Back to Blighty

I travelled back to Blighty for the second time in late December. After three increasingly depressing Christmases and New Years with a Danish Christmas looking grimmer yet, going to Britain seemed to be the better option.

Gatwick is not my favourite airport. It’s not the worst, but it leaves much to be desired. Still… It works. My flight arrived, I was able to get through passport control quickly and was on my way without a hitch. The trains ran on time and were in a reasonable state of repair. Although nowhere near the same standard of trains in Japan, they were vastly better than trains on the Continent.

I arrived early in Dorchester and had a proper flat white. Coffee in the UK has improved. The chains are dire, but independent cafés are increasingly solid. At the B&B, I was put in my regular room — one en suite and with a large, comfortable bathtub. Due to the time, regular service was interrupted. Normally, a full English breakfast is included in the room rate. Two of the four nights, I was sent to the restaurant the innkeeper and his wife own. Bubble and squeak with black pudding and bacon both times. One morning, they cooked an egg and bacon butty. Christmas morning, they were with friends and family as can be expected.

I went to Midnight Mass at my old Anglican parish church. It was full of people. Some I knew, many I did not. We held candles and sang carols. The next day, there was a Christmas meal in the church hall. Just the regular… Roast turkey, parsnips, Brussels sprouts, carrots, mashed potatoes, pigs in blankets and brown onion gravy. This was followed up, of course, with a good selection of classic English puddings.

That evening I had a bit of a falling out with someone. Months of increasing irritation and tension boiled over. Because I came later than she wanted me to, we had a bit of a row. Well, she had a bit of a row and I was a bit confused and apologetic about the whole thing. I knew that I’d not have ideal access to the internet for about a week, so I tried to pack in nearly two weeks of calls and meetings during the first four days. She never gave me a time, so I thought coming between 6-6:30 would be reasonable. Apparently, it was not. Because there were four people trying to talk to me at once, I was a bit short when she rang up. After being screamed at and denigrated for a couple hours, I left. The following day, I tried to be the bigger person and came for our pre-arranged meeting. It was calmer, but the tension was palpable.

The following day, I travelled to Bath. Bath is beautiful, but the cracks are showing. There is incredible wealth and it remains a place where people go to be seen, but there are also many shameless grifters. There are the wealthy and the poor living side-by-side, the beggars seeking the alms of those with more money than sense. It’s a city of £12 cream teas and £80 high teas, but also a city where the broken sleep in the doorways of abandoned shops. It’s a city of polite gentility, but also a meanness that you just don’t see in Dorchester. A day or two in Bath suffices for me. I stayed at the YMCA. It was my first time staying in bunk beds. It was a step-down for me, but not as bad as I thought it would be. Actually, it wasn’t a bad hostel. It’s just that I’m more comfortable with boutique hotels and family-run B&Bs.

I enjoyed going to my favourite Nepali restaurant in Bath as well as Sally Lunn’s. Even if a bit touristy, Sally Lunn’s is still worth it. It’s not as dear as one would think and the quality is excellent — although having a card reader shoved in my face made me feel ill at ease, my preferred method of payment being cash. The Nepali restaurant is consistently brilliant. The food is lovingly prepared and absolutely authentic. The décor is much like you’d see in Kathmandu.

The falling-out of Christmas carried over. I was initially supposed to spend a couple nights at said woman’s flat, the person who originally promised to host me having cancelled in early November due to an extended visit to Ireland. She accused me of causing a major rift and that she needed time to heal. (Because I came an hour and a half, two hours later than she thought I should come — even though she never told me that I should come at that time) That left me with two days with nowhere to go and nowhere to stay. I was offered a night in an unknown man’s guest bedroom, but communication broke down and after an hour and a half waiting around, looking for anyone, I rang up the innkeeper who had booked me in for the following day and asked to extend. He said that there was one room left, but it was not en suite although I’d still have my own bathroom. No worries, I was happy with that.

New Year’s was fun. I went to Wetherspoon’s and met up with some of the lads. Two had cider, one had beer and I had a decaf coffee. We rang in the New Year at the town pump, the town crier celebrating his last New Year. Oyez, oyez! God Save the King! It was small, but it was Dorchester. It was open for everyone. There was no need for tickets, security or listening to Saddiq Khan’s appalling agenda. It was simply cheerful, good-natured and quintessentially English.

The following day, I took the train to see Araminta. The heavy rains put a bit of a damper on plans to take a long walk or do much of anything except hide in any open establishment and try to stay dry. Still, it was good to see her. That evening I went back to Wetherspoon’s and met up with one of my mates from the night before. We chatted for a while. I lent him a book I had bought — a history of three generations of an Irish working class family who had served as members of the Royal Hong Kong Police. I had heard of the book after listening to multiple interviews with the writer on the Hong Kong Heritage Podcast. He is also from a working-class Irish family, having grown up in the UK and Ireland.

On the second, I travelled to London after getting my haircut at my old barber’s in Dorchester and meeting a shopkeeper I’ve known for some time for coffee. Oh… And buying a lot of British cheeses to smuggle back to Denmark. The train was delayed due to flooding, but I arrived in London where I stayed in another hostel. It was a bit difficult, but I survived. The cost of living crisis has really forced many to make sacrifices.

London was not as bad as I thought it would be. Then again, the hostel was in Bayswater and I only went to the better parts of central London. Hyde Park is as lovely as ever. I can never get enough of the V&A. The British Museum was top-notch as always, but it can get a bit too crowded. London is in many ways the centre of the world. New York City thinks it is, but it’s not. I did, however, notice a meanness, a nastiness in London that I hadn’t before. Saddiq Khan has been an utter catastrophe. Although I never felt unsafe in London, you can see a staleness to it, a sense of policies being reached not because they are good or even reasonable, but because local officials with a lot of power want to stick it to the national government. London still looks like London. In some ways, it still feels like London — but it’s not that London I remember from my youth and that wasn’t even all that long ago.

I travelled back to Copenhagen on British Airways. It was better than the last few times I had flown with them. Heathrow is massive and busy, but it’s well organised and logical. I managed to get through everything quickly. Amazingly, the Danes were actually capable of doing their jobs and I didn’t have to stand in queue for nearly two hours like I did in October. In fact, I was silently waved through by a disinterested Danish woman. She took a look at my passport, a look at me and considered me unworthy of a first, much less a second, look. The only somewhat unsettling thing for me was passport control in Britain. For so many years, I had gone to Britain and lived in Britain. I’d integrated so well and made a life there. I can still go, I’m still treated better at the UK border than at the Euroborder, but there is a difference. In the end, I’m now merely a Eurowog. It’s not a comfortable feeling for me as I despise Europe and have no real connexion to it, beyond inheriting my mother’s citizenship at birth. In Europe, I’m classed as being somewhat too British to ever qualify as being European. In the UK, I am now legally a Eurowog — despite having stronger connexions to the UK than any part of the Continent.

In April, I will move to Ireland. Travel between the two countries will be easier, less stressful than between Euroland and the UK. After five years, I’ll be classed as Irish and will have essentially the same rights as a Briton. I think I’d prefer that than being a Continental. As for that rather difficult woman… I blocked her number and email address. She had been growing increasingly toxic over the past half year. Her narcissism, when blended with a growing drink problem, made it intolerable.