The UK National Trust, a worthy but perhaps dull institution, is responsible for protecting stately homes, such as Downton Abbey.
Or as we think we heard an acquaintance refer to it, Downtown Abbey. Would he also say the 'National Truss'?
Anyway, they're obviously fun people.
To 'get your kids closer to nature', and to brighten up their image, the Trust publishes a list of '50 things to do before you're 11 and 3/4'.
Adventure No 5 on the list is skimming a stone.
On our agenda over an Australian Easter was entertaining a couple of sub-11 3/4-year-olds by getting them 'closer to nature', and a-skimming we did go.
The Americans call it stone skipping, or rock skipping, and predictably they have state championships, nationals, and world records (88 skips set in 2013).
In Denmark, it's called smutting. No sniggering down the back please. I'm sure the Danes have fun with some of our words.
This particular adventure started with a quad bike ride down to a billabong off our nicely-flowing creek. Freddy the dog was in attendance, and I busied myself collecting the right size and shape rocks to fit into small hands.
We got going with a lot of what might charitably be called single skipping, but the throwers got the hang of it, and some technique, and bounces developed.
Freddy was chasing and trying to catch stones a bit too enthusiastically and got a split lip for his troubles.
After a good hour of smutting the adventurers were ready for a lift back up the hill to fill mum and dad in with tales of their achievements.
So the holiday passed - two city kids seeing and doing country stuff and loving it.
There was the discovery of a big billy goat's skull, bleaching in the sun after his horns had become tangled in wire as he tried to squeeze under a fence; the mother 'roo, joey in pouch, letting the boys walk almost up to her before slowly hopping off; the excitement, on a brilliantly clear night, of seeing their first shooting star.
I fondly remember as a nine-year-old holidaying near Tooraweenah on my uncle's sheep station.
Uncle Harvey, a stocky bloke with rimless glasses on the end of his nose, used to speak slowly, with a smile.
He would tell me about, and show me, a life I hadn't known existed. Should be part of growing up for any city kid, I reckon.
