travel

Jamaica Warmth

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Thursday

I was tired, and I twisted my ankle yesterday when getting into the sea, so I walked rather than ran in the exercise room this morning. It’s a very good exercise room—everything works (not always the case!) and there are remote buttons to work the air-con and telly, clean towels, wipes to clean the machines, a water dispenser and rubber mats for stretching afterwards. I think it would be too hot to run outside (plus we would probably be hit by a car on the crazy roads).

After breakfast we went back to the supermarket to buy more water. It was busier today, with security guards at the carpark entrance (free parking for 2 hours, but we needed to get the ticket stamped in the supermarket). We looked at the shops in the small precinct. Lots of bright clothes, a barber shop, two book shops, a shop of spare engine parts. Plus a toy shop—which displayed white babydolls in the window. Why white? Nearly everyone here is black. Makes no sense to me.

After the supermarket we went to look at a ‘craft fair’ opposite. It was full of stalls, all selling the same thing (as far as I could see)—brightly coloured dresses and hats, fridge magnets, beads, knitted goods, carved wooden goods. It reminded me of a similar craft fair we visited in Zambia. All the stall holders encouraged us to look at their goods (even though they were identical to the stall next door) and asked us to name our price. I checked the price of their fridge magnets (in Jamaican dollars). Most were $1,000 (about £5) though some were double and some were half that price. One lady was nice—friendly but not pushy, and her price was $600, plus she had some nice wooden magnets rather than just plastic ones. I bought one, and asked for a photograph. She was called Dianna. You can look for her if you ever visit Ocho Rios—I liked her.

One stall had an open Bible on the table. I asked the man serving what he was reading. He told me it was a Bible, and he had it open to encourage good vibes. I felt like I should say something—to maybe encourage him to read it, or to ask him what he believed—but it felt inappropriate. Not the time for a deep discussion, and I thought it might appear intrusive. (I tend to react against the ‘scalp-hunting’ mentality that typified my teenaged religious experience.)

We drove home without incident. It was a fun little excursion, and I feel more comfortable now. I am used to being the only white person.

Friday

Another lovely day in Jamaica. After running in the gym, we had breakfast next to the sea. I had pancakes. The menu lists the food—so it said banana pancakes with caramalised banana and maple syprup. I have learnt that when I order food here, I need to include the whole description, otherwise half the dish is missing. (So when I ordered grilled fish and veg, I received grilled fish and veg—but not the potatoes or sauce listed in the menu), Today I forgot, and asked for pancakes. Therefore I received plain pancakes. Luckily I relised my error and snaffled a banana from the fruit plate. Nice breakfast.

As we walked back to our room I threw some leftover toast into the sea (I have watched other guests doing this). Lots of striped ffish (I think called Sargeant Major fish) scurried over (can fish scurry? These could!) to eat it. Fun.

We chatted to one of the hotel managers, who spotted that we are new guests (most people have been coming here for years, and the staff also tend to stay, so it has a family atmosphere). The hotel is relatively small (50 rooms) and there is a sense of space and privacy even when (like this week) there are no vacant rooms. It has also hosted a few famous faces (Marilyn Monroe honeymooned here).

We heard there is a deserted beach further along the coast, so drove there. Driving in Jamaica is quite an adventure—massive pot holes to avoid, while someone sits inches from your bumper (sometimes beeping) and drivers whiz towards you on the wrong side of the road. Husband is very calm in these situations, and we arrived without incident (but personally, I would never drive here). We followed Google Maps to Duncan beach, and parked on the verge of an unmade road, near to where some houses are being built. There was a pathway, towards the sea. It looked private, but we went along it anyway. At the end, a man was leaning against a tree, watching us. We asked if we were allowed there—was this the right way to the beach? He smiled, and waved us on, and said yes, we were welcome, have a great day. This typifies my interaction with people here—they have mostly all been friendly, smiley, and helpful.

The beach was narrow, with volcanic rock beneath the surface of the water—the water was turquoise, and warm, and completely clear. We walked along the beach for a while, looking for shells, finding washed-up coconuts, and saweed, and lots and lots of plastic bottles. In the sea, tiny fish darted (these were not the scurrying kind) and crabs scuttled away from us. It was very sunny, so we didn’t stay too long (I have already managed to burn one arm, which was very silly of me). We ate a picnic of digestive biscuits and water before driving back to the hotel.

As we drove, I tried to take photos, to capture a flavour of the place. This part of Jamaica (St, Anns/Ocho Rios) has some luxury resorts, and some fairly basic-looking housing. Everywhere has bright colours. Goats and dogs wander next to the road. There are a few places with heavy industry, linked to the bauxite quarrying. (Bauxite is a metallic mineral, and it’s the only source of extractable aluminium.) Bauxite is a soft red clay, and as we drove near to where it was being loaded onto ships, the road and trees were tinged with the red dust. I worry it might not be too healthy for people living nearby. I didn’t manage to capture photos of the fishing boats bobbing on the sea, or the children playing, or the animals. But you can see how green everywhere is, with lush plants filling almost every space, and trees covered with vines and air-plants.

I have enjoyed Jamaica, even though we have seen very little of it. Maybe next time we will do more touring, and try to see more of the island, but even this short week has given us a flavour of the place (and a warm flavour of rum and smiles). The service here is warm and relaxed, and you have to lean into the pace and forget the English schedules. Jamaica is a place to relax.

I hope you find time to relax too this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

I am going to miss the fruit punch!

anneethompson.com

More Jamaica Inn

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I am beginning to relax into the rhythm here. I wake about 5, and lie in bed, listening to the frogs (which are very loud—they sound like the ceiling fan is struggling to turn, a volley of squeaks—they start at sunset and continue until dawn). At 6 am an urn of Blue Mountain coffee is put out on the veranda. It’s super-strong, and kick-starts the day wonderfully. Today as I stood on the veranda, looking across the palm trees to the sea, something wafted, very quickly, overhead, then disappeared behind the branches. Pretty sure it was a ghost, pale grey, silent, floating at speed. Began to wonder what, exactly, might be in the coffee. Then the ghost reappeared, did a speedy lap of the bar and library before floating back towards the sea. A huge grey bat. It was light grey, and much bigger than the mouse-like bats we have living in our garden at home. I don’t know much about bats, or whether they bite people, so I went back to the room. (Later research found it was probably a fruit bat.)

The library, sans bat.

I persuaded Husband to come to the exercise room, and ran for half an hour. Then we had a quick dip in the pool before breakfast. We have freshly squeezed orange juice, strong coffee, and a whole selection of food. I’m trying to not eat too much fat (many meals here, so bit of a losing battle). I tend to order mint tea, porridge (called oatmeal) and fresh fruit. Then I eat bits of Husband’s Egg Benedict or pastries or toast, and steal sips of his coffee. He has started moving his food further along the table…

Breakfast room.

There are activities here, which Husband is keen to investigate and I am keen to avoid. He has already made friends with some croquet players, and today he plans to go out in a boat and snorkel. I want to stay in the room, staring at the beautiful view, reading theology books. Today, by chance, I have started to read a book by J.Richard Middleton, about the image of God or imago Dei. He begins by explaining that as a white man growing up in Jamaica, surrounded by mainly black friends and neighbours, he felt unsure about his identity, which led to his research into the imago Dei.  (Genesis describes humans being created ‘in the image of God’ and people have decided this is what defines us—and they then argue about what exactly ‘the image of God’ might be!) It feels very appropriate to be reading a book written by a Jamaican, about an aspect of creation, while being in Jamaica, surrounded by Eden-like beauty. I will let you know what he writes (unless it’s boring—some theology books are best forgotten).

While reading Mr. Middleton’s book, a waiter appeared on the veranda, delivering drinks to the room next door. He asked if we had had our complimentary drinks, and said we are entitled to a free drink every day, after 11, from the bar. I’m not sure if this is true. He then said he would collect us some—would I like a rum? Well, it would have been rude to refuse. He yelled to the man in the beach bar, telling him to bring us a complimentary rum. (Husband had an orange juice. You can make a man retire, but you can never remove the accountant within.) I drank my rum. It was strong. Feeling very fuzzy. Mr. Middleton is now not making as much sense as he did 10 minutes ago!

Tuesday

We spent the day at the hotel. It’s too perfect to want to leave.

We have to dress smartly for dinner here—men must wear long trousers and a shirt with a collar. It’s quite fun.

This evening they set up the beach area for a gala. There were drinks on the terrace then a buffet on the beach. Lanterns were strung from the trees, and a band played. I had bit of a headache, which was a shame. They let us take our food back to the room—a waiter carried a tray and set up the table on our veranda with a cloth, salt and pepper, cutlery and napkins, glasses of iced water, a basket of fresh bread—as well as the plates of food we had collected. We could see the beach, with lanterns hanging from trees, and hear the band playing. It was a shame to miss it, but where we ate was still beautiful. This is one of the things I love about this hotel—they seem to genuinely want you to have a lovely time, there are very few ‘rules’ and if you prefer to eat alone on your private veranda, well that’s fine, and they will carry your food and set your table, and do everything they can to make it special.

I hope you have something special today, wherever you are. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Jamaica Inn

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Day 6

A travelling day. Never fun. Miami airport was quite difficult to negotiate, with various steps which were not obvious. We flew with American Airlines, which involved checking-in at the airport (using a screen, but it needed a person to verify our documents so not possible to check-in ahead of schedule in the hotel). Then we had to add the labels and drop our bags ourselves, which always makes me nervous. But all was fine. The security check was as rude as most security checks in the US, with officials snapping instructions, and our stuff whisked away on the conveyor belt before we were ready, and then it arrived in a heap the other side, with no time to snatch our belongings before the rude person operating the machine dumped another lot of belongings on top—so we lost a nail (but not a finger) and nearly lost a passport, and the man next to us couldn’t find his backpack and all was confusion and stress.

To enter Jamaica we needed to complete an online form—the website was at the airport (though not advertised in advance, so was unexpected). We used our phones to complete the form while we waited for our flight, and then when we landed in Montego Bay we used the machines to scan our passports, and it photographed us and printed out a thin document, which allowed access to the country. It was very efficient.

One of the declarations on the form asked whether we had an fruit or veg. I had a packet of walnuts and almonds to snack. Did that count as fruit? I seem to remember that the outbreak of foot and mouth in the UK a few years ago was due to a lorry driver throwing away a ham sandwich. But I don’t know how anyone would know that, so possibly a myth—though the fact I had heard it made me wonder whether it was possible, and therefore whether carrying nuts—even processed ones from a supermarket—might be a problem. I decided I was too scared of security guards to not declare it, and too scared of Husband being annoyed because we would be delayed at the airport if I did declare it, so I threw them away before we left Miami. What a waste.

We arrived in Jamaica, picked up a hire car, drove to Jamaica Inn. Beautiful spot. It was like giving birth—instantly forgot the pain of travel in the wonder of being somewhere beautiful. I won’t remember it properly until I have to travel again, and then the horror of airports will come flooding back!

Day 7

I am writing this in our outside sitting area. We have never had one of these before, the hotel room is a suite, with the doors from the bedroom leading to a covered patio with sofas, dining area, fridge and lamps. The open side looks across the garden to the beach. Rather lovely. It’s currently raining. It seems to rain a lot here—warm wet showers that make the banana leaves glisten. In a few minutes it will stop, the sun will break through the clouds and the air will be warm and moist. Easy to relax in a place like this.

After breakfast on the terrace, we went to find a supermarket. Most were shut (it’s Sunday) but we found one online with a big car park, about 10 minutes from the hotel. Driving there was easy but we needed to be aware—lots of potholes in the road, fast drivers coming towards us and the car behind sitting inches from our bumper. We are the only people in Jamaica who obey the speed limits (but we’re foreign, I don’t expect they would be kind if we were caught speeding).

The supermarket was a mini adventure in itself. Supermarkets in other countries are always unfamiliar; this one had high shelves, and narrow aisles. We took a shopping trolley from outside, and searched the shelves for bottles of water and bread for lunch (because the hotel provides breakfast, tea and dinner, but we didn’t want to pay extra for lunches too). I felt very foreign, I was the only white person, and I was aware that people spoke very fast in a dialect that was hard to understand, so I walked round smiling at people but trying to look as if I knew what I was doing. At the checkout, the shop assistant told us we couldn’t take the trolley outside, there were other ones for going to the car. I went outside, found a metal trolley, started to take it into the shop, but a man stopped me, said it wasn’t allowed. I explained the situation, apologised, went back inside. The assistant told me I could not take the trolley outside. Another assistant appeared with a metal trolley, said she would push it, customers were not allowed. Now, this was difficult. In all probability, there was a system which we did not understand—but it was possibly a scam and the person pushing the trolley for us would expect to be tipped and be nasty if we refused. Difficult. Husband (who also spotted the possibility of a scam) politely refused, said we were fine, he could carry the water, our car was nearby. They looked confused (which probably indicates it wasn’t a scam) and let us carry our groceries. At the door, we were stopped by the man who wouldn’t allow me to move the trolley, and asked for our receipt. He took it, wrote something on it, handed it back. Husband checked it, we said thank you, left. I noticed as we left that the man who was behind us in the checkout also showed his receipt as he left. There was obviously a system here, which we didn’t understand. Maybe if you pack your own bag you need to show your receipt before you leave. I don’t know. We left, feeling foreign, got in the car, locked the doors—though nothing had been at all threatening, we just didn’t know the system. Drove back to the hotel without incident.

The hotel is lovely, too beautiful to describe though I’m hoping the photos give some idea. It’s not cheap—it’s Husband’s birthday treat, a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Most of the guests are English or American, and mainly white. The staff are all local, and I can’t help wondering what they think of us, a whole hotel of mostly white-skinned guests visiting their lovely island. I don’t know why I am noticing this. In SriLanka we were the only white people, and on some of our trips to India and to China. But it feels different here—I wonder if it’s because I know there was a history of slavery here, or because in the UK some of the dark-skinned people at university talk a lot about the history of slavery and systemic racism—whereas those of Chinese or Indian ethnicity do not, so I am less aware of the difference, less worried about how they view me, a white person. I don’t know.

We are right on the coast, but behind us are mountains. Everywhere is lush with plants. The coast seems to be full of resorts, with private coves and fancy hotels. The roads are less plush, and many of the buildings are either half-built or falling down (it’s sometimes hard to tell which one). There are brown dogs wandering around (not sure of the breed—maybe thin golden retrievers) and goats, and thin horses. Not sure why the horses are thin, as there’s lots of grass, maybe they are naturally lean, like the herd of cracker cows we saw in Florida which survive the heat because they are thin and muscular rather than fat. The road is lined with large billboards, often faded by the sun.

The island is very beautiful, and the people seem friendly and helpful. I will tell you more in another post. I have never stayed in such a luxurious resort, it’s such a treat.

Hope you have some treats planned too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Florida in February

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Day 3 of Road Trip

Woke about 5 am (definitely changing my internal clock now). Drank coffee, went for run about 7am, which was around dawn, so it was light enough to feel safe. We ran along the dock, with several other runners/walkers (people here don’t say hello to strangers, and most seemed to be deep in conversation with their mobile phones). Breakfast in a cafe attached to the hotel (not great). There is a conference here, so steered Husband past the rather nice breakfast put out for people wearing purple tabards.

We went shopping for shoes. Not a usual thing for us to do, but Husband’s trainers are falling to bits. We found an excellent shop, with an excellent assistant, and bought two pairs in the sales. Then we looked for a bagel shop, because I hankered for a cinnamon bagel that I could eat outside, somewhere pretty. We failed on this one, though as we wandered around the docks area we did see lots of pretty places. Returned to Fresco’s Waterfront Bistro for an early lunch. I had a fish burger (again) which was nice (would have been nicer if I actually liked fish, which I don’t much, but I am trying to not eat meat). It was a pretty place to sit, right on the water, with flags and lights and blue umbrellas to shade us from the sun.

Then we wandered to the Salvador Dali museum, which we visited in 2019 and both enjoyed. The gift shop has very attractive merchandise, which is as lovely to look at as the pictures, not that I would actually want to own any of it, but it’s fun to look at. Then we walked up the spiral stairs to the galleries and were amazed again at Dali’s skill, enjoying the colours and images, especially the paintings that had images within images. I felt that Dali enjoyed telling a story, or making a statement, or sometimes just enjoying the science of how the brain detects images. The best (in our opinion) display of 2019 had gone, which was a shame—previously there had been an audio-visual digital display explaining the paintings, helping you see what was hidden within them.

In the evening we went to a bar. We found the same bar where we sheltered in 2019 during a typhoon, and ever since I have wished we had drunk shots rather than cokes. It was raining again when we walked there, so was very reminiscent. I had an espresso martini, which was very tasty but tasted as if there was very little alcohol in it (which was fine, it still felt very grown-up to sit at a bar and sip a martini). It was ‘happy hour’ so a martini and a beer only cost $5.

Dinner was at The Ford’s Garage restaurant, which has a car suspended over the bar, and has oil rags as napkins and sauces in buckets. The food is good—fresh veg and not giant portions, which suits me. I drank still lemonade, and as I finished the waitress replenished it, which is always a nice thing and one of the things that makes US service the best in the world. Lazy evening, I watched Rebecca on Netflix while Husband planned tomorrow. He likes planning.

Day 4 of Road Trip

Woke at 2. Went back to sleep (sort of) until 5am. Made coffee. After looking at various options, and discussing different attractions we could visit, I suggested that we just drove. So we chose a route that avoided motorways and meandered through small towns, and we set off, heading down the centre of Florida.

We like driving. Husband enjoys driving the Mustang, with the roof down, on the wide straight roads that cover most of the US. I can cope with the wind and draughts by wrapping in several layers and wearing a cap to stop my hair knotting up, and I enjoy being driven, and looking. Just looking. Seeing unfamiliar things, and half-forgotten things—like the yellow school bus with it’s flashing lights, which means all the traffic, on both sides of the road must stop, while the small boy hops down and runs with his school bag across his lawn and into his house. Or the long lawns of green grass, with the houses set right at the back of the plot (so everyone can see how much land you own, whereas in the UK we put our houses at the front of the plot, and fence the back, so no one can see and it’s all very private). We drove past lakes, which would be full of alligators. And the trees hung with Spanish moss (named after the wispy beards of early Spanish settlers, not because the air-plant originated in Spain). We drove through acre after acre of orange trees, laden with fruit, with smaller younger trees wrapped in protective plastic. We passed areas of swamp, and palm trees, pine trees, scrubland. We were passed by big trucks, and giant lorries with their exhaust pipes sticking up next to the driver’s cab, and cars with outsized wheels. But mainly trucks. Lots of trucks, with a flat bed at the back, and a high cab at the front for a cowboy (but usually a woman, or a family, or a couple of teenagers).

I needed to buy swimwear (because we go to Jamaica next week, and after 20 years, the elastic in my swimwear has died, leaving me exposed in unfortunate places!) We visited a T.J. Maxx (the US version of TK Maxx in the UK) where I liked to shop when we lived here because they sell end of season stuff, so you can buy good quality things at cheaper prices. I selected a few swimming costumes to try on, but the fitting rooms were shut. They told me to buy them, and return them for a full refund. Which doesn’t work as well when you’re travelling. So I bought them (I could tell Husband was feeling anxious as I paid about $400 for a big selection of swimwear) and then I went to a different shop, tried everything on in their fitting rooms, returned most of them to T.J.Maxx. It seemed to work, and I now own a couple of nice things to wear on the beach.

We stopped for lunch at a diner Husband found online. It looked a bit seedy as we approached, but inside was magnificent. Egg City is a 50’s diner, and the turquoise and white decor was full of memorabilia— juke boxes and records and shiny lights. The washrooms were labelled eggs or sausages which made me laugh! I ate pancakes, which of course were much too much, so I took the leftovers with me in a polystyrene box.

We (Husband) decided to stop at Bok Gardens. I am not a fan of public gardens (except in Japan, where they are a work of art). Usually they are filled with plants that excite gardeners but don’t really interest me, and I much prefer the wild countryside or farmland to organised gardens. These were particularly boring, as most plants seemed to be dead (with fake ones to show what was supposed to be there!) Not my kind of thing. There was a tower, which was beautiful, and inside (we couldn’t go inside) was an instrument made of bells, which a man played. We watched a film—it looked like he was playing an organ keyboard. I suspect a campanologist would be fascinated. I was not. It was just noisy. [*Fun fact: Did you know that a campanologist is someone who studies bells? A bell ringer is called a … bell ringer! Or possibly a carillonneur if you want to be annoying.] 

We drove to Sebring, and our next motel. This one is a ‘Residence Inn’ and our ‘room’ is actually a small flat, with a kitchen area and sitting room. It’s lovely, overlooking a lake. We had dinner at Cowpoke’s Watering Hole which was on a very busy road, full of marshals for the motor-racing tomorrow, and extremely well run. They served hundreds of people, very efficiently, and the food was very nice. We sat in their straw-roofed outside area, and there was music from the 80’s, and friendly waiting staff, and the drinks and salad and garlic bread were ‘bottomless’ so they kept topping them up until we were completely full.

Went to bed but unfortunately didn’t sleep, as there is a fan, which is not operated by the thermostat, and it blew cold air over the bed all night. Very annoying, and a shame, as the room (apart from that) is perfect.

Hope your day has no annoying things. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

If you let your eyes fuzz—or view from a distance, you should be able to see Abraham Lincoln. Very clever.

Alligators and Herons on Babcock Ranch

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Day 2 of Florida Road Trip, Feb. 2025

Woke up in the Four Points by Sheraton in Punta Gorda. Waited for Husband to wake, then went for a run. It was still dark, and I worried about crocodiles and snakes and criminals. Some of the walkways were well-lit, with fairy lights wound up the palm trees (very pretty). But the main cycle path, which was attractively placed next to the water, was very dark and I was too nervous to run that way. So we had a not-great run mainly next to the main road. Arrived back at the hotel without being murdered/eaten, which I considered a success.

Breakfast in the hotel. We had a voucher, which covered everything we ordered except a $2.75 order of extra toast. I was interested that they charged us for this (Usually Husband’s  loyalty card means breakfast is included—even the toast.) Very nice hotel though, with no broken ice-machine roaring outside our door all night, so no complaints.

We packed and left. I really dislike constantly having to rummage through a suitcase when we travel, and I find I waste a lot of time looking for things. I therefore organised everything into smaller bags: A bag of everything I need at bedtime, a bag of electricals, a bag for when we go out for the day, a bag of running clothes, etc. Not everything fitted back in the suitcase, but I decided it didn’t matter if I needed to do a couple of trips to unload at the next hotel.

We set off for Babcock’s Range, East of Punta Gorda—a find in the guidebook. (We are old, we still use guidebooks.) It was a ranch in the middle of nowhere, but they advertised ‘eco-tours’ which Husband decided would be worth doing (I wasn’t so sure—we don’t usually like tours because it’s impossible to make the guide stop talking and they are usually very irritating). We arrived, drove down the long driveway, and parked. There was a gift shop (with a rude woman serving, who did not pause her phone call to serve me, but I spotted a mug and a fridge magnet that I fancied, so I bought them). There were also washrooms (always welcome after a long drive). We were directed onto a school bus, which had been painted green and had the windows and side supports removed. One of the other tourists remarked that this made the bus structurally unsound should it roll, which was not reassuring when combined with a big sign stating that under Florida law, eco-tours were not liable in the case of death or injury. We sat at the back (I don’t like being breathed on.)

The driver/tourguide was a fairly cynical ex-fireman, and I liked his style. He drove us round the ranch, pausing to show us various features, and described the natural world that we were seeing. It was actually very interesting (I am much more interested in the life-cycle of an alligator than the history of the rich ranch owner.) It’s dry season here, and we drove through swamps that had no water, looking at the stubbs of cypress trees which form sort of ‘tent pegs’ to secure the underground roots in the wet soil when the swamp is flooded. We passed marshes, with alligators sleeping while water birds walked between them. (A swamp is standing water, so dries up. A marsh is moving water, so lasts unless the stream dries up.) 

Apparently the alligators and great blue herons cohabitate areas, each allowing the other to eat their young. Most young alligators are eaten by herons, and the herons will toss a couple of chicks to the alligators because they hatch more than they can find food for. In return, the adults ignore each other. Nature is a grisly affair, even without human intervention. But we didn’t see this, we saw peaceful ponds where gators and birds slept and fished side by side. It was lovely (though we weren’t tempted to go paddling).

The ranch also has ‘cracker’ herds, which are cows introduced by the Spanish. Most cattle died due to the heat in Florida, but this herd survived. They are small and thin, and no good for beef, but they are bred today as an historical herd and sold for rodeos (where cowboys show their skills at catching cows—which is still necessary on the vast ranches). I like the idea that some cows are bred today not for beef. We also saw wild pigs, which are common in Florida, and from the bus they were cute and funny (but I understand that pigs are way more vicious than alligators if you encounter them in the wild).

We heard that humans have tried introducing crocodiles in Florida (crocodiles are salt water animals). Crocodiles live much longer than alligators and grow much larger. Alligators are not generally a threat to humans because they never grow to be big enough for humans to be easy prey—they prefer small mammals like racoons and dogs and baby pigs. But recently there have been cases of hybrid alligator/crocodiles found in the everglades, which is very worrying because a huge alligator would definitely see humans as prey—and alligators are everywhere in Florida (we even saw one in a pool at a motorway rest area). There is now a reward for anyone who hunts the hybrid species, as they hope to stop it reproducing. Which is yet another example of humans interfering and messing up the natural order of the world and then trying to put it right when they realise how it negatively impacts them. Humans seems to constantly mess things up. Frustrating.

After the eco tour (as we were still alive) we drove to Arcadia, a nearby ‘cowboy town.’ Didn’t see any cowboys, though several shops sold hats and boots and saddles. We ate in Myshelly’s Kitchen, which was clean and friendly. The menu included things like ‘Bison Burger’ and ‘Gator Bites’ and ‘Boars Head Pastrami.’

Drove to St.Petersburg. Checked into the Hilton. They insisted on valet parking, so my multiple small bags instead of a single large suitcase proved rather embarrassing as we hurried to unload everything we would need before the car was whisked away. Room was nice, and we could see the waterfront from the window. Dinner in a nearby Italian restaurant (Gratzzi Italian Grille). Another good day. Went to bed about 8pm, so gradually converting to US time. Slept well.

Hope you stay safe today. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Day 1, Florida Road Trip 2025

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I’m writing this in a happy fuzz of espresso martini treat. This is my current drink of choice, and it’s always fun to see whether the order brings a look of joy or fear in the bar tender’s eyes. Sometimes it’s a very long time in arriving and I wonder if they have gone to search the recipe on the internet! I’m thinking of doing a survey—which place in the world serves the best espresso martini? So far the winner would be the King’s Head near Rye. Today’s entry was in Punta Gorda, Florida. It was nice, but very strong. I was quite giggly by the end. When I had finished the waitress came to offer me a second one, and Husband said No! in a very definite voice. He told me I was the same colour as my shirt. (I was wearing pink.) Tasty though.

I will try to remember the rest of the day through the blur. I woke at 2 am, stayed in bed until 3am, because I have decided to adjust to US time an hour a day. Made a coffee, and read until 6am, when the business lounge opened (they serve breakfast). Very nice breakfast. I had porridge, because it’s healthy and I am reducing my cholesterol. Then had a muffin, and a cake, so it didn’t finish so well. Husband went straight to the fried stuff, so he’s worse.

First job was to collect the car (a Ford Mustang convertible—treat for Husband’s birthday). It took a long time to walk to the correct place (which was right opposite the hotel) and even longer to drive back, because we kept missing the turning and all the roads were fast and multi-carriageways. Made it while still friends.

We left the hotel and drove to Sanibel. It was cold. Husband wanted the roof down on the Mustang, which was very chilly. Stopped at a nature reserve to use the washroom and walked along a raised walkway, looking at alligators and exotic water birds, and turtles and huge fish. Very peaceful with an undercurrent of threat. Didn’t actually see anything attacking anything else, but felt it was imminent.

Sanibel was devastated by a hurricane a couple of years ago, and some parts were still broken. Our favourite cafe (The Sanibel Cafe) had reopened, so we ate lunch there. It’s very nice. I ate a fish burger. Then we drove to Sanibel Moorings, where we have stayed a few times, and it was being rebuilt, though some apartments were already open. Walked along the beach, and saw scary looking puffer fish that had washed up in the tide and were drying on the beach, their spiky backs waiting to catch bare feet. I chose a pretty shell to keep. The weather was warmer, and it was fun to have the roof down. Sanibel is so pretty. It’s a bit false (really it should be covered in sand or swamp I suspect) but full of plants and flowers rather than plastic false, so I like it.

We drove north to Punta Gorda. Husband used his initiative a few times, which makes map reading more of a challenge, but we arrived eventually, I was really tired. We had an early dinner in the hotel. (Staying at the Four Points by Sheraton, Harbourside,) Nice meal, friendly staff. After dinner we walked along the dock. Saw a boat that had been wrecked by the hurricane, lifted from the water and smashed into the dock. Didn’t see any crocodiles or mosquitoes, but I’m guessing they were there somewhere. Lurking out of sight, waiting to bite us.

Went back to the room. Nice day.
I hope you have a nice day too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

The Journey

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Usually I hate travelling abroad—the rush, stressy people, irritable security staff with too many passengers and not enough time, the stale air, grimy seats, over-crowded, germ-laden, rule-induced tension of the whole experience. But this was different. This was a treat for Husband’s big birthday. This was a splurge of years of accumulated air-miles. This was Virgin Upper Class.

Our taxi drove through barriers, up a separate ramp and swept into an empty bay. Suited men appeared to carry our luggage and we followed them to the security desk. A smiling woman dressed in red checked our documents and we were guided to a conveyor belt. No need to remove electronics or separate liquids, everything stayed in the bags while we walked through the scanner. (I always hate these, I assume it’s an x-ray with accompanying cancer risk, but there’s no way to avoid them if you travel.) Then into the main terminal, with too many people and not enough air, along crowded walkways with shiny shops and too much perfume, up a spiral staircase, into the lounge.

Aaahhh, the lounge. We sat at a table and ordered food and drink. Husband went to the washroom so I selected a newspaper and sipped coffee until he returned. Life was comfy. I ordered a grapefruit (nice and sweet, didn’t need the small pot of Demerara sugar). The Eggs Florentine  (a single muffin half, which is perfect for me, with thick salmon, a poached egg blanketed in low-cholesterol-diet-busting hollandaise sauce). I finished with a ‘croffle’ which turned out to be a croissant pastry cooked in a waffle iron—which only half worked (very tasty but a bit too chewy) topped with fruit compote and coconut yogurt. Not a bad start to the day.

After our meal we chose something to read and settled into an easy chair. I chose Vogue magazine, which I read at my 6-monthly trip to the hairdresser. It’s heavy, over-priced, and mainly full of pretty adverts for expensive items aimed at beautiful people. Good for a mindless hour. I noticed that the photos of the various famous people (I didn’t recognise many, but they were all beautiful and even the old ones didn’t look old) included a description of their clothes. This was detailed—a long list of everything they wore, including belts and shoes. (Not underwear of course, that would be weird.) I wondered why, and whether most people (that undefined group of the masses which seems to move as a unit) are actually interested in such things. I assume the editor of Vogue wouldn’t bother with the details if no-one cared. I must be in the minority. I don’t always notice what I am wearing, never mind the rest of the world. I remarked on this to Husband (who dresses even more badly than me) and we agreed that for this reason alone, we must never become famous. We must save the world from the details: ‘He wore vintage Marks & Spencers from a decade ago teamed with slightly shrunk jeans from the tumble dryer.’ (It would be unkind to suggest it wasn’t the jeans that have changed size.) ‘She wore her husband’s old shirt under her favourite green sweater, with a matching but threadbare very comfy men’s cardigan, black jeans with a muddy paw-print on one leg, and black boots with a broken zip’ As I said, best if we never become famous.

Another nice feature is the washrooms. They have small cloth towels, and hand lotion. My only criticism is the mirror wall, which completely confused me when I first entered, so I apologised, thinking I had entered an occupied washroom, and then realised I was talking to myself! It was also unnecessary, I felt. Who needs to watch themselves peeing? Maybe they need to check all their clothes are straight before someone takes their photo for Vogue. It also meant you could see the back of your head, which I always hate because I hear my mother’s voice telling me to comb the back of my hair. I am sixty, sixty! and my mother still tells me to comb my hair. Perhaps she also notices what I am wearing. I will have to ask her. She would enjoy Vogue.

After enjoying the lounge, we were invited onto the plane. Now, a plane is a plane, wherever you are sitting. It’s a metal tube with recycled air and plastic food and it smells of toilet cleaner. But they do their best. I was given a whole pod to myself, with cupboards (more mirrors—they were going to be depressing towards the end of a nine-hour flight!) Lots of plug sockets, and a bag of bedding that rolled out during take-off and disobeyed the ‘keep the footwell clear’ rule, so I had to hold it, which would be substandard if I needed to leave in a hurry. The steward came to introduce himself and gave me a tour of the mirrors, sockets, hidden table and light switches. Which kept us occupied until take-off. 

The flight is too long, but it’s easier if you’re at the front. It was possible to get up without disturbing lots of other people, and there are fewer people using the washrooms. The chair could be made completely flat for sleeping, though as it stretched forwards into the hollow of the seat in front, it felt a lot like sleeping in a coffin. Not for the claustrophobic. The food was nicer, and we could help ourselves to snacks and ice-cream between meals, which was a nice treat.

Is it worth the price tag? No. Is it a fun treat if you have enough air-miles? Absolutely.

We landed at midnight UK time, which I found very tough. The arrivals hall was slow, it took nearly an hour to get through passport control, and I find US security to be one of the rudest in the world. Occasionally you find an official who is polite, very occasionally they are friendly, but mostly they are incredibly rude. The officious young man in Miami told us to stand in front of the camera, then glanced up and said ‘Glasses!’ (I was tempted to reply yes, yes they are glasses. Or, do you mean “please remove your glasses?” But I didn’t. Wrong time to be snarky.)

We were staying at the Sheraton at the airport, which I then discovered did not mean actually at the airport, it meant a bus ride. Which meant pushing our bags along a busy pavement, and waiting for the bus. It wasn’t a long wait, but I was so tired. The day was too long. I always (unreasonably) blame Husband in these situations and feel extremely cross with him. Managed to not say anything.

Eventually arrived in our room. Very noisy broken ice machine right outside our door. Lumpy mattress.  Slept badly. Woke early. I plan to adjust my clock one hour per day. Anything more and I will have a migraine. Difficult time complete. Now to enjoy our holiday.

Thanks for reading. I will let you know how the holiday goes—we’re driving round Florida, so hoping to see alligators. Then we go to Jamaica (which I am very excited about!)

Take care.

Love, Anne x

A Cheeky Trip to New York City

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Husband had a work trip, I hate being in the house on my own, plus (I told myself) I will manage to do more work if I’m not also juggling animals and housework, so I went too. We left home Saturday morning, flying from Heathrow—which is not my favourite place in the world. Airports are always too full of people and germs and flashing signs and hard deadlines. Everything that I find stressful, especially because everyone seems tense and everything matters—you really cannot forget to put your hand sanitiser in a separate plastic bag, and you can’t take too long taking off your boots—even though you find it a struggle to balance and there isn’t a chair—because the people behind you are also anxious and rushing and the staff are grumpy, and arghh, arghh, arghh.

But it was fine. I didn’t end up in a small room with a woman wearing plastic gloves, nor did I lose any valuables. Our departure gate was at the far end of the airport, and rather than use the transit we walked. Did you know that is a thing? I didn’t until recently. If you go down to the basement, you can walk the mile or so under the runways and avoid using the rail-link. It’s a bit spooky down there, so even though there are lots of security cameras I’m not sure I would feel comfortable walking on my own, but I prefer it to riding in a crowded train. You can stretch your legs and avoid the crowds for a minute, and although there’s no weather (another thing I dislike about airports and hospitals) it is at least cool, and the air feels cleaner, less artificial.

The plane ride was uneventful. Husband sat at the front because his ticket was paid for by work. I sat next to a tall Chinese boy (probably a man, but he looked young to me) who was on his way to New Zealand. I’m always pleased when I’m next to a man, because on the whole they understand it’s inappropriate to have physical contact with a stranger and therefore they keep within the confines of their own allocated space. Women do not—if a woman is larger than is comfortable on an airplane seat she will sometimes spread sideways, into my seating area, and is not as sensitive to territorial boundaries. I find it quite difficult to have a Christian attitude to this, and do not easily forgive.

I managed to work on the flight, which was good use of time. I read most of a book about animal theology. Did you know that was a thing? It’s very interesting. Plus, I have treated myself to a very fancy selection of sticker/post-it highlighter/marker things. They are brightly coloured and remind me of when I played post-offices as a little girl. Intrinsically pleasing to use. 

We are staying at the Sheraton, Times Square. I stayed here with my sister a few years ago, and it has become a bit more run-down since then and is currently being renovated. Not a great time to be staying here, but the room is clean and everything works (even if the taps do wobble and the lights have slightly dodgy switches). Being in New York is a treat in itself, and the position is great.

I am keeping to UK time, so I ate the sandwiches I had packed at home, and drank a tiny bottle of Merlot that I saved from the flight, and went to bed early. Husband went out for dinner, and I told him to be careful not to get mugged if he was going out in the dark. He muttered something about it being 4pm, and not as late as I thought.

This morning I woke at 2 am US time, and ate a stale croissant while reading by torch light. When Husband woke, we walked to a nearby diner. Nothing in the world beats a New York diner. This is why I came. We sat in a booth at 5am, it was clean and bright, with a large plastic menu. When we sat, we were given glasses of iced water and offered coffee. Perfect. I am trying to reduce the cholesterol in my diet—so that went out the window! I had pancakes (delicious) and dipped slices of banana in sweet smokey maple syrup, and snaffled a piece of bacon from Husband’s plate. (He had a full bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns and toast breakfast—so his was even less low-fat than mine!) We had fat glasses of freshly squeezed juice, and I lusted after the pies and cakes in the glass cabinet. The diner was fairly empty (I wondered why anyone would be there are 5am). They were playing a church service on the radio, and it was all rather lovely.

Afterwards we walked down to Times Square. It was still before dawn, but Times square was as bright as daytime with the huge billboards flashing colours and light into the street. Walking through Times Square is like scrolling through Instagram. Lots of perfect young people looking happy and attractive as they dance or walk their dogs or show you a new toothpaste. In the early morning it’s quiet, so rather lovely, and we walked hand-in-hand, arguing about whether we should obey the traffic lights and remembering all the other times we have visited New York. I felt very happy (and very full of pancakes).

Walking through Times Square is like scrolling through Instagram. Lots of coloured lights and attractive images.

I hope you have something happy too this week. Thanks for reading.

Take care.

Love, Anne x

Meg’s Diary — After Christmas

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Camber Sands

After we had done Christmas with the family who were going elsewhere for the 25th, and then Christmas on the 25th, and then tea with the extended family on the 26th, I was ready for a break. We booked a small house with a garden for three nights, and drove down to Camber.

The house was perfect for dogs, with hard floors throughout, and a kitchen big enough for her crate, a gate into the back garden which was fully fenced and accessed from the kitchen. We dumped our bags, set up Meg’s crate, and then took her to the beach.

Meg confined to her mat. (Works for about 3 minutes.)

Camber Sands is a marvellous beach. It is divided from the Rye beach by a deep wide river that the fishing boats use, and from there, you can walk for miles, all the way to Dungeness. When the tide goes out, there are acres of flat hard sand—popular with dogs and families and horses. Towards Dungeness there are wind-surfers and athletic people (mostly men) riding dangerous wind-powered vehicles and flying into the air attached to giant sails and all sorts of crafts on the water. But down nearer to Rye, it’s safe to walk, and we love it.

To reach the beach, we needed to walk along a road for a few hundred yards, and it was such hard work with Meg. Beaches are often devoid of sticks, and Meg is easiest to control if I am carrying a stick—so I took a supply. Whether it was because I was carrying sticks, or whether it was residue excitement/bad behaviour following the Christmas upheaval, I don’t know, but Meg was terrible! It is the worst she has been near a road for months, and very disappointing. The road is a fast one, and every car that sped past us, Meg barked and tried to chase. I tried to calm her, to stop and make her focus on me, or the sticks, or a food treat—nothing worked. Meg had clicked into ‘wild dog’ and she pulled like a husky and was much too strong for me.

We managed to get to the sand dunes, and I suggested Meg might improve if let free. As soon as she was off the lead, she changed. Now her full focus was the sticks, and as long as I threw one occasionally, she stayed close and watched me closely. I don’t know if this would work when there are cars, but I don’t trust her enough to have her free near a road and I’m not strong enough to tie a lead to my waist. We might both end up under a car.

While Meg was free, she was great. The beach was as brilliant as ever, cold and windy and wild, full of happy dogs and windswept owners. We walked for a while, enjoying the openness of the place, the expanse of sea and sky and air. Meg walked with us, running off to chase seagulls, returning when I called, ignoring all the other dogs. At one point some horses arrived to gallop along the hard sand, and I knew that as long as I kept Meg’s focus on the sticks, she would ignore them. For a while we walked with the wonderful sound of horses hooves pounding the sand next to us, while Meg collected sticks and sniffed seaweed and tested the water for saltiness. This is happiness. There is something about a dog running across a beach that is infectiously joyful.

Other dogs and horses, but Meg ignored them all. All she wanted was a stick!

The rest of the stay was lovely, we did very little, and Meg was mostly contented to sit with a chew while we read or watched telly, and in return we gave her a long windy walk along the beach every day. She continued to be terrible near the road. I even tried to take her for a ‘training walk’ one morning—not planning to go anywhere but just to practice walking properly on the lead, like I did when she was younger. Every time she pulled, I stopped. When she looked at me, and came to my side, we continued walking. After 10 minutes we still hadn’t left the driveway! When I saw a car approaching, I quickly turned her, made her sit, tried to make her focus on me/a treat. Meg sat, heard the car, spun around, lurched towards the car, leapt at it when it passed, tried to pull me after it to chase it down the road. Not a success in terms of training. I gave up at that point and went back inside. For the rest of our stay, Husband had to hold the lead when we walked to the beach and we tried to get over the road as fast as possible. Like I said, Meg was great when on the beach, even if she’s a devil near a road.

The house survived, and there was a vacuum cleaner to clear up the bucket loads of sand that Meg carries in her coat. The sprinkling of sand in every room she went into was constant, even hours after returning from the beach, when completely dry and having been brushed in the garden—always there was sand in her coat. The garden was a big help, though a previous dog had chewed a chunk of the wooden decking (I am assuming it was a dog) and Meg noticed it on the second day. Although she never chewed it, I could see her thinking about it, so we could never leave her unattended in the garden after that, which was a shame. She also developed bit of a tummy upset—I’m guessing down to eating sand and trying to drink salty water. She was very good about telling me when she needed to go outside, so there were never any accidents, but it made clearing up after her in the garden a ghastly job. Taking Meg on holiday is only relaxing up to a point. (But in this case, the pleasure of watching her run on the beach was worth the pain.)

I hope you have some joy this week, and in the year to come. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

The Blue Mosque

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We visited the Blue Mosque. I was expecting it to be more blue and only the roof was blue. But it was still very pretty, and they managed to herd lots of tourists through their holy space in a dignified manner. There was no entrance fee. Very well done.

There were clear signs, telling us what was expected (like women wearing a headscarf and everyone removing their shoes) so you knew what to expect before you arrived.

The outer courtyard had information boards, explaining their beliefs. (I checked, and they were happy for me to post them on my blog.) Do read them, and think about whether they compliment or threaten your own views. It’s helpful to know what other people believe, even if we differ from them (and perhaps you don’t differ as much as you thought you did!)

It interests me how many overlaps there are with Jewish, Christian and Muslim beliefs. Obviously there are extremes within each religion, and I would not, as a Christian, want to be linked with the violent hateful sects that call themselves Christian (like the Klu-Klux-Klan in the US) while not showing much in the way of love or purity that Jesus taught. We should remember this when viewing other religions, I think, and not judge the whole by the extremes at the fringe. When I read the boards I did feel some were written in a slightly unrealistic light though, especially the ones referring to the equality of women. I am not sure the ethos described reflects the thinking in practice. But maybe it does sometimes. It’s always hard to remove religion from the culture it has developed within.

We filed into the entrance area, removed our shoes and put them into a bag to carry with us. (Some places have an area where people leave their shoes, but I worry they might be stolen, so this felt more comfortable.) Inside the floor was carpeted, and the prayer area was sectioned to one side. People had hushed voices, though photography was allowed.

There was an information desk, and I had a question about the plurality of words for God in Hebrew, and whether the Quran was the same (it is). The person was well-informed, and spoke excellent English, and probably I could have asked about anything that I didn’t understand. (In case you’re interested, the Hebrew Canon/Old Testament has several places where a plural word for ‘God’ is used, even though Jews and Christians believe in one God. I am exploring why this might be, so I am interested that the Quran is similar.) Whilst my beliefs are different to Islam, I am aware there are overlaps, and there is lots that we agree on. (To be honest, while I do disagree with some of what Islam teaches, I also disagree with what some Christians teach. I guess it’s a matter of deciding what is essential–dogma, and what is variable–doctrine.)

It was, I think, a much better experience than when tourists visit our cathedrals, which seem to lose all reverence and become places that want to collect money rather than inform about Christian belief. This makes me sad. We could learn a lot from Turkey. Tourists can’t enter mosques during prayer times, which are advertised outside.

The call to pray sounds five times a day, reminding people to pray. I liked it, though it sounds very foreign to English ears. It’s too easy to forget about God and all spiritual things when we are busy with our day, it’s good to be reminded to pause.

I hope you will remember to pray today (even if not five times). Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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