A month on the wild side (part 2)

Zolfo Springs is about two hours and a thousand light years away from the razzle dazzle and big dippers of theme-park Orlando. The multi-coloured arc lights faded to sodium yellow, then to the occasional illuminated window of a road-side diner or drive-through pharmacy, and then dwindled almost to nothing but the moon and the stars as we pushed our way south and west across Florida that first night.

Our hosts had warned us that the intern house had been empty for a month or so and that there'd not be any food there for us when we arrived. I used our one stop, at a McDonald's, to buy a small bottle of milk. When we arrived, the little house was cold and its emptiness seemed to somehow be emphasised by the artificial Christmas tree that still stood rather rejectedly in the corner of the living room. Tea bags, milk and a packet of cigarettes has been for many years my own personal survival kit. I made us a cup of tea before jet lag overwhelmed us and we fell into our bunk beds.

Waking early the next morning, I tip toed to the kitchen as quietly as I could so as not to wake Tatiana. She was Brazilian, and at 21 very much younger than me - the same age as my own daughter in fact. But we'd got on well the previous evening in the back of the car on the long drive down here and was optimistic that the age gap would not be a problem; I'm pleased to say that it never was.

Cup of tea in hand and cigarettes in my pocket, I wandered out into the cold Florida sunshine that first morning. There was frost on the grass and a hazy mist hung over the fields that surrounded the intern house. My breath puffed little white clouds into the bright blue sky. I sipped my drink and felt immensely happy and relieved. Whatever lay ahead, whatever the next four weeks had to offer, I was here and determined to make the most of it. I went back in, made some more tea, and sat down on the frosty steps to watch and wait as the first morning of my Florida adventure unfolded.


Photo of the intern house

A month on the wild side (part 1)

It had been a decision quickly made over my birthday weekend in early December, signed and sealed before the still-hot melting wax of thought had time to cool and dither and faff. Yes, there had been last minute nerves mixed in with all the excitement, and as I looked down from the jet's cold metal belly at the mounds of snow encrusting the runway I tried as hard as I could not to even attempt to picture what lay ahead. Not just yet, anyway.

It is probably to overstate the case to say that I'm afraid of flying, but I've always understood why some pre-flight passengers might dose themselves with alcohol or tranquilisers; comfortably numb could well be a most commendable flight path. The cups of tea and fizzy water I'd had during my long wait in the snow-bound airport were very small beer by comparison, necessitating only loo trips rather than sweet oblivion. But no matter; the plane was only half full and I had the block of three whole seats to myself by way of some compensation. The staff busy themselves with the ritual of take-off - bolting the doors; closing the overhead lockers; the safety talk; the seat belt check; the first small movements; that slow-growing rumble that turns into a growl that becomes the powerful roar of the engines that thrusts you back into your seat and has your brain muttering half-remembered prayers whilst seeking religious conversion.

There had been times in the five weeks between my decision to go and actually reaching 35,000 feet that I really thought it might not happen at all. Britain had been enduring its coldest, snowiest winter in more than three decades. All the airports had been forced to shut several times, including up to a day before my own departure. It had also been a very tight time squeeze to get a whole three-jab course of rabies vaccinations done at the travel clinic. But cruising now, relaxing high above the clouds amid brilliant jewel blue skies, miniature plastic glass of Diet Coke in one hand and in-flight meal on the fold down table in front, all that was left behind.

All that lay ahead was the ocean, America, and a month in the middle of nowhere surrounded on all sides by wild animals. Grinning, I finished my drink, folded the table away, tucked myself up under the bright red blankets and fell asleep. Next stop: Florida.

Ah... Now where was I?

Hmmm. Eleven months. Nearly a year. That's a slightly longer detour into the foyer than I anticipated. Did you save me some popcorn?? Hope our ice creams haven't melted...

The seasonal cogs have cranked almost a full circle and the early summer has jostled into my little back garden again, trailing birds and bugs and buds in its path. The determined snails have munched my two tiny courgette plants into oblivious stumps; the nettles are untouched, needless to say. The lackey moth caterpillars are back, festooning the blackthorn tree outside my front window. The dog is curled up in a tiny tight ball by the door. Everything's the same as it was a year ago.

And everything's different too. The barn finally sold last autumn after two years of trying. I've taken a good long spell off work - 7 months to be exact - every day of which has been delightful. My daughter Roo has celebrated her 21st birthday. I bought a proper camera. We've welcomed my sister's beautiful new baby boy to our family. I spent a month in Florida working as a volunteer at an exotic animal refuge. And I've got a new job - 3 days a week - which I started today.

More of all of this (and other stuff) to follow. But just for now to peep round the corner back into the world of blog and say hello again. Did I miss much? Do tell me, please...




Stained glass window at the Victoria & Albert Museum, London