Home

It is very nice to be home. And it's only when you're back that you realise what you missed while away. Chris. My house. Friends. Family. London. The other 80 per cent of my wardrobe. Gardening. The London Bulgarian Choir. Being vegetarian. Yoga. Phoning people. Strong coffee. Good TV. Saturday Guardian. Irony. Book group. My hairdresser. Silliness. Heels. 

Three days after I land my cousin Veronica's street has its Big Lunch party. It's a gloriously sunny day and I feel a giddy sense of joy to be back in south London. Indeed, I manage to indulge quite a few of the above in one afternoon… 

Kicking off with the sounds of South London Samba, here I am with Vron's son Ollie.

Here singing with Dessi, Veronica and James, of the London Bulgarian Choir. 

And Chris gives it his all, alongside Wiggo. 

A few weeks on it feels strange to still be in one place. I miss the fun of researching amazing things to do, of moving on to the next adventure, of being spoiled by friends and family. I miss the good weather – my tan is fading fast. I miss being able to put off practical chores that aren't a priority – I now have a crown on that tooth that fell out. I miss people being at my beck and call – everyone's busy... so unfair. What makes me feel most churlish, however, is being broke and having to face reality… find work. And that's where I'm going to leave Series One of Love Where You Go. 

In classic Cate 'Lady of the List' Langmuir fashion, I'd like to sign off with some food for thought on the packing front...

3 things most used:

Sarong – works as dressing gown, beach wrap, picnic rug and more

Walking boots – bulky but essential accessory to adventure

Kindle – lightweight Lonely Planet-loaded stand-in for guide-book tomes

3 things that proved unexpectedly useful:

Camera tripod – avoids that self-timer 'arm in the frame' look

NUJ card – ensures free entry to most galleries and museums

Dental repair kit – useful stop-gap until returning home to NHS

3 things I forgot:

Sunhat – sunburnt scalp meant buying a naff one in desperation

Trainers – sorely missed on light walks and sightseeing forays

Cagoule – packing for sun one forgets it does occasionally rain

3 things I could have left out:

Strappy sandals – too few nights out clubbing

Make-up – Touche Eclat redundant with a tan

Jeans – too tight after all that generous hospitality.

Last day

It's Memorial Day in the US of A, a nationwide public holiday when the flags come out and every neighbourhood has a parade to honour those who have fought and fallen in all the many wars. I'm back at my cousin Mary's in Glen Head, Long Island. Their vintage pre-1959 Stars & Stripes (two stars short of the full 50) is brought out of mothballs for the occasion.

The main street of Glen Head is packed for the parade and the enthusiastic crowd claps as veteran soldiers, girl scouts, school bands and firefighters pass by. Then everyone falls respectfully silent as a lone trumpet plays the national anthem.

It's a real neighbourhood gathering. My cousin VIcky (above) walks over from her apartment down the road (she's already watched one parade today) and Mary's daughter Michaela, husband John, and children Ronan and Aubrey join us, though John looks more like he's on security duty for the FBI. Nice and relaxed with family all around, Mary and John make a big fuss of their youngest grandchild Aubrey – who admittedly looks adorable in her alternative Stars & Stripes. We go back to the house for a BBQ of Nathan's hot dogs and a last chinwag in the sunshine with cousins Vicky and Mary.

Later on Mary drives me to JFK. The four-month-and-one-week odyssey is over. I'm flying home. Mary gives me an old hand-wrought pewter plaque of the nativity, given to her many years ago by my mother Maureen, her godmother, together with a raw amethyst my father Eric had given her when she visited us in Scotland in her twenties. And it is somehow fitting. Adventures apart, much of my journey around the globe has been about cementing old friendships and affirming family ties. Oh, and learning an important lesson: if you can't find a good enough reason not to do something, just do it.

Island to island

Block Island is a short ferry ride off the coast of Rhode Island. It's where my cousin Liz and her husband Jim got married in 1986 and I was there for the wedding. I'd mentioned to Liz that I had a yen to see it again, so here we are on the boat from Point Judith. Liz is bringing a stack of her paintings to Jesse's art gallery on the island and we we are wheeling those, as well as a weighty consignment of textured glass that I am delivering to the Hamptons on Long Island, but more of that later. We deliver the paintings to the gallery first. It's a sunny spot overlooking the harbour and is crammed with every conceivable interpretation of this picturesque place, including work that Liz brought over last time she visited (below).

We're staying at the Sea Breeze Inn, a group of shingle-clad cabins overlooking a small lagoon, owned by old friends of Liz and Jim, the Newhouse family. Each room has a distinctively individual look. Our cabin (below) is predominantly peach / coral but colour coordinated in such a subtle way that it isn't overpowering. A quilt comprising tiny coral hexagons hangs on the wall and a tall vaulted ceiling gives a feeling of space. 

The lagoon views are serene and meditative.
Liz and I take bikes and cycle up to the north point of the island, past the long beach where I remember us working on our tans the week before Liz and Jim's wedding. The wind is at our backs so we have an easy ride to the most northerly beach on the island where the only sign of life is a lonely wind-lashed lighthouse. We sit with our picnic lunches, savouring views, and Tuscan tortilla wraps.

We call in at the house where I stayed in 1986 and meet the owners, Gordon and Frankie, a retired engineer and social worker respectively. He tells stories with writerly flair, she asks for news of Liz's family and friends. I look out to sea over the dense bush to the front of the house. The air is alive with birdsong. We bike back via the Labyrinth, a circular maze that purports to act as a space for contemplation as you pace its rings and approach the centre. I find it quite meditative but there's no eureka moment when I arrive in the middle.

We have dinner with the Newhouses and emerge later into a frenzied squall of rain and have to make a dash for our cabin.

The next morning it's still raining so we walk down the road into town, via the local menagerie, a mini-zoo housing camels, llamas, kangaroos, emus and a Shetland pony! We call in at the Lazy Fish antique store, a treasure trove of vintage finds, upcycled clothing and jewellery, and arty household pieces.

Then we do free wifi at the Library, along with all the migrant workers of the island who are often to be found Skyping in the doorway late at night, in a Babel-like assortment of languages. We also visit Green Onion, a store that stocks Liz and Jim's glassware, together with an Aladdin's cave of covetable stuff. It has brightened up so we jump on bikes to see the south of the island, cycling past the historic Spring House Hotel, where Mark Twain once stayed, apparently.

We visit the lighthouse that had to be rolled back from the eroding cliff on logs. It's foggy over on this, the Atlantic side of the island, but when we cycle back to the beach on the east side it's sunny again. There are even people in swimming.

Later that day Liz catches the ferry back to Rhode Island and I catch one in the opposite direction, south west to Montauk, Long Island… with the consignment of glass, which is so heavy I have to leave it outside on the deck (below). The journey is rough and the boat rolls from side to side . I'm the only passenger out on the deck and I'm kind of enjoying the wild ride, but I'm also keeping a close eye on the consignment.

My cousin Mary meets me at Montauk and we drive to her daughter Kathleen's place, then on to dinner at a place called Navy, fitted out with vintage swimming hats and bathing suits in display cases on the walls, and blue sun-lounging beds facing out to sea. I can imagine the beach jumping with hipsters at the height of the summer but tonight, with the waves crashing, only smokers venture out of doors. Mary's youngest son James has just started work here – it's his first night – and serves our food, to a wolf whistle from his big sis.

Next morning, Mary and I spend a completely absorbing two hours at the Montauk Point lighthouse. It's a small, brilliantly curated museum on seafaring and local history with all sorts of curios, including this antique lighthouse beacon with its tiny bulb, which reminds me of the bit in The Wizard of Oz when they pull the curtains back to reveal a tiny old man.

There's a Walt Whitman poem, From Montauk Point, on a plaque that seems to perfectly describe today's wild weather:

'I stand as on some mighty eagle's beak,
Eastward the sea absorbing, viewing (nothing else but sea and sky),
The tossing waves, the foam, the ships in the distance,
The wild unrest, the snowy, curling caps – that inbound urge and urge of waves,
Seeking the shores forever.'
We seek out coffee in town and I'm almost tempted by the fish and lobster cookies.

There's a rather windswept art fair in a little park and one artist whose work reminds me of Scots painter Jack Vettriano.

Finally Mary and I must deliver the consignment. Someone with a holiday house in the Hamptons has got to be worth a bob or two and, sure enough, the woman we're delivering to was once one of Andy Warhol's young film stars, a contemporary of Edie Sedgewick at Warhol's Factory. Her name is (Baby) Jane Holzer and as we make our way up the drive of her beachfront house we pass this Jeff Koons puppy. I'm not convinced it's the real thing but there are plenty more sculptures dotted around the grounds, including a bronze cabbage on legs. Baby Jane is not at home but we manage to persuade the maid to let us in to leave a note with the glass, and so get a chance for a bit of a nose around. Nothing too shocking to report, though, with an interior more Elle Deco than avant-garde. 

A day in Boston

Pulling into South Station, Boston, I decide to check out the city's Institute of Contemporary Arts (ICA). I take the underground Silver Line, which turns out to be a bus. I feel a bit daft looking over the edge of the platform for the rails. I don't even know if there used to be trains, but it's mighty strange going through underground tunnels on a bus. On the way to the ICA, I'm wandering around the Fort Point Channel riverside district, the latest hangout for hipster types, when I stumble over a very strange looking bench, covered in yellow wool.

It turns out to be a Design Museum project called Street Seats and there are at least a dozen in the area. So I grab a coffee and decide to explore the benches strung out alongside the river. 

I'm back in smiling-to-myself mode, that happy feeling I get when something serendipitous happens. And I like nothing better than a little unexpected street art, particularly when you can sit on it.
Then I wander along the shore to the ICA, designed by Diller, Scofidio & Renfro. Built in 2006 it was Boston's first new museum in 100 years. The picture below is of the water-facing frontage and the little box dropped down contains the most remarkable chill-out area, where benches strewn with cushions face a window framing the harbour view.
There are more expansive views out to the water from the glass terrace on the top floor. When a building is this exciting the art inside tends to take a back seat.
This month's show is a street turned gallery artist from San Francisco who depicts the down and outs, the dispossessed and the homeless. It's challenging. 

In search of something a little more beautiful I catch the subway to the Museum of Fine Arts. The museum has put up Boston Strong banners. The slogan – on stickers, T-shirts and posters – is the city's defiant response to the Marathon bombings.

The museum has a new wing at the back with a cathedral like atrium created between the old and new buildings. The main eye catcher in the atrium is Dale Chihuly's lime-green glass tower. It's about 30 feet high, a great gaudy Christmas tree. He excels at statement pieces and is behind the massive chandelier in the entrance hall of London's Victoria & Albert Museum.

So I have some lunch in a leafy courtyard then tackle the Michelangelo drawings, a few mummies, Testino portraits of the Royals and a whole roomful of sublime John Singer Sergeants. I love this 11th-century Ganesh sculpture. How pleased he looks with himself, a wife adorning each thigh. Notice the little mouse at his feet, nibbling on a sweet that has fallen out of one wife's bowl.

Some pieces have made the most imaginative use of the new space created by the modern extension. I almost miss this falling man. 

I stay until they chuck us all out, then return to Auntie Jo's on the commuter train.

New Englanders

I have a few relatives round these parts. The principal reason for this is that Auntie Jo (my mum's older sister) emigrated to New York, aged 21, with her new husband Peter. Indeed, the cruise across the Atlantic aboard Queen Mary was the newlyweds' honeymoon. Jo has five children – Mary, Johnny, Liz, Vicky, Alex – 13 grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. Despite the distance we see quite a lot of each other. 
Today I'm off to visit Liz, who lives in Providence, Rhode Island. This involves a journey to one of Manhattan's less salubrious destinations, the Port Authority bus terminal. There's no greenery, no art and hardly any natural light here. The sooner I can get on my cheap bus north, the better. 
Liz's husband Jim meets me at the other end. They live in Pawtucket, a suburb of Providence, with their son Graham. Graham has bagged a job at McCoy stadium, the home ground of his local, and favourite, baseball team, the Pawtucket Red Sox. It's the first baseball game I've ever been to and perhaps it's not a good introduction because, for one, the stands are almost empty so there's little atmosphere and, then, the Paw Sox go on to lose the game. 

The next morning Liz drives me to Mattapoisett, Massachusetts, where Auntie Jo lives. It's a lovely day so after lunch we go down to the harbour for a stroll and a look around some of the historic buildings of this seaside town. Jo is responsible for all sorts of things in the town, from the plaques on the oldest houses that feature the name of the original inhabitant to the brick footrests in front of the benches overlooking the harbour. Her daughters Mary and Liz sponsored one of her own, which is what she's looking at here.

Later Jo cooks up a vegetarian storm with a delicious quiche. It's nice to have some downtime and not worry too much about rushing around looking at sights. I'm happy to tag along on trips to the supermarket, and am impressed with a scan-as-you-go gadget that Jo and Robbie, her housemate, use with great panache. 

I'm not so impressed with how hard it is to find a decent coffee. Cafes or delis with espresso machines are rare away from the big cities. It's all jugs of bland tasting filter brew that has been sitting around all morning. We do find a cafe eventually and I savour a latte, though it's still not that strong. In the evening we have a night out at the movies, seeing 42, a new film about baseball player Jackie Robinson, the first African-American to play in the major leagues. It's very all-American and heartwarming but great to see it with Jo and Robbie. 

At the weekend we drive over to Round Pond near Plymouth, which is the Cape Cod retreat of Jim's brother and his wife. It's a charming old wooden house with a shady verandah and its own jetty out onto the pond, where Jo and I have hot drinks, as it's warmer out than in.
Jim arrives and we pull the canoes out from under the house and go for a paddle. You can lose whole chunks of your life floating on this peaceful, serene stretch of water. It should be prescribed as a stress buster.

We light a fire in the fireplace – there is no end of wood from all the trees that came down during Sandy – and Jim gets to work cooking kebabs and boudin on the barbecue outside. 
Jo heads home around 8pm as she has to sing at the Pentecost mass in the morning, but Jim and I stay over. We polish off the jar of vodka he's brought, topping it up with cranberry juice and get stuck into some sea-salt dark chocolate. We have to work out how to turn off the chirping smoke alarm so that I can sleep in the upstairs spare room. Turns out it's the battery. It's a gorgeous soft bed, like something out of The Princess & The Pea. I snuggle under the covers to the sound of tree toads squawking outside.

We have an early start the next day and my head feels heavy (that last vodka…). We drive down to Falmouth on the Cape to meet Liz, Graham and a bunch of adaptive sportspeople to cycle part of the Shining Sea Bikeway, a route that sounds like something dreamt up by a sinister cult. 

Geoff is an adaptive skier based at Loon Mountain and has been coaching Graham in technique on the piste. This is his summer sport of choice. He has a super speedy racing bike that has him practically lying flat along the ground – that's him on the right. Graham gets slung into his bike and we're off. 
It's a scenic path following an old railway line that runs round the back of residential areas, then along the coastline towards Wood Hole, the little port where Martha's Vineyard ferries arrive and depart. There's plenty of patriotism on display along the route, too. 

We go for lunch at Liz's friend Susan's place. There's a few minutes of terror for me when an extremely lively black labrador appears and starts trying to knock everyone over. Regrettably I freeze and can't get out of the car until he's shut away (bad mawling experience as a child). I feel bad but I probably shouldn't. They have some lovely chairs.

Back at Round Pond in the afternoon we set to clearing, raking, mowing and weeding, followed by a chill-out hour on the pond, and my first attempt at paddle boarding.

I have a couple more days with Jo – we walk in the local nature reserve where I spot a garden snake, we sit around in the sunshine chatting, and we solve a few technical issues that crop up, from the telly going on the blink to the electricity flickering on and off. 

It's nice to be by the water and Jo shows me all the little coastal communities, many of which have their own private sea fronts. Jo's place is in the woods so there's no sea view. She does see the occasional bear, though, and wild turkeys often stop by.

While I'm at Jo's we pop over to New Bedford to the Whaling Museum. New Bedford was once a global whaling centre and its museum is outstanding. There are huge skeletons of North Atlantic Right Whales in the lobby, a scale model of a whaling ship,  dozens of cleverly curated collections and some surprising outdoor art, like these ceramic fish on a ledge overlooking the old town.

It does occur to me as I'm driven down the freeway by my 85-year-old aunt that this is all the wrong way round. I'm the youngster, I should be driving, taking care of things. It's not very grown up of me but sometimes it's lovely to be looked after.