Going further afield

I went to England in July.

Firstly, I’ve never been a fan of flying. If I could be anaesthetised and transported through the entire journey in a state of oblivion, or at least reduced consciousness, I’d be much happier.  Some people might think it’s why they offer you alcohol on board; but that can have other unwanted repercussions, and I don’t want to be the next person getting twelve thousand hits on YouTube for running down the aisle with my knickers on my head.

So, how else to cover 10,000 miles, other than by air?  (When-oh-when will they get that Star Trek beam-me-up-Scotty transporter finished so we can be energised across the globe?)

Let me just point out, when you live half way between the Equator and the Antarctic Circle, basically south of everything, then everywhere is a long way from home.  A trip to the mother country (UK) is always going to be arduous, because it involves 20 hours on a plane. Which takes me right back to my original point.  Flying. Ugh.

The second issue is that, having done the flight, you know you’ll have to do it all over again, and soon.  Yes, it’s the only way to get back, unless you want to pack yourself into a shipping container, and mail yourself home.  (I’m tempted.)

Anyway, I went to England in July.  And let’s just say I flew because it was more sensible than trying to dodge across every sea and ocean between the two continents, all the while being pursued by boats of pirates with rocket launchers – what happened to cutlasses and swords?  Plus it was slightly better than enduring eight metre swells, and trying not to yodel and heave-ho everything I’d ever eaten for lunch.

So, I went, I saw, I returned. That was just the travelling bit.  Wait until I tell you what I did there.