I’ve left Willma on the drive; freight costs to America being what they are these days. And I’m staying with Karen, my daughter-in-law’s mother, in Winter Garden near Orlando. I’m sat typing on her lanai, a screened verandah just at dawn, watching the greensman cutting the fairway on the golf course next door. There’s a pink blush on the horizon behind the scattered palm trees, and the early sun is just catching the tops of a light street of clouds in a blue sky. The temperature today will be 27degC, 82degF, while Willma will be sat shivering under 4deg.

It is not just for the weather, pleasant though that may be, until you get sunscreen lotion in the eye. (Had to pop out for eyewash!). Karen is a dear friend, full of American warmth and generosity of spirit. I’ve managed to drive her bonkers by having a very loose itinerary of places to visit: no Disney, no theme parks, just hanging out , drinking beer at the Crooked Can and the Moon Cricket, and seeing how everyday life is lived here. This, I gather, is somewhat unusual, and makes her feel she’s not being a proper host. In turn, I now feel I’m not being a proper guest maybe; though I’m having a blast. We share grandkids; and a common interest in walking and wildlife. 

We’ve visited Johns Lake conservation area; Florida has been developed around a series of lakes, some the result of sink holes, some from sand extraction for building, of which there is a great deal hereabouts. But just sitting on the lanai, listening to the variety of birdsong is a joy. Watching ospreys, herons and cranes fly over; and turkey vultures wheeling on the thermals; a flock of fish crows, like ours but with a different call, sail past. A particular delight is the northern cardinals and blue birds, with their bright plumage, singing away, seasonal visitors like many humans from the colder climes: Ontario, New York, Chicago. You can tell from the license plates, and one resort development (read houses round a golf course) for over-55s has the names of occupants and their place of origin on a signboard outside. 

Golf is huge here. As well as Karen, her sister Gail and brother-in-law Dan are here, and treated us to what English people know as a fish supper at a restaurant called the Boondocks, an upmarket shack on the edge of Lake Apopka. Quite weird to see groups coming in by boat for a beer, then motoring out again. And Sam and Janet, Karen’s sister in law and her husband (who Rosie used to call Mr and Mrs Evening after the Sinatra song) picked me up from the airport, and fed us at a pleasant little trattoria, Bella Italia. They are all more or less golf nuts, one of the reasons for moving south. Karen seems to be coordinator of a competition, and gets frequent calls from people who need organising, or who are having trouble getting their handicap recognised. Sam makes his own clubs, and can dissertate at length about the weight inserts on putters and why a gram more or less makes a big difference. It was Janet’s suggestion to take me on a golf round yesterday, to see what they were so passionate about. I got closer to understanding the appeal, especially after being encouraged to apply my long forgotten pitch and putt experience to use. I started to get inside the mindset, rather than being judgemental from afar; slightly flippantly I suggested that it was a game that got you used to disappointment, but I think that’s the point: trying to make the fine adjustments to body technique, to equipment, to combat the vagaries of turf, wind speed and course layout is the challenge: the perfect shot that holes in one is the holy grail, only attained by the very few.

Winter Garden is a delightful community, mostly one long street, Plant St, with a good selection of boutique shops and eating houses. It’s a bit boho, lots of cyclists riding by. There’s a couple of really cute spice shops that tempted me with local powdered chilli. One morning we stopped at Rosalie’s café: French themed, with wicker chairs on the pavement. Very good espresso, though it seems difficult to buy a single here; and they hadn’t heard of pain-au-chocolat, though I’ve seen them on the bakery stand at the supermarket. Maybe it’s my accent. There were a couple of young women behind us speaking in French, but not in an accent that I recognised, so maybe Québecoises.

We visited the Farmer’s Market on Saturday, at the back of Plant St. Mostly it was craft stalls, with a fruit and veg section which had a wide variety on display, very impressive. Three kinds of sweet potatoes; calabrese and huge regular cauliflower; tomatoes and fourteen kinds of peppers: it was vegetarian heaven. As far as I could tell it was locally grown too. Thirsty work: Karen and I had to make use of the Crooked Can brewery, and on more than one occasion.

Last time I was over, maybe five yers ago, I was struck by the strength of the beers they were making: 8% IPAs, and some similar dark porter. The offerings now were much more attuned to session drinking, and less aggressively hopped. At least the one I tried, the ‘Workman’ pale ale was. In the same building was a great selection of food stalls, from a wide variety of national cuisines. I tried a couple of empanadas; perfect lunch snacks.

By contrast, the stores on 50 (Highway 50?) are functional and workaday. We visited Costco, mostly to find a nice bottle of wine to take to Sam’s, where he was barbecuing some huge ribeyes in my honour. I think they came from Costco too. At the snacks counter they were knocking out hotdogs for $1.50. Another day it was Walmart, which felt like a hypermarché. Here I was reminded of the friendliness of Americans; nothing was too much trouble for the shelf stackers, who were good on locations. The server at the checkout guided me through well, enquiring as to which football team I supported. Turns out he was born in Jamaica, and followed Aston Villa, and wasn’t talking about the Super Bowl. Also on 50 was Discount Tires: Karen had picked up a screw, no doubt dropped by one of the many construction trucks in the area. This was her fourth in a month. Outside was a mature man in a Cadillac two seater. One of the mechanics knew there were only 30 of them in the country, which seemed to gratify his ego. He didn’t get out of the car. Sports cars are not good for aging backs.

American hospitality is so generous. Karen and I were invited over to meet Debbie and her friend George, at Lake Windermere. Nibbles and pizza came out, and wine. Her son Alex with his wife Trang dropped by, they needed some of Debbie’s well water for their goldfish. The moon on the water was stunning.

More to follow when I’m backing the UK.