And the Hunter Wellies Home from the Hill

 

My apologies in the lapse of entries these past two weeks.  Henry and I decided to pack up our kit bags and head to the New World for Christmas to visit our cousins in California, with Alistair trailing along behind us.

They're not our usual cup of tea, especially as you can't really get a decent cup of it anywhere over the pond, but they do provide a great Christmas feast and they own a rather lovely Native American Indian Dog, who is always a pleasure to play with.  Unfortunately, it's currently under quarantine by the local authorities for tests and whatnot after it was suspected of being a wolf-dog hybrid.

This year, our distant relatives were proud to have turned organic and locally-sourced in the kitchen, which is a lot trickier than in UK, so we were suitably impressed.  The turkey in particular was very stately.  It was boasted as being organic, locally farmed and the freshest you could get.  And indeed it was.  It walked through the front door on Christmas morning as fresh as it could be, scratching at the carpet and staring down Alasdair.  Naturally, all the children ran away screaming and our hosts were all aflutter.  Just what do you do with a live one?  Naturally, I rolled up my sleeves and did the necessaries.  I was even able to give Henry an extra present of a turkey-down pillow.

Walnut Creek, California, looking more or less like Pembrokeshire.
(c) Eleanor MacCannell

There was even a nice overnight stay in Half Moon Bay, marred only by what I thought were coyotes howling at the moon, but which turned out really to be just Alisdair in the hotel's hot tub.  Other than that there was a fabulous dinner at an Italian restaurant and the opportunity to pick up a head-sized bag of dried epazote leaves (which, thankfully, got through Customs without being mistaken for some recreational mind-altering substance, or even worse, oregano).

After the general must-dos of visiting America -- awe-inspiring peeled cucumbers in salads, noticing the under-inflated tyres, not understanding anything over the San Francisco airport tannoy, marvelling at the 'pedestrian crossings' and the lack of road rage (but abundance of road ignorance), gaping at the need to drive absolutely everywhere, and forgetting we were all wearing UEL pin badges as we went through US border control – we arrived back in Scotland in time for a hearty Hogmanay at the Antelopes' 16th century castellated townhouse just inside the border of East Loathing.  Wisely, we let Alaster get lost in the crowds in Edinburgh's Prince's Street Gardens, and we haven't seen him since.  Perhaps term started again.

So, here we are.  Another year passes and a new one begins.  Whilst I've been catching up on my social networking, both online and face-to-face, I've noticed a trend for people saying how god-awful 2012 was and how happy they are that it's 2013.  As if changing the year-number will miraculously change your life overnight.

I tend to disagree in any case: 2012 had some corkers.  When will you ever again see Kenneth Branagh as Isambard Kingdom Brunel quoting Shakespeare's Caliban?  Or see such outstanding performances from Team GB?  Anything to inspire the couch-potato generation to get outside and avoid rickets is fine by me.  Well, nearly anything.

Her Majesty celebrated her diamond jubilee as the same time as Henry and I celebrated our ruby wedding anniversary.  In honour of this (Her Majesty's achievement, not ours), the Jubilee Greenway route extends 60 kilometres through London.  It's a lovely walk, just wear sensible shoes.  There are now initiatives to keep and create playing fields, plant six million trees across the UK and grants of up to £60,000 are being rolled out to projects which improve communities.  A bloody good idea.

On the home front, our battlements were finally re-secured for the next decade.  Our heating was updated and made mouse-proof (it's made a huge difference, I tell you – apart from that hole in the wall, as previously mentioned).

And our New Year's Resolution?  Henry and I are going to try to be greener about the house.  The family seat can be so draughty, even without the weekly beans on toast.  We're going to work at making the house heat efficient and we'll finally start composting (as in making compost from food waste, not turning into compost ourselves, I sincerely hope).  Should be relatively easy to keep this resolution.  Unlike last year, when as you may recollect, Henry couldn't give up Spotted Dick for even one day.

So, chin up everyone.  It wasn't all that bad.  Even if it was, then the only way is up, surely?