Last week I traveled to visit friends who’ve moved to a village in the English countryside. My past visits to them in London have been amazing, but this was a new experience, remote from the hub of the Metro, an easy walk only to the children’s school and their church. It turned out to be one of my best vacations ever. I plan to tell you about my experiences in stages, maybe even chronologically.

I am not at all good at flying on a redeye. I’m better on a long trip if I can sit and read. And, unfortunately, overnight flights have such low light that I can’t, even with a reading light, tolerate reading for any length of time. But this time I was determined.

I flew British Air (using my economic stimulus check–I don’t think W expected that money to go to a U.K. company), so the service was still competent and friendly, there were no ridiculous fees, and the food was decent.

I chose a seat in front of the exit row on the aisle. This meant no child sitting behind me kicking the seat and the ability to fully recline (whatever that means in coach) without inconveniencing anyone behind me. Fortunately, the cabin is kept rather cool, which is my preferred sleep temperature and this trip I slept a grand 3 of the 7 1/2 hours. An excellent ratio, historically.

Sadly, my movie choice, Pride and Prejudice, had sound balance problems, so I could hear the music and not the dialogue most of the time. But I have read P&P about a gazillion times, so I could often guess what they were saying. I also could tell, and the climactic dramatic moment, that Elizabeth Bennett did not say, “I’m wild to be home!” Bad choice screenplay writer! That’s the best line in the book. (Well, maybe, “In vain have I struggled.”)

Then it was time to try sleeping. As I started to get frustrated I just thought about how I’d see my friend C in the morning whether I slept or not, which calmed me down. Then I thought of falling asleep in my bed. I just lie there, think quiet thoughts about how much I love to sleep, and soon I drift away. It worked! Even in the uncomfy confines of the cabin. Still, I would like to have the little first class bed sometime.

I woke just before the lights came up for breakfast. May I just say that as good as the rest of the food was (for airline food) British Air could find a different supplier in the United States for the baked goods. Both the roll at dinner and the croissant at breakfast were inedible.

It’s always disconcerting to me when I get off a plane at Heathrow (or in Paris or Toronto) and find myself coming down steps to a bus. I can’t remember ever having that happen to me in the United States except on a commuter flight. But I was certainly glad I wasn’t one of those people who tries to travel solely with what they can cram into their carryon. Because those people had a lot of wrestling with little rolly bags to do to get down those steps in the cold drizzle. By then, though, I was just really excited I’d be seeing my little buddy for the first time since last October.

So through immigration (should I have said “vacation” instead of “holiday”? Would the officer have been less suspicious if I had?), retrieving my luggage, and customs (with my undeclared apple–I promise I didn’t bring in any fruit flies! Sorry U.K.) and down to the little bullpen with all the anxious/happy/bored faces of the families/friends/limo drivers waiting for passengers. There was my friend C, all shiny in a business suit (my first clue that his “working at home Thursday” plan had changed). Big hugs, a few tears (I’m a softie!) and off to the new Volvo (never got to ride in the much-despised Jaguar).

As he paid to park I mentioned I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him in a suit, but it was a nice suit. The gentleman next to us smiled and said, “Yes, it’s a very nice suit. Where did you get it?” Should I have been surprised when C said, “Hong Kong”? No way you could buy a suit to fit his stocky New Zealand frame off the rack.

It became a typical C experience almost immediately. We got into the lift and he said, “I can’t remember where I parked the car.” How am I not surprised? He was, of course, on the phone when he left the garage. So we went up to level 3, then 2, then 1, then back to 3 and THERE it was. Then there was the hunt for the exit and finally off onto the A-whatever.

We passed Windsor Castle, seeing the round tower as we went by. Then C suddenly said, “yellow car.” What? Yellow car? Turns out the family game of yellow car is an addictive pastime that we’ll revisit in the Bath edition of our little travelogue.

But soon enough we arrived in lovely Wash Commons, Newbury, Berkshire. Where soon, our tale will continue.