FINAL PART: Bill finds his cottage, but has to return to Canada on urgent family business. We'll catch up with him a few months down the road.
Swindon became my base of operations. I passed by the city a few weeks ago and did a general tour of the entire area that lies between Swindon, Cirencester, and Chippenham. In the general triangle these three places formed I found a host of delightful villages, any one of which I’d be happy to settle down in. One village, more of a small town named Purton, caught my eye. Several cottages and houses were for sale, with Estate Agent’s signs posted by their front gates. One cottage in particular I liked very much. It was for sale through an agent in Swindon. The place seemed empty, so I took a stroll around the grounds, into the back garden, and tried the back door. A voice called out, ‘Can I help you.’ I was startled. In the next garden, almost hidden behind a hedge of bushes, I saw this face peering across at me. ‘I see this cottage is for sale. I was just taking a look around, ‘ I replied. ‘Best leave that to the estate agents in Swindon. They have the keys.’ ‘I’ll do that,’ I replied, and made a polite exit.
There was no doubt about it, subject to the interior, and of course the price, this was the place for me. I drove into Swindon and arranged with the estate agent to meet him at the cottage at ten the following morning. The price was in my range, and all that I needed to see to complete the deal was a good look round inside. The interior needed no major improvements at all, unless I was going to change this delightful house into a modern Canadian one, which I decided then and there to leave it as it was. There was no huge refrigerator, just a built-in waist high one. There was no diswasher, just an old fashioned porcelain sink. The hot water tank was gas-fired and would empty with just one bath full. And there was only the one small bathroom, which contained a bath, a toilet, and a small basin. All in all I was only one person, and planned to keep it that way, so in the final analysis it was all I needed. I made my offer, and awaited the outcome.
House purchase in England does not follow the simple few steps it does in Canada, and I had to wait nearly a month to know for sure the place was mine. During that time I flew back, mainly to see my dear dog Winston, and to make arrangements for him to travel back with me under the new pet import scheme in Britain. However, I had returned to a great many problems developing within my family, which I’ll not go into, only to say I was needed ‘at home’ and the actual transfer of my life and all my worldly belongings had to go on hold. But I still had to return to England to sign all the final papers and make the final cash transferal. This I did in one week, and flew back again to Canada.
I have moved in with my eldest daughter, selling my own house, and have decided to remain with her for the foreseeable future. If things develop further into the negative aspect of my daughters well-being then I have it in mind to move her, with me, to my cottage in Purton. This is where we still stand - between two countries. Life is never simple, and all the plans of mice & men. You know what I mean! Will get back to you in the fall. Bill Allsey.
Part Four:
I stayed a few nights at Mrs. Bradshaw’s bright and clean B & B, mainly to get my ‘land legs’, suffering the way I do from jet lag, before I set off on the grand tour of England. My quest is to decide exactly where I want to settle down. I say ‘settle down’, loosely. As you know my plans are not carved in stone. I still have my home in Canada, and if this venture into the presence of my past should go awry, then I shall board a flight back to Canada and re-establish myself in my safe and familiar surroundings. I’m in no hurry, and I expect no miracles. I’m here to look, to sense, to feel, to compare, to observe, to enjoy, and to decide. The decision, pro or con, will take time. I have time. I’m retired. I’m going nowhere quickly - I hope! And thanks be to various other means, I have the money to do all this.
Over the few days that I spent in the B & B, I planned my route. I picked up my rental car, bought a few things like picnic coolers for all the odds & ends I’d pack in the way of food. I don’t plan to eat in restaurants all the time, being quite happy with sandwiches, pies, pasties, pre-packed salads, fruits, drinks, and a flask of tea, the latter being filled at any cafe along the way. A good breakfast now and then won’t be passed up, but throughout the day I’ll be happy to eat in the car, wherever I stop to take in the scenery.
My route is flexible. With a mobile (cell) telephone (I had to take it on a one year lease - the minimum) I could call ahead to any B & B listed in the several B & B travel books I’d bought. Single bookings aren’t their favourite (more money for two in a room than one) but I found that waiting until between 5 and 6 pm each day would net me an instant booking, rather than trying to book days in advance. If you’re travelling alone, remember that. Also make it clear you’re a non-smoker and a non-drinker! I enjoy my pipe, but only on the road, and what is touring England if you don’t stop and enjoy a drink in the many glorious pubs to be found in every small village! I speak with a recognizable Canadian/American accent (there’s not a lot of difference) and B & B operators like to cater to the tourist from across the ‘pond.’
So, with everything in place, I said goodbye to Mrs. Bradshaw, and set off west in search of a valley, a dale, a village, or a little cottage where I may live out my days in the country that made me what I am. An open mind and an open road is all you need. I was in no hurry, so I stayed off the motorways, and with plenty of detailed maps, I set my course through the great and beautiful countryside. Even here, one soon realizes, you have your hotshot speeders who care nothing for narrow lanes, tight corners, and small quiet villages. Drive with caution was my first motto. Every country has its mindless road racers, and with England’s narrow thoroughfares, it seems even more menacing here than in Canada.
Bypassing the motorway to my south (the M4) I drove out west through Slough, still with its massive industrial parks, through Maindenhead, and onto Henley-On-Thames, and a great pub I know there, where I had a riverside lunch - breaking my first rule - eating out. After a good lunch and half a pint of best bitter I kept to a minor A road (A417) and swung north of Swindon. This part of the country is beautiful, with large, modern farms, mostly dealing with pig farming. Small villages, still with their old Cotswold stone houses and slate stone walls, are a delight to see.
Part Three:
There’s something about landing at Heathrow airport and feeling part of a huge gathering of people that are arriving, leaving, or just making connections in one of the busiest ‘meeting’ places in the world. I never rush straight for the Underground or a taxi, I just mingle among the noise and the sounds of people making memories, because any major trip we take we always remember the fun part - getting there. What I like about Heathrow is its quick reminder you’re in England. Not like the countless airports that all look and feel the same throughout Canada and the U.S.
At Heathrow you’ll hear those gentle but colloquial British accents, such a nice change after the ‘movie’ accents of North America. You’ll see the in-airport ‘pubs’ where a full pint of draft bitter can be bought immediately! The newsagents, where a host of British newspapers and magazines remind you that your choices have just broadened from the handful that sell at Toronto airport or the French language ones that sell at Montreal. It feels so good to be ‘home’ in a land where they speak my language and do my kind of things. After an hour of walking and looking, and a long sit down with a pint of best bitter, I finally make my way to the off-airport car hire agency.
Taking the Brits Abroad advice I reserved my hired car off-airport and took a taxi to the office. Here the pace was slow but friendly. A car, with a right-hand drive looked and felt strange as usual; I was in England just a few years ago on holiday but it takes some getting used to, but after the filling out of forms and producing a credit card, I was on my way. I had reserved a B & B not too far from the airport. My first few days are spent unwinding, getting shed of the jet-lag. At my age I don’t bounce back that easily, and where I’ve just flown in from it’s getting close to bedtime, where here in England it’s still afternoon.
I’ve used the Mrs.Bradshaw B & B before, and I even got the same upper front, bay-windowed room again. A tea-tray was prepared with a small plate of biscuits and I sat with Mrs. Bradshaw in her large and very typical English front room. It was still early in the season (late April) so she wasn’t busy. Just myself and a travelling salesman in the five available rooms. We talked for awhile, about a new Indian restaurant in town, and about the high cost of everything. Even the Brits themselves know that living in England is very expensive, and although most things are relative (cost of living to incomes) they all seem to make a good life for themselves in the worlds fourth most thriving economy.
I was in bed by 8.30 pm, taking as I do on these trips, a sleeping tablet. This ensures I don’t wake up at 3 am and become restless and alienated as one does in the early hours in relatively strange surroundings. At around 7 am I smelt bacon cooking. Mrs. Bradshaw came up with that quintessential English start to the day, a cup of tea in bed, and said she’d just sent the traveller off on a good breakfast and when would I like mine. I’ll be down as soon as I’ve done my ablutions I said. After all, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a full English breakfast of genuine bacon, full sized pork sausages, fried tomatoes, and good English toast, and, The Daily Telegraph to read as I crunched my toast. Ah...it is so good to be home!
Part One & Two:
This is the story of my return to where my heart has always been, England. It is the end of a lifetime of work and travel and the beginning of a reunion with my soul. I don’t know where a man belongs, or where any of us belong, but I do know I have lived in places I only dwelt in. Places of convenience. Places to work. Places to rest. And through all these years of wandering, and in trying to settle down, I always thought back to where it all began. You don’t have to agree with me. Many find peace, and rest, and contentment when they arrived abroad. A lot of us settled easily and well. Just about everyone I ever met from Britain had few complaints. They adjusted.
I never did. I lived a lifetime abroad. Mostly in Canada, and with a spell in Australia. I worked in these places. I raised a family. I bought houses, and cars, and did gardening, and read books. But everything I did, every single thing, always had a British feel to it. My work - I brought my British training and know-how with me. My homes were as traditionally British as they could be, in style and in needs. My cars were always British, or as close to British as they could be. The first was an Austin. My last was an old Jag. I raised my children to British standards, you know, knives & forks, ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, and always remember to shut the door! My garden was as British as I could make it. Imported British peas, runner beans, tomatoes, and of course marrow. My books were very much British - is there any books that are better? I even bought my British newspapers when I could get them. So it was obvious that I was not settling down in the real sense whilst I lived that lifetime abroad. I was unsettled.
One day I sat watching a football [soccer] game direct from England on TV, in the very early hours of a dull grey morning, drinking my Assam black tea, when I suddenly burst into tears. Me, a big grown man! I was 68. Living alone, with my dog Brady, my kids all married and living happily nearby, and I wanted for nothing. Except somewhere deep within me there was a call I had to answer. I sniffled, blew my nose, coughed, swore, made another cuppa, and yelled at Shearer as he missed an open goal. I went into the bathroom and was totally disgusted with myself. Even my dog looked up at me with those big honest eyes dogs have. I called my eldest daughter later on that morning. "Dad here, can we talk?"
She told me in very few words what was up. If anyone knew me it was her. She, of my three kids, was the one who listened to me, and understood what beat within an unsettled breast. "Go back to England Dad," she said. "Go back and live there for at least a year. If it doesn’t work out then come back here." "What if it works out, and I don’t want to return here?" There was a long pause. I heard her holding back a tear or two. "If it is what you really want..." she paused and gathered herself, "then we’ll understand. You know Dad, we’ve always understood that your real home is where your heart is. After Mum died we knew you wouldn’t last long here." "But it means leaving you all, and that I will find hard." "Do it. Get it out of your system, and make it work. We’ll always be here for you."
On an unseasonably wet day in late April [2003] I locked up my house, piled my dog and a few cases into the car, and drove over to my eldest daughters home. She met me in a quiet somber mood, took the house keys, and my dear dog Winston, made a farewell cup of tea, and shed a few tears as we talked about the business end of my trip back to England. "I’ll check on the house every day, collect your mail and forward it on. I’ll take good care of Winston as you know, and I’ll be here.. (a long teary pause)..if you ever need to talk to me.’ I gave her a big hug, holding back a flood of tears, gave Winston a rub on his snout, and made a quick exit to the car. ‘I’ll leave it in the car park at the hotel.’ These were my last words as I pulled out of my daughters driveway and began the drive to the airport.
On the way to the airport I began asking myself just what the hell I was doing. Was I mad. At my age, going back to a country I hadn’t lived in for over 30 years; vacationed in, but not lived in, for thirty long years. I had just a few cases, a few addresses where I could find friends, and no real plans, other than to wander about the country to see if I really wanted to resettle, or just to get it all out of my system. It all seemed so silly. I had a lovely home I had just closed up. My constant friend and companion, my dear dog Winston now out of my care. And me, going back to a country I once left to see if there was a better world elsewhere. My only consolation as I drove through the rain, was, that I had never found a better place to be, than England. Different places. Nice places. But not better. And home is - where the heart is. And home has always been England. Even after all these years living abroad.
Once at the airport, mixing with the crowds of people waiting for flights, I soon settled down. It had been several years since I had last flown home for a holiday and the spirit for adventure was beginning to take hold again. Suddenly, with a rush of pride and determination, I began to prepare myself for the coming adventure. I bought a coffee and struck up a conversation with a much younger couple at the table about their upcoming trip. ‘Off to Paris’ she said, ‘it’s our tenth anniversary so we decided to see it in April. That song you know.’ ‘Yes’ I replied with a smile, ‘I know what you mean.’ Finally, as an afterthought she asked me where I was going. ‘England. The ‘Oh to be in England now that spring is there poem,’ I replied with pride. They both looked puzzled. A sort of half grin crossed their faces. ‘Well have a nice trip." she said bemused, and they both slumped their backpacks over their shoulders, and were gone. ‘Oh to be in England, I whispered to myself. ‘Must have said it wrong or something.’
The plane roared skywards, we all settled in, and before long the deep hum of the engines soothed me off to a half-sleep. The hours dragged. And dragged. My legs ached. I walked up and down the aisle. People slept. It was dark outside. Then someone lifted up their window cover and a bright, shattering, sun flooded the back half of the plane. I could smell coffee brewing. Perky flight attendents, smelling of soft sweet perfume, came gliding by. It would not be long. Announcements were made about the time change and the weather in London. It was 11 am London time. The sun was shining. I was home. And who knows for how long.
