In the arms of nature and history

Mai tais are out. Gin and tonics are in.

Lanais are out. The screened porch is in. Aah.

The timeless rustic luxury of the screened porch. Rocking chair. Verdant vista. Humming birds.

Now on Sautee Farm in the Nacoochee valley in the Appalachian mountains of North Georgia, we sink into the pastoral life.

It is lush and lovely country. The great, softly forested mountains range out in all directions, turning blue in the distance.

Rivers like the Chattahoochee rush and

swirl over wide, rocky beds. Gurgling creeks meander through the densely wooded landscape, home to snapping turtles and trout.

I have been coming here with Bruce since 1996. “Most beautiful country on earth,” he sighs lovingly and often.

His generic American accent swings into a Southern lilt when he comes back.

Here, the people add a syllable to most every word with their musical Southern accents. Some of the gap-toothed mountain folk have accents so thick that, even after so many visits, I still cannot fathom what they are saying.

While America’s religiosity is on a statistical decline, up here they’re God-fearing, church-going Protestant folks and pretty, white-steepled churches sit proudly on hillsides and in valleys. Massive revivalist box buildings house the holy rollers and born-agains. Gun shops are never far away. Nor are bail bondsmen.

Predominantly, they are Trump people.

This also famously is Cherokee

country, their sad and cruel “Trail of Tears” history commemorated with a small pavilion on an ancient burial mound in the middle of a large pasture where black and white cows now graze in obvious contentment.

Sautee Farm is part of the history. Bruce’s maternal ancestors were among the founding white folk. Farmers and preachers.

Family histories are taken very

seriously and the locals keep careful track of who is blood to whom. Thus are we surrounded by a world of cousinry. Family stories are told over and over again at the dinner table. I can almost see the little provision stand that great grandma “Mamma” Janie Lumsden Williams had at the bottom of the farm drive. People would ring the bell and she would trot down and sell vegetables and preserves. She was a legendary cook, they say. Great uncle Bee

was killed by a bull. Grandfather Roy Etheridge, farmer and Methodist preacher, broke his leg escaping from a bull. Not the same bull. Grandmother “Miss Bobbie” loved to make butter but never quite got all the milk out. Bruce’s grandfather was such a prolific gardener that he delivered veggies to half the population of the valley.

They were and are waste-not, want-not people. Aunt Libby grows vegetables a

nd shares them out. We eat fresh tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, capsicum, and okra.

She has so much basil that we make batch after batch of gorgeous walnut/basil pesto.

She also has a patch of zinnias in the rabbit-proof vegetable enclosure. You never saw such zinnias. With the rain and sun and humidity, they have grown

as tall as I am. Their colours are ravishing and much appreciated by butterflies and bees and even hummingbirds. Libby shares her zinnia crop with the Presbyterian church across the pasture, with the Arts Centre across the road and with whoever comes to visit. We have a glory of zinnias in every room, even the bathroom.

It is late summer. Hot. The air is thick and steamy. One moves slowly.

Storms come and go.

The screened porch is the place to watch them. Dark clouds. Whooshes of wind through the trees. Cascading intensity of rain. Blinding wet white out. Then the calm of rebirth. Fingers of steam whisping

up Lynch mountain...

And there are the humming birds back chattering at the feeder. Exquisite, colourful little skinks have popped back onto the porch. Red cardinals are singing. Crows cawing to each other. The garden beds are once again alive with giant butterflies, huge bumblebees overloaded with pollen bending over the flowers with their weight, vivid little hover flies, honey bees, wasps…

Timeless fecundity.

Back on the mainland

The airport is a zoo.

We have hours to spare before our flight so we buy our way into the United Lounge and loll about drinking minestrone and reading before we file onto the flight.

It is a good flight. Turbulence is expected but it is not too bad. The air beds are the best I have encountered in my extremely limited experience. I am pathetically grateful. I actually sleep some. I have always liked United, I like them again.

We land in Houston and have to change planes for Atlanta. It is early so the place is not too hectic. But, oh, my, it is a whole new world in airports. There are iPads everywhere. There are huge lounges of computer desks with screens. The bars all have screens lined up on them. Order your

food and drinks by touch pad? This is screen city in lounge after lounge. It is Orwellian.

Atlanta, of course, is another zoo. Massive. We take the train to the car rental. The wait is not too long. There are lots of Jeeps lined up for rent but, at the very end, we spot a Rogue. We had an olive green Nissan Rogue on our epic road trip and loved it. Oh yes. We’ll take the silver Rogue.

And off we go through horror which is Atlanta’s roads. This is one of the worst

cities in the world for traffic. We are warned that it will take hours to get through the city and it does.

We are ravenous. Once out the other

side, we stop at a Waffle House for breakfast.They're a very Southern thing. This one is in a very run-down neighbourhood. But inside the Waffle House, the atmosphere is rich with good spirit. The staff is heavenly. The waitress is the sweetest, prettiest and sunniest black girl. The short-order cook is good at his job. The food is fabulous - expertly cooked eggs, crispy hash browns, bottomless coffee.

Ah, America.

It is three hours to the farm in North Georgia. They are hard driving on busy roads - and then we are on the familiar back roads and then…. “our” mountains appear on the horizon and we feel that warm rush of coming home. Bruce has been feeling this since he was a lad. Me? Only 21 years.

And here is the Sautee junction with the Old Sautee Store and the ice cream parlor and the post office and the dirt

track between the pastures up to the old farmhouse.

And here is the barn. Contented cows gaze with mild interest at our arrival.

And here we are.

And here is Aunt Libby.

Up, up and - hello again Hawaii

Australian security forces have foiled an Islamic terrorist plot to to blow up a domestic plane and airports are in manic security alert. The media warns of massive queues and hours of delays. Arrive two hours early, they instruct.

With the help of good friends Barb and Brian, we do.

I am as nervous as hell. I’m a fretful traveller at the best of times. I’m chewing down valium without water. Bitter. Ugh.

To our amazement, it is not a bit like the panic photos in the media. The airport is ticking over almost serenely. Security staff are very thorough but pleasant about it. Beyond the scrutiny lines, masses of people are packing out the cafes and bars wining and dining to kill the extra hours they expected to spend in queues. The Aussies are making a party out of it and airport businesses are enjoying an unexpected dividend from Islamic hatred. Not quite what the terrorists had in mind, methinks.

We repair to the sanctuary of the Qantas Lounge and do much the same. The spiced baked beans and vegetable frittatas are gorgeous. We read our books.

At last it is up and away. We are warned the Sydney Airport is the centre of the terrorist stress. Photos show massive jams of people. Indeed, it is busy when we arrive but, if anything, the pressure has produced greater efficiency and we are swiftly and smoothly moved through the terminal change and protocols to await our Qantas flight to Honolulu.

We have splurged on Business seats after a few grim experiences in cattle, especially for Bruce who is a big man and prone to cramps. It’s lucky for me this time since I have hurt a knee.

Our seats are private cocoons and the flight crew is cheerful and reassuring. Apart from passing through one spectacular electrical storm at the sight of which I promptly down another valium and think we'll all be dead, it is a smooth flight with fabulous food. I actually sleep for a couple of hours but mainly lie there relishing the fact that I am actually lying down in a plane. I reflect over the millions of hours I have spent sitting up in such stoic misery over long haul flights in cattle seats since 1968. To and from Adelaide to the UK, to and from Boston - how many trips? Fifty? Sixty?

We land in Honolulu after fresh fruit and yoghurt and, oh, my, this airport is really busy. Lots of planes have come in. Long snake queues to immigration. Standing. Shuffling. Facial recognition machines. Put your passport in a slot. Finger print machines. Take a form. Hand over a form. See this official. Go this way. Join that queue. It is daunting and confusing. And then suddenly we are out in the morning heat looking for a taxi.

Dave, the driver, is an oddball. And a talker. Welcome to Hawaii. He’s from Wisconsin. There’s a strange sharp edge to him.

He went to New Zealand once and walked from the tip of the south island all the way to the north. He went through a forest which cleaned his soul. Cleaned it, I say. Completely clean. Purified. Virgin forest can do that. Did it to him. Cleaned his soul. Scrubbed it out.

There’s no talking politics or religion in his cab. Weird times, out there. Look, they are building a camp for the homeless over there and they cut down all the trees. He points to a desolate piece of wasteland. No, the homeless don’t need shade.

He has climbed all the volcanoes, by the way. He has swum all the way around the island. He does not need to drive a cab. He has ways and means. Never been married. It’s a weird pressure cooker ride.

This is my fourth visit to Hawaii, the place Bruce describes as "like Bali, but with sanitation". Bruce has been here 12 times.

This time, are staying at the Hilton Hawaiian Village.

It is a massive place. A village, indeed. It is an old hotel. There are various huge towers, built at different periods. Famously, this was Elvis Presley's hotel when he made Blue Hawaii.

It is morning when we arrive. There are huge queues of people in the foyer waiting to check in. I join the Hilton Honours queue and it is still a long wait. But the busy reception clerk is unfazed by the pressure. She treats me as if I am the only person in the world. Our room is not ready, although I booked it for early arrival. We have to kill time. It is very hot.

We explore. We have an early lunch at the Tropics Bar. Glorious grilled fresh fish. Finally the time has come and the doors to heaven are opened. Rainbow Tower 1401. Two lanais. Two views.

For the next few days, we spend a lot of time on these lanais. We have bloody marys and snacks there. We sit. We gaze. We revel. We watch sunrises and sunsets. We watch clouds and weather. We watch people walking in the lagoon with torches by night.

The people watching is rich and fertile.

A happiness of people plays below us in the sea on one side and in the lagoon on the other.

There's a squealing sea of buoyant joy, Rings of all sizes and colours and mattresses, boogie boards, donuts, unicorns and giant dolphins, u-shapes and pretzels.

The beach is a vast sandpit. Every day it is

machine-sifted and raked to start new and tidy. Then the footsteps come and come and come and it is prettily pockmarked as a great big fractal, perfection of pattern and yet utterly random. Palm tree trunks lean up from it.

Little girls squeal. Why do they squeal? High C C C, C me. Little girls.

At the shore, people dig and dig and dig. Every day sandcastles of varying

states of grandeur are created. Some, conical and smooth and riveted, stand stall within great circles of walls. No one makes moats. It is not that sort of sand.

Every day people pay for sun umbrellas and sun lounges which are erected on the sand. Every day at five, the staff take them away.

People linger into the night on towels.

A curious stingray glides close to shore.

The playing humans don’t notice. The ray is beautiful. Like an amber butterfly with a long whip of tail. Lovely face. We watch it through binoculars from our high lanai.

Next day the visitor is a giant sea turtle. Again, the swimmers don’t seem to notice it but we, from our view aloft, can see it clearly, raising its head above the water, cruising, diving. It seems curious and knows to keep its distance.

We are loving life on our high lanais.

Our pre-dinner lanai drinks become a ritual. Looking, looking - down the coast’s curve of golden beach to the mighty, rugged rise of Diamond Head.

It changes colour every day. Sometimes brown and rocky. Sometimes green and lush.

Then there are the ranges and contours of clouds. And the birds. There are no seagulls but lots of pretty island doves which always find us on the lanai when

we are eating anything. But, there also are the most delightful little finches. We become a bit obsessed with them. We drive off the doves and cultivate the finches. We get soppy about them. Honestly, we should know better.

Day by day we grow more in love with the view.

But we also have swims and walks and explorations. Sun lounges are arrayed among the palm trees around our huge Rainbow pool.

There are other pools around the massive Village complex but the central fancy one is ours. We loll and read, sometimes in the sun and sometimes in the shade of a palm. I swim, of course, very slowly and carefully, dodging around the crowds

of mainly Japanese and Chinese families. It is a bit "people soup" department, but I love the water and I love to see people enjoying themselves.

The people watching is fabulous here, too. I chum up with a rather large American woman who arrives at the pool each day wearing a smock which says "Off Duty Mermaid".

We take our walks by going to the Ala Moana Mall for lunches in the huge, crowded food court. It is a decent stroll, albeit hot. The food is not brilliant but it ensures Asian fare for this rice-eater. We also walk down the Waikiki beach path to the dear old Royal Hawaiian where we stayed last time. We meander through other hotels, poke around the odd shop. It turns out that the shopping at the Hilton

Village is as good as it is anywhere and the prices competitive. Pretty much everything one could want is there. The ubiquitous ABC Shops provide everything from booze to bikinis.

I do a little shopping. I have lost a ring and my finger feels sad and naked. By some delicious piece of serendipity I am drawn to a simple ring with a green stone. Olivine.

It is recognised as the island stone because it is found in lava. It is a component of basalt. I love its name and I love its colour.

I also hunt around for something to wear to Cathy's wedding which, along with the great American eclipse, is the main reason for our 2017 trip. Not easy.

I can't and don't hurry and, at the end of the stay, I find "it". Phew.

Of course I find a nail salon wherein I can get a de rigeur Hawaiian palm trees and sunset toenail art job. It is rather than odd one, done by a man. Hmm.

We attend a hotel Luau.

It is quite expensive but it is a banquet with mai tais flowing. I love a mai tai.

It is all very jolly but it is also very commercial.

The male dancers are vital, athletic, comical. They are showmen. And they are of diverse ages. In fact, the oldest one is the best.

The girls, however, are young and slim and pretty. They are not of the sensual curvaceousness one identifies with good hula. They are quick and lithe and they sure can shimmy, but the deeper messages of Hawaiian dance don’t come through. The troupe sorely needs at least one older female dancer.

I suspect young girls are chosen for their mass tourist appeal rather than Hawaiian cultural integrity. Let's face it, modern hotel Luaus are slick, expedient

productions designed for hordes of Chinese and Japanese visitors most of whom can't even understand the commentary.

I feel a bit sad about it.

Friday nights are fireworks nights in the Village.

Local people swarm in en masse. There are traffic jams. They set up camp around the lagoon. They gather on the beach. This is a big Hilton

gesture for one and all, a fantastic tradition and one of a number of things the Hotel has done for the benefit of the community.

Maintaining the lovely lagoon is another. It belongs to the public but the Hilton ensures it is always clean and gorgeous and inviting. It is a pretty serious engineering job.

For the fireworks, the hotel sets up a stage and rows of chairs around the pool. I am not a big fireworks fan - but we watch from our 14th floor balcony and, wow! I am “in” the fireworks. It is bedazzlingly sensational. Oh, sweet decadence.

This has been a superb experience.

Just like the other times.

I love this place.

It is my dream to bring my granddaughters here some day.

On the road again

A new trip means a new travel blog.

I was going to be lazy this time, particularly since my new MacBook Pro has a nasty and perverse keyboard which does not allow my fingers to fly across the keys as they always have done. Instead, it cramps my fluid style by sticking and refusing to make spaces. It is generally considerably more effort than any keyboard I have ever encountered. Frankly, I hate it.

We have taken the laptop back to the Mac store and the Mac boys have tested it. It works for them. My suspicion is that the new generation have recalibrated keys to suit their own style of keyboarding which is one which uses flat hands rather than the high touch of the old touch typists of the typewriter era. They are out-moding the previous generation, the little shits.

So many friends, however, presumed, assumed, requested and generally reminded me that I should keep blogging that - here we are. In a more leisurely style.

The name, US Sa Today was among the flood of punny and inspired blog name suggestions from my classy Facebook Friends last year - and it really is too good not to use.

This is not a massive road trip as for SaTrekBlog.blogspot.com

This is a trip planned around the great event of the 2017 Solar Eclipse in the USA.

It also has gained a secondary raison d'etre in the wedding of Bruce's daughter Cathy Blackwell to Dan Haga in Maryland.

And, it has a third mission which is my personal need to see my lifelong eye-makers in Germany on the way home.