I'm British. Cornish, in fact, from the beautiful county in the South-West of England, bordered by the Celtic sea. The land of quiet, stay-homey folks eating clotted cream and walking barefoot through the sandy shoreline.

And here I am in Arkansas.

Arkansas. I a year before I lived here, I didn't even know where Arkansas was. I distinctly remember searching Google for Arkansaw, and wondering what was up with this A-Kansas place.

I've been here six years - long enough to feel at home, little enough to still be a newcomer. In that space of time, I've managed to fill a whole hillbilly bucket list I never knew I had. Those little questionaires that do the rounds on Facebook? The ones where you score yourself based on how many of the above-mentioned crazy activities you've done? I get a pretty high score, for a newcomer.

I've milked a goat (four goats, for about a year, actually).

I've milked a cow. And yes, I've made butter in a Mason jar.

I've killed a Copperhead snake and countless Black Widow Spiders.

Eaten tomatoes straight from the vine.

Chased runaway hogs down a dirt road.

Picked ticks off dogs (and myself) by the hundreds. (That's one experience I could do without).

I've driven a rattly old truck, seatbelt held in place with a length of wire, cushion stuffed behind my back to somehow reach the brake. These things are made for men. TALL men. Not short gals.


Slung manure. Pitchforked hay. Butchered chickens, raised piglets, hatched out ducklings, followed bear tracks, shot a gun, eaten deer meat, drank gallons of sweet iced tea and enjoyed many a Southern-fried something. I've somehow developed a weakness for deep-fried Jalepeno peppers oozing with fake cheese. Pretty sure we don't even HAVE Jalepeno peppers in England.

Through it all, I've been told countless times, usually with the air of one making a grand discovery; "You're not from around here! You're from Australia!". Ok, so