We're here!

After a routine transatlantic flight (by routine, I mean no Mayday-like issues threatening my mortality), we arrived at Exeter International Airport. For those of you who hate large airports, you'd love Exeter. We deplaned right onto the tarmac and walked half a mile past idyllic scenes of cows chewing their cud to a shed where we waited in line for an hour while two customs agents, a good cop/bad cop team, processed us. Luckily we got the affable guy who looked like one of the Bee Gees. After we rented the car, Don spent 15 minutes telling me how to follow the Google maps he'd printed. I chucked them in the glove compartment and switched on Lana, my trusty IPad GPS. She performed flawlessly and Don, who thinks trusting in a GPS is akin to believing in voodooism, had to agree that Lana did a great job and now had a charming English accent to boot.

Since I wasn't allowed to sleep in order to better adjust to the time difference, we went golfing. I was so tired that I played like a zombie. For those of you who have golfed with me, this doesn't look a lot different from my usual game.

Although our hotel is nice--mere steps away from the English Channel, I was concerned that the small train that runs by hourly would keep me from my much-needed sleep last night. I needn't have worried; the train's noise was cancelled out by the building-rumbling screams of the jackhammer, backhoe, and paver that toiled until 1 a.m. right outside our window. Fawlty Towers was filmed 15 minutes from here in Torquay, but I think I know where the inspiration came from.
Here's a shot of Don at our first golf course, Dawlish Warren.