It is hard to leave, but leave I must. Whenever I do leave, it’s usually on the train and there is an hour gliding through Devon and it is always, without fail, looking at its imperious best. The small white clouds are even fluffier than usual, the blue skies purer, the fields dotted with fluffy lambs and black and white cows, the colourful boats gently bobbing in the high tide on the Teign. And then you reach Exeter... 
Nah, even beyond Exeter it’s not too bad, though by time you reach Reading things are certainly more London than Lutton it’s true, and then you get to Basingstoke and you are certainly not in Devon any more. But there are some perks, including the comfiest and biggest bed on my trip, great value roast dinners and thousands and thousands of bluebells. Oh, and before I lose Brownie points, Dad and Sonia of course (hi guys!)
Suddenly it was my last day in the UK, my last day in Europe, and what did the last day provide? Bloody rain and wind and cold that’s bloody what! Thanks Britain, punishing me for leaving you again. I think it was a test of my Britishness though, for Britons are masters at day trips in the rain, soggy sandwiches and plastic macs. I passed with flying shades of grey, as we headed down through the New Forest to Lymington, taking in the waterproof laden street market and completing the culinary heritage expedition with great British fish n chips. And then one last dose of clotted cream, incorporated in several varieties of ice cream.
To end we stopped by at the New Forest Wildlife Park, a serene little place set in the woods containing about one million owls and otters, several freakishly large butterflies, a few deer, mice, wild now not so wild boar and, yes, two wallabies for an ironic twist.
From one zoo to another, the joy that is Heathrow Terminal Three. The fun of lining up to check bags in, queue some more to get through security and wait around a bit to be served at WHSmith. A chance to rush around purchasing last minute gifts and chocolate and wolf down a last supper from Melton Mowbray, Cheddar and the Brie fields of Normandy. Sadly no strikes would stop me, no ash clouds would give me a few bonus days, no upgrades to business class would emerge. Instead, I would be plunged into unsettled disorientation, eventually arriving back in a waterlogged city in Australia, keeping going with better coffee, taking one last, short, bumpy hop in a plane to dry off and recover in what is really a small town in the country in winter. It will take some time to get over it but the jewels will shine through and the glimmer of places far away will remain in my heart. And in the words of Arnie, I’ll be back.
Nah, even beyond Exeter it’s not too bad, though by time you reach Reading things are certainly more London than Lutton it’s true, and then you get to Basingstoke and you are certainly not in Devon any more. But there are some perks, including the comfiest and biggest bed on my trip, great value roast dinners and thousands and thousands of bluebells. Oh, and before I lose Brownie points, Dad and Sonia of course (hi guys!)
Suddenly it was my last day in the UK, my last day in Europe, and what did the last day provide? Bloody rain and wind and cold that’s bloody what! Thanks Britain, punishing me for leaving you again. I think it was a test of my Britishness though, for Britons are masters at day trips in the rain, soggy sandwiches and plastic macs. I passed with flying shades of grey, as we headed down through the New Forest to Lymington, taking in the waterproof laden street market and completing the culinary heritage expedition with great British fish n chips. And then one last dose of clotted cream, incorporated in several varieties of ice cream.
To end we stopped by at the New Forest Wildlife Park, a serene little place set in the woods containing about one million owls and otters, several freakishly large butterflies, a few deer, mice, wild now not so wild boar and, yes, two wallabies for an ironic twist.
From one zoo to another, the joy that is Heathrow Terminal Three. The fun of lining up to check bags in, queue some more to get through security and wait around a bit to be served at WHSmith. A chance to rush around purchasing last minute gifts and chocolate and wolf down a last supper from Melton Mowbray, Cheddar and the Brie fields of Normandy. Sadly no strikes would stop me, no ash clouds would give me a few bonus days, no upgrades to business class would emerge. Instead, I would be plunged into unsettled disorientation, eventually arriving back in a waterlogged city in Australia, keeping going with better coffee, taking one last, short, bumpy hop in a plane to dry off and recover in what is really a small town in the country in winter. It will take some time to get over it but the jewels will shine through and the glimmer of places far away will remain in my heart. And in the words of Arnie, I’ll be back.
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