. I explain that I am trying to get to church. "By the sound of you, you are not English". I cheat and say that "I am an Australian!" I figure that if I talk like one and dress like one and move like one then for once I am happy to be an Australian. It turns out the meadow i was crossing was leading to a girt deep ditch full of water that I would not be able to get across. The farmers wife offers to drive me. I gratefully accept. However, the farmyard is one enormous mud bowl. I have to walk around the grassy meadows to the front of the farmhouse.

Get in the car and I introduce myself. My saviours name is Angela.

She explains that the NO TRESPASSING SIGN means motor vehicles. THe path is a common lane for Pedestrians. A lapsed Catholic she is dubious about a 6pm service at the next village. In five minutes we arrive and she is right the 6pm was on Saturday night. She graciously drives be back past the B&B and after another 15 minutes she deposits me at another church and wishes me all the best. I tell her to visit the bookshop in Canberra as she goes to NZ and Aust every so often.

Roman Catholic Churches in Doncaster area appear dilapidated and run down. High fences and chained gates. No sense of welcome to a house of prayer at all. I wait for ten minutes and decide that there must be no Evening Mass at all. As I prepare to leave a car pulls up and the church is opened, tired 1960's decor greets me. The coverings of the kneelers are curling up, the hymnals and mass books date from the 1970's. A congregation trickles in and finally the priest arrives and Mass begins. Transformation - the singing and the responses and the reverence and prayerfulness indicate that there is something a lot greater than the post Thatcherite depressed North of England here. After Mass people stay and chat and I am offered a lift back to the b&b. I am grateful because I am so tired.

I am asleep by 8pm. And thus I awake at 2.30am. I toss and turn. 'Lost in Translation'comes to mind, but there is no bar here... I ring my SO, but her mobile rings, it is a work call she has to take. I wait some more time and ring again. We have a great chat but then it is time for her to go and meet Ms 5 from School. Fire up the laptop and begin typing. 5.09am comes quickly after typing the above.