Tag Archives: travel

20. Normal England has resumed

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We arrived back to Leamington Spa late on Saturday evening, leaving the girls with a 19 hour turn-around time before leaving for a week in Lymington with their uncle, and leaving me with even less time than that to get the laundry done. It’s all too easy to forget how quickly clothes dry at this time of year in southwest Spain. Hang ’em out and take ’em in again two hours later, hard as boards. Not so in England. But the weather has been unseasonably warm here. We sweltered in 35 degree heat at Wimbledon last week and, if that weather had continued for just one more day, well…I’m just saying, it would have made doing the laundry a little easier. Gaia, why are you toying with me like this?

It was breezy when I woke up yesterday morning, my first task to fill the washing machine and do a quick 30-minute wash. Not that that did me any good. By the time they came out of the machine, the heavens had opened and rain fell at a slant onto my father-in-law’s newly laid patio slabs, and in through the open kitchen window, leaving the window sill and the floor slippery and dangerous. Did I care? Of course not. There’s a tumble drier out in the garage. I don’t like using a tumble drier, but needs must, so out I flitted, my father-in-law stating the glaringly obvious, ‘You’ll get wet.’

Forty minutes at high heat. Out into the rain again. The clothes were still wet in the drier. Another thirty minutes. Then another. No joy. My father-in-law insisted I was doing something wrong. I insisted I wasn’t. We eventually found the culprit – a very dirty filter thing that would need to be taken apart and cleaned out. But neither of us had any idea how and the instruction manual was long gone. Did I have time to go search how to do it online? I did not.

By now, the sun had come out, so I put all the clothes on the clothes horse and moved them to the far end of the north-facing garden to catch the sun shining in over the house. I was taking a shower when the next rain shower came and Lily dashed out to bring the clothes horse in. Then back out when the rain passed. Then in again. Then out again. And always that guessing game of ‘is this item of clothing really dry or am I just wishing it dry?’

Finally, the moment came for the girls to leave. Most of Lily’s stuff was still on the clothes horse and still damp or downright wet. There was nothing for it but to stuff it all into a bag with instructions for her to dry it when she reached her destination. “Don’t forget,” I warned ominously. “It’ll turn sour.”

Now I really feel like I’m back in England.

These are not our giant white knickers…I swear!!!

19. Pride

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When we found out that the 2025 London Pride parade would be on the 5th of July, we decided to stay an extra day in London and take in the parade on our way back up to my father-in-law’s house. According to the parade website, there would be 1.5 million people attending. I didn’t know how long we’d last in crowds like that, given that we were carrying our backpacks packed with the week’s worth of stuff. I imagined tightly packed crowds, not being able to see the parade, and the girls and I running the risk of losing each other. We decided we’d give it an hour and, if we weren’t having a good time, we’d leave.

What a fabulous time we had. We arrived into Waterloo station and followed the occasional rainbow flag wearing individuals in the crowd across the river and in the direction of Trafalgar Square. The closer we got to the site of the parade, the more colourful and rainbowy it all became. Trafalgar Square was busy, with singers already performing on the stage. We walked on until we hit the barrier-lined route of the parade. My plan was to walk upstream along the parade route, in the direction the parade was coming from, and find a place to watch from.

We walked a few hundred metres, the crowds along the route growing the farther we went. We found a space against the barrier, put our bags down, and there we stayed for the next few hours. We couldn’t have asked for a more perfect viewing spot.

The crowd was friendly and upbeat. The woman next to me, waiting to see her 15-year-old son pass in his first Pride parade, offered to share her sandwiches with us and drew a rainbow on my arm. All around us was colour and joy, laughing and dancing.

Not everyone was as jubilant as the parade spectators. The bikers paraded past first but, rather than the rest of the parade following fast on their heels, we waited for 50 minutes while nothing happened at all. No-one knew what was going on. Finally, a volunteer told us that anti-LGBTQ+ protesters were holding up the parade near Hyde Park Corner. In the words of Taylor Swift ‘You need to calm down’. Finally, we heard they were on the move again. The first float to go past, bore the marks of the protestors. The white lorry that pulled the float was splashed with red paint.

But those sad people with nothing better to do with their time didn’t get to experience the joy and exuberance of the parade participants and spectators. It was lovely to see the participation of the LGBTQ+ staff and members of so many businesses, organisations and institutes, of all branches of the armed forces, and of the NHS. But what really moved me were the NGOs that support LGBTQ+ refugees from countries where their very existence is criminalized and their lives are endangered, and those groups of refugees and immigrants into the UK who have found homes here. It was deeply moving to see those groups parade past.

When we finally left, we ran into a little of those crowds that I’d feared. Moving up the street against the stream of humanity moving in the opposite direction was a bit frustrating, especially as now were were hungry and thirsty and in search of lunch (we’d declined the kind woman’s offer of sandwiches, despite her protestations that she had plenty).

It was a wonderful, life affirming, uplifting day at the end of a very special week in London.

16. Country mouse

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There’s nothing quite like spending a few days in London’s leafy suburbs. My head is spinning from the range of international cuisine to choose from, the delivery to the door of fresh food, the charity shops selling the hand-me-downs of the well-to-do. The easy and regular public transport.

We went to a Japanese fast food place for lunch today. Proper, real, honest to god Japanese food. I haven’t eaten inari in years – it tasted as good as I remembered when I used to buy it in my local supermarket in Sue-machi. The katsu curry brought me back to winter evenings at my friend Takako’s house in Sasaguri-machi. The edamame were a delight. It was all southwest London outside the window – red buses and black cabs going past – but inside it was all Japan. And how happy I was.

Then a spot of shopping. Not much, because we’re travelling light and don’t have much room in our bags when we make the return journey to the midlands in a few days. An independent bookshop was a delight – our second in less than a week. While the range on offer and the hours you can spend in Waterstones – the big book chain store – is amazing, there’s nothing quite like a small independent book shop. They’re always quirky, with friendly staff eager (but not too eager) to help. This one was narrow and tightly packed. We had to squeeze between shelves and step aside to let other customers pass. We all got excited when we saw books that we’ve read or showed each other books we want to read. We oohed and aahed over beautiful cover art and I apologized to the shop assistant for buying nothing more than a greeting card and not supporting her business more.

We browsed a few charity shops. I’ve been looking for a linen shirt, and I found one that, by the looks of it, is brand new and only cost me £3. We were drawn to the books in the charity shops too and to the cute little figurines and ornaments. I offered to buy Lily a measuring tape housed in a crocheted ladybird, but she declined my offer. How strange. Coincidentally, I bought a Ladybird book for myself for nostalgia’s sake and I bought Katie a badge. It takes so little to make us happy.

And then it was a fancy coffee place for salted caramel iced frappes. You don’t get those in Sanlucar, let me tell you! And then it was back to the train and in five minutes we were walking down the tree-lined road back to Sarah’s house.

While I never want to swap rural life for suburban or city life, I still enjoy savouring what this other life has to offer. The katsu curry and salted caramel frappe taste all the better for only being available to this country mouse once in a very very blue moon.

Photo by Emrah Kara on Unsplash

12. Jumbo hot dogs

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Warwick market, Saturday morning

Being in the UK and, in particular, in this town, brings memories of Julian flooding back. I pass through places by car that I only ever drove through with him. I go to places that I visited for the first time, or only ever visited with him. Indeed, I would never have known this town in the middle of England, had I never met him.

There have been times in the past few years, when being here has been overwhelming. Not only being in this place, but being with Julian’s family and the memories and emotions that being in their company brings to the surface. In the past, being here has caused me to have panic attacks. In fact, last year, after only four days, I ended up in A&E (ER) with a panic attack that I thought was a heart attack. That was a scary day.

This time, however, I am so much more at ease. Time has played a part in healing me, so too have eight sessions with a therapist that I gave as a birthday present to myself last year, so too the memoir I’ve been writing this past year. I’m busy with work (intentionally, perhaps?) and I’m absorbing the sensations of being in parks and along canals and surrounded by nature in this exceptionally nature-filled town. (Yesterday, a falcon had an aerial fight with two crows only metres from me in Priory Park!)

Each morning since we got here, I work for a few hours at Warwick Library. Yesterday, I went in as usual. But it wasn’t usual. It was Saturday, so the market was on in the square in front of the library. Even better, at the far end of the square I saw a van bearing the words ‘Jumbo Hot Dogs’. Memories came flooding back. I phoned Katie and suggested that she and Lily get Granddad to drive them to the library in a few hours, so we could wander the market and have jumbo hot dogs for lunch.

The girls duly arrived and I packed up my laptop and we wandered around the market, chatting to the vendors and browsing the arts, crafts and foodstuffs they had on offer. At the food stalls, there were savoury pies and all sorts of lovely things that tempted me. But I was going for the jumbo hot dogs, for nostalgia’s sake more than anything else.

You see, Julian loved jumbo hot dogs. No matter what his state of hunger, if he spotted a jumbo hot dog stand, he had to have one. He was also someone who stuffed receipts into his pockets. When we both worked, we shared the task of doing the laundry. Every time it was my turn to put a load in the machine, I’d first have to empty Julian’s trouser pockets of receipts. When we lived in Cambridge, I’d often find five or six receipts for the jumbo hot dog stand! How long had he been wearing those trousers? Or how many hot dogs was he consuming a day? He’d laugh sheepishly and tell me he’d occasionally get a craving in the middle of work, leave his desk, hop on his bike and cycle the two miles into the middle of Cambridge for a jumbo hot dog and then return to work. Crazy man.

So, there was nothing for it yesterday but to introduce jumbo hot dogs to our daughters, who’d only ever before had those cheap rubbery vacuum packed frankfurters you get at kid’s birthday parties, and not these juicy British sausages, with real fried onions, ketchup, in a soft, freshly baked hotdog roll. Katie wasn’t sure if she wanted one, so I bought two. One bite of mine and I had to go back to get a third from the friendly chatty couple running the van.

Good God, they tasted good, that combination of good food mixed with good memories. As we ate, I told the girls about their father’s jumbo hot dog obsession, another piece of him revealed to them, another good memory of him restored to me.

8. Leaving home and going home

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Later today, I will close my front door behind me as the girls and I leave home for 10 weeks. We’ve never been away from Sanlucar for so long before. At first, we will spend a few weeks in the UK and then we will go home to Ireland. We have a wonderful summer ahead of us, packed with family and close friends and trips to all sorts of wonderful places and events.

But I have mixed emotions about leaving. I am saying goodbye to a close friend who, owing to illness, will likely no longer be with us when I return. At the same, I am excited to spend time with my family and dear friends, the people who have known me longer and who know me better than anyone.

I’m taking the girls away from a summer by the pool and at the beach, and being with their friends. I’m also taking them away from Lady. But then I remind myself of how hot it’s going to be and how we’ll be stuck inside the house most of each day in +40C heat. So, I’m looking forward to taking the girls to cooler beaches and to places familiar to them that they want to visit again and places new that they have never been to. And I’m excited about the time they will get to spend with friends in the UK, starting on Sunday, when we travel to London to visit their oldest friends.

While I have adapted to many aspects of Spanish culture, after ten years I have yet to adapt to staying out so late at night. I can do it once or twice in the entire summer. But, in general, when Sanlucar comes alive at night in the summertime, when many of our friends and neighbours are out strolling the streets, or at one of the bars, or sociably sitting outside their houses, the girls and I have already gone to bed. I have tried to adapt, but I can neither stay awake that late at night nor get by on so little sleep the next day when I need to be up at 6am to get my work done before it gets too hot. Lots of people have managed to adapt to it. Sadly, I’m not one of them. So, I’m looking forward to cooler weather in the UK and Ireland (despite a heatwave in the former at the moment) and sticking to my normal bedtime.

For all of that, for all the wonderful things I have planned, I know that when I am at home* in Ireland I will miss my home in Spain. I will be looking forward to coming home in September, batteries charged, feeling refreshed and renewed, and feeling love and longing for both the home I will be leaving behind and the home I will be returning to. I am grateful for both.

*I don’t actually own a home in Ireland. We’ll be couch and spare-bed surfing for the entire summer. It’s more that home owns me.

An aerial photo of my home in Ireland, taken sometime in the 1960s.