london calling

And to go away from you, London, is often to come nearer to you in loneliness, in strange places, when a memory of how it feels to ride down the Strand in rain on top of a ‘bus is like remembering something lovely about your mother.

… You sit about in strange cities thinking: "At this very minute Piccadilly is an avenue of amber lights on tip-toe with the thrill of theatres, taxi doors are snapping on a vision of silk ankles, two men in silk hats are standing in a crowd on an island, all the wide club windows are yellow, the Green Park trees are spectral white in lamplight, and the omnibuses stand like a herd of patient red bulls behind a white gloved hand." Ah! London, dear London....
- H.V. Morton


Sigh …

For the past several months I’ve had England on my mind, burning a hole in my brain.

Last summer, Kyle and I were thinking of taking a trip over with Oliver, before he hits the magical age of two, when he has to pay for a seat. When things (a pregnancy, rise in ticket costs, stammering economy, etc.) worked out not so much in our favour and we decided to let the idea go, I was okay with that. After all, England is always there, and there will be other chances.

But since then, it’s like all I can think about is England and how I need (not want) to be back there, to see the daffodils that must be in bloom now, growing wild on the sides of skinny roads. I need to walk past ivy-bound cottages and wobbly stone walls, covet their crowded gardens and catch a glimpse of lace through the windows.

I want tea at my favourite teahouse in Windsor, the name of which I can never remember but it’s down one of the cobblestone streets, across from the castle (Drury Lane Tearoom??).

I want Oliver to chase pigeons in Trafalger Square - - or their new location, in front of the National Gallery, just above the square (assuming they haven’t been chased out from there, too). I want to take him to Hundred Acre Wood in Kent, and just to stroll with him (and Kyle, of course) through Kensington Garden.

I want to take my niece, Avery, to tea at the Russell Hotel (as in “Up, up, up past the …”). It’s a promise I made to her about 12 years ago, and one she used to remind me of regularly but has probably since forgotten, or at least given up on.

Don’t talk to me about how things in England are overpriced or about how the weather’s crap and the homes are old and damp and cold. I don’t care if the English are not known for their culinary prowess and you can’t find a decent salad to save your soul. Those things aren’t within my focus.

I wish I could explain my obsession with England – especially because it started long before I ever visited there. From the time I remember I’ve been drawn to English books, British music, styles, linguistics, traditions. I thought that going to school there would satisfy my curiosity, but no – it merely increased my desperation to stay there.

There was once a time when I thought I would try and live there for good and raise little limey children with delightful accents. Now I feel tied to my hometown, where Oliver has an Aunty and uncles, and grandparents and great-grandparents he adores and needs to be close to. Still, I have this need, every now and then, to get back. To experience it again. To feel, touch, smell and see this country that has taken possession of me.

I have resolved that my next big trip over will be in commemoration of my 40th birthday (less than two years away!!) and I want to go big or go home (okay, just go big), including in the itinerary a jaunt through a few other EU countries. Whoever wants to save up is welcome to join the party.

Until then, I’ll have to content myself with Devonshire custard and Tango soda from a local British import shop, what’s left of my stash of Whittard’s tea and some old March issues of Victoria Magazine.