Time to put a stop to all this continental nonsense and get back to Blighty, where, apart from a few ‘celebrities’ engaging in a spot of Cha Cha Cha, men are real men and women are usually binge drinking while watching X Factor Xtra X on ITV6+1. There are always mixed senses coming home, at first taking in things from a distance, dare I say, quite critically at times, but then falling back in love with some of the titbits and bigtits and wotsits of British life. I love, for instance, how the BA air hostess thanked me for showing my boarding card by telling me “that’s smashing”. I wish I remembered to use phrases like that more in Australia. Less lovely, but still very typical, was the very British farce at Heathrow Terminal 5, the terminal built to increase capacity, but one which seems devoid of spare aerobridges or any bridges whatsoever, leaving us on the tarmac with jolly irate Captain Roger Swingley-Buxombottom giving them a right old talking to.
I still have a sense of belonging here, it just takes a while to resurrect itself. Much like my passport, battered and bruised from seven years of junkets, which failed to scan and for a time got a little part of my head thinking ‘ uh-oh, cavity search’!! Like my bankcards, which on the first few goes, failed to give me any British Pounds Sterling. Like my oyster card, which required a top up, only to be made effectively null and void thanks to an absence of Piccadilly Line trains. But, as with the British battlers before me, I eventually made it and arrived in London Paddington Station for the umpteenth time, set to see how the capital was coping with financial meltdown, substandard coffee and a government of Etonian prefects led by a somewhat smug head boy.
Not much had changed with the weather. Greyness gave way to drizzle which gave way to a downpour which gave way to me buying a rather fetching umbrella emblazoned with ‘I Love London’. I hope to think the thousands of other people trudging around the capital saw the same sense of irony as me (they probably did, being British and all). Mercifully, the British boozer with warm ale was alive and well, prospering as things get more miserable than ever. With the rain teeming down and squelchy trainers, the best bet was to dive into any of the hundreds of proper pubs or other. In such times, a pint of warm ale is far superior to a frigid schooner of undistinguishable pissy liquid. Alas, offsetting this one
cultural highlight was the continued bombardment of lame chains and their crappy coffees. An apparent innovation (a ‘flat white’ now available in some places) let down by the, er, taste and complexion... so pretty much everything you want in a coffee. Still, regardless of fluid highs or lows, it was nice to be inside, sharing them with old friends.
Not every one of those friends was as old as me however, as I struck another birthday on my second day in London. Like me, the day was bright and sunny and rather pleasant, spreading a warm glow over all around. I’m sure Caroline, who showed me around the sights of Hertfordshire, was dazzled by my radiance! It was, for a birthday, a rather nice day in fact, getting a dose of olde England at St Albans and Hertford. There was even a proper(ish) cream tea involved... proper cream but not much of it and a setting to die for, or more likely, die in.
From quintessential Englishness to North London Turkish, with a lurverly dinner with pals in the evening, despite the birthday candle and lights off dessert... one of those things which you hate at the time (“I don’t want the attention or fuss”) but secretly love (“gimme attention and fuss now, it’s my birthday!”).
Now feeling incredibly old, it was a battle to rise the next morning and get on the Northern Line once again for the cheery and breezy jaunt through the ground to Waterloo. It seems historically inappropriate that Waterloo station should include a Delice de France, but then I’m forgetting this is one of those chains likely emanating from somewhere such as Burnley rather than Bordeaux. Or Basingstoke, which was where I was off to next.
Down in Rainingstoke the weather was doing its best to confine activity to eating, napping, trips to Morrisons with Dad and avoidance of Strictly; alas there was a clear slot on the Saturday and perfect opportunity for southern England gorgeousness (minus zillions of roundabouts on the way).
Corfe is a lot like Corfu, in so much that it shares the first four letters. Other than that, it is a quaint, slightly twee Dorset village strategically situated in a gap in the rolling ridge of the Purbeck Hills. Here Land Rovers, tweed jackets and big green wellies concealing twin bore shooting sticks seem – unlike in most places – not out of place. In past times, buxom wenches would likely be serving
you flagons of ale from the nearby castle, but today the castle is just a ruin (with no buxom wenches). I say just a ruin, but in comparison to other ruins, say, for instance, Peter Andre’s music career, it is up there with the best of them.
For a start, the setting is pretty much exquisite. Whoever built this castle knew a prime piece of real estate if ever they saw one: expansive views across the fields to subjugate the peasants and marauding invaders, protection atop a heavily banked hill (or in real estate parlance “superlative private setting ideal for flinging hot tar and dead animals at the French”), pub down the road (quite possibly with buxom wenches)...
Unlike some other ruins, much of the castle is still intact, meaning you don’t have to be the most imaginative genius to picture the scene a thousand years back. So this is the kitchen diner, here is the outhouse...oh look mummy, here’s the torture chamber. Splendidly, once you have paid the man in the tweed jacket and green wellies, you are quite welcome to wander around the ruins at your own pace, from room to room, crumbly old brick to crumbly old brick.
Leaving Corfe Castle, it’s not like you are exactly thrust straight back into 2010. Sure, there is some traffic around, people with iPods and news of more savage spending cuts, but the village of Corfe itself seems to hark back to the good old days, when the British were all stiff upper lipped, eating tripe and onions and catching steam trains to the big smoke. A land of hope, a land of glory, a land of Thomas the Tank Engine narrated by Ringo Starr before it got all high tech on us. Down at Corfe station, Dad, Sonia and I were like the wooden figures boarding the train to Swanage as Ringo told us in his Liverpudlian drawl of another busy Saturday down at the station where John and Paul were yet again getting all the attention the talented b*stards youse...
There were no dramatic incidents requiring the intervention of the fat controller on the journey to Swanage, itself a town harking back to glory days of seaside holidays, deckchairs and saucy postcards with Mr Whippy. However, there was an air of refinement about the place, a nice light and tranquil setting spilling down from the chalk hills along Poole Bay.
A very British beach with a modest pier, arcade machines, and, oh yeah, fish and chips.
Fish and chips: the litmus test (or, on Purbeck, perhaps the isthmus test) of whether I am British or Australian... the contest you have all been waiting for... which fish and chips are better? Well, friends, Britain wins chips quite comprehensively, there’s no way a pile of salty fries can compete with chunky lard fuelled potato with malt vinegar and salt you add yourself. With the fish, it’s closer. Freshness and quality is generally good in Australia. Quantity better in Britain. And, since I am fast becoming a fat b*stard, Britain therefore wins. Hurrah, I am still British, and pledge my support to England in the forthcoming Ashes clashes!
And with that, via some very British rain on Sunday, I am once again patriotically leaving these shores for the continent.
I still have a sense of belonging here, it just takes a while to resurrect itself. Much like my passport, battered and bruised from seven years of junkets, which failed to scan and for a time got a little part of my head thinking ‘ uh-oh, cavity search’!! Like my bankcards, which on the first few goes, failed to give me any British Pounds Sterling. Like my oyster card, which required a top up, only to be made effectively null and void thanks to an absence of Piccadilly Line trains. But, as with the British battlers before me, I eventually made it and arrived in London Paddington Station for the umpteenth time, set to see how the capital was coping with financial meltdown, substandard coffee and a government of Etonian prefects led by a somewhat smug head boy.
Not much had changed with the weather. Greyness gave way to drizzle which gave way to a downpour which gave way to me buying a rather fetching umbrella emblazoned with ‘I Love London’. I hope to think the thousands of other people trudging around the capital saw the same sense of irony as me (they probably did, being British and all). Mercifully, the British boozer with warm ale was alive and well, prospering as things get more miserable than ever. With the rain teeming down and squelchy trainers, the best bet was to dive into any of the hundreds of proper pubs or other. In such times, a pint of warm ale is far superior to a frigid schooner of undistinguishable pissy liquid. Alas, offsetting this one
cultural highlight was the continued bombardment of lame chains and their crappy coffees. An apparent innovation (a ‘flat white’ now available in some places) let down by the, er, taste and complexion... so pretty much everything you want in a coffee. Still, regardless of fluid highs or lows, it was nice to be inside, sharing them with old friends.Not every one of those friends was as old as me however, as I struck another birthday on my second day in London. Like me, the day was bright and sunny and rather pleasant, spreading a warm glow over all around. I’m sure Caroline, who showed me around the sights of Hertfordshire, was dazzled by my radiance! It was, for a birthday, a rather nice day in fact, getting a dose of olde England at St Albans and Hertford. There was even a proper(ish) cream tea involved... proper cream but not much of it and a setting to die for, or more likely, die in.
From quintessential Englishness to North London Turkish, with a lurverly dinner with pals in the evening, despite the birthday candle and lights off dessert... one of those things which you hate at the time (“I don’t want the attention or fuss”) but secretly love (“gimme attention and fuss now, it’s my birthday!”).
Now feeling incredibly old, it was a battle to rise the next morning and get on the Northern Line once again for the cheery and breezy jaunt through the ground to Waterloo. It seems historically inappropriate that Waterloo station should include a Delice de France, but then I’m forgetting this is one of those chains likely emanating from somewhere such as Burnley rather than Bordeaux. Or Basingstoke, which was where I was off to next.
Down in Rainingstoke the weather was doing its best to confine activity to eating, napping, trips to Morrisons with Dad and avoidance of Strictly; alas there was a clear slot on the Saturday and perfect opportunity for southern England gorgeousness (minus zillions of roundabouts on the way).Corfe is a lot like Corfu, in so much that it shares the first four letters. Other than that, it is a quaint, slightly twee Dorset village strategically situated in a gap in the rolling ridge of the Purbeck Hills. Here Land Rovers, tweed jackets and big green wellies concealing twin bore shooting sticks seem – unlike in most places – not out of place. In past times, buxom wenches would likely be serving
you flagons of ale from the nearby castle, but today the castle is just a ruin (with no buxom wenches). I say just a ruin, but in comparison to other ruins, say, for instance, Peter Andre’s music career, it is up there with the best of them.For a start, the setting is pretty much exquisite. Whoever built this castle knew a prime piece of real estate if ever they saw one: expansive views across the fields to subjugate the peasants and marauding invaders, protection atop a heavily banked hill (or in real estate parlance “superlative private setting ideal for flinging hot tar and dead animals at the French”), pub down the road (quite possibly with buxom wenches)...
Unlike some other ruins, much of the castle is still intact, meaning you don’t have to be the most imaginative genius to picture the scene a thousand years back. So this is the kitchen diner, here is the outhouse...oh look mummy, here’s the torture chamber. Splendidly, once you have paid the man in the tweed jacket and green wellies, you are quite welcome to wander around the ruins at your own pace, from room to room, crumbly old brick to crumbly old brick.
Leaving Corfe Castle, it’s not like you are exactly thrust straight back into 2010. Sure, there is some traffic around, people with iPods and news of more savage spending cuts, but the village of Corfe itself seems to hark back to the good old days, when the British were all stiff upper lipped, eating tripe and onions and catching steam trains to the big smoke. A land of hope, a land of glory, a land of Thomas the Tank Engine narrated by Ringo Starr before it got all high tech on us. Down at Corfe station, Dad, Sonia and I were like the wooden figures boarding the train to Swanage as Ringo told us in his Liverpudlian drawl of another busy Saturday down at the station where John and Paul were yet again getting all the attention the talented b*stards youse...
There were no dramatic incidents requiring the intervention of the fat controller on the journey to Swanage, itself a town harking back to glory days of seaside holidays, deckchairs and saucy postcards with Mr Whippy. However, there was an air of refinement about the place, a nice light and tranquil setting spilling down from the chalk hills along Poole Bay.
A very British beach with a modest pier, arcade machines, and, oh yeah, fish and chips.Fish and chips: the litmus test (or, on Purbeck, perhaps the isthmus test) of whether I am British or Australian... the contest you have all been waiting for... which fish and chips are better? Well, friends, Britain wins chips quite comprehensively, there’s no way a pile of salty fries can compete with chunky lard fuelled potato with malt vinegar and salt you add yourself. With the fish, it’s closer. Freshness and quality is generally good in Australia. Quantity better in Britain. And, since I am fast becoming a fat b*stard, Britain therefore wins. Hurrah, I am still British, and pledge my support to England in the forthcoming Ashes clashes!
And with that, via some very British rain on Sunday, I am once again patriotically leaving these shores for the continent.
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