It must be something to do with my accent. Whenever I telephone to book accommodation I seem to throw whoever it is at the other end into a fit of utter panic.
I like to think I sound reasonably normal. But now we are in North Carolina, and we have been in Virginia, and we are going to Kentucky. Whereas most accents involve the occasional mispronunciation of a vowel or two, in this part of the world entire new syllables and grammatical forms are invented round the campfire on long winter nights. As a result, perhaps, Lucy and I are most definitely not from round these here parts (y’all).
We have been staying in a series of beautiful countryside cabins and campsites, yet whenever I call to make a reservation I get a long speech as if the Queen was coming to stay:
It’s rustic (nervous) no, it’s really rustic … it was built in the 1930s (panicked) you have to walk ten yards to the bathroom … wifi only works near the main lodge (really panicked) you may have to run the hot tap a little before it heats up … the fridge is only small … (desperate sounding) the cooker runs on gas … your cellphone might (pause) not WORK!
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- Lucy in her rustic rocking chair, with her rustic laptop
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- Our rustic cabin, with its two rustic queen sized beds
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- Our rustic tent, covered in rustic flowers and ducks
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- The trouble with campsites these days is the crowds of other people
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- I mean, the neighbours are enough to send you crazy
Despite the physical hardship, we are sleeping ten hours a night. Life is tough.
