Home Thoughts from Abroad

The question of where we each 'belong' is a complicated issue. Man has moved around the world since time began. So, to live as a foreigner in a strange land is certainly not new , and talk of a pure race is undoubtedly poppycock. After all, even Homo Sapiens bear traces of Neanderthal. As people move around they become assimilated into their new regions and countries. B. 's antecedents settled in Africa two generations ago, so inevitably his roots are not so firmly planted in one European culture. But although my grandfather, an Anglo Indian , only came to England at the very beginning of the twentieth century, I have always felt exclusively English. Nowadays however, I also feel an enormous loyalty towards France. But there are undoubtedly things about England that I miss. This current holiday in Britain allows me to see the country of my birth afresh, and take stock. Perhaps it is significant that I first wanted to head to the North of England, where I was born, for it is the moors and mountains of the North that I miss the most.

Whilst Robert Browning dreamed of April in his famous poem 'Home Thoughts from Abroad,' we expats often dream of baser things. France may be full of cafés and bars, but I sometimes long for the ambience of a British 'pub' with its sweet, slightly sour smell of ale, and a roaring wood fire to stave off the cold. Perhaps that is why we now find ourselves staying in the famous Slad Valley in Gloucestershire, which is home to 'The Woolpack Inn. ' This traditional British pub was once frequented by the writer Laurie Lee who was brought up in this Cotswold village . When we called in yesterday, the weather was wet but mild, yet still a fire burned brightly. Beyond the bar you can see the beautiful Slad Valley where the stately trees are just beginning to turn a golden brown.

Whilst I dream about cosy British pubs, B. dreams of the fine British ale that they serve. Sadly, he could not find a single pub in the centre of York which could offer this to him. Every beer that they served there was 'top pressure,' and not fine cask ale. The 'Woolpack Inn 'does provide local unpressurised, living beer , brewed by Uley Ales and Stroud Brewery , and served from four stout beer engines , with their fine tall handles standing upright at the bar. Cheers!

As we stroll to the pub, the Slad valley is a beautiful sight, and it is this view that I will recall when I have returned to France . I will remember the bright emerald grass, grazing animals, and cottages and walls built from golden Cotswold stone. I will also recall how once ,the local villagers of Slad would walk the two or three miles into Stroud every day, in order to work in the large woollen mills there, as described in Laurie Lee's evocative book, 'Cider With Rosie.'

But my home is in France now, so what do I dream of when I am away? I dream of the winter birds who will come to our balcony, and peck at the scarlet skimmia berries beneath. I dream of the forest with its smell of pine, and the dry pine needles that carpet our peaceful walks even in winter. I dream of the cliffs of the Cirque du Bout du Monde which we look out at every day, and finally I dream of the sunsets that regularly light up the sky as evening falls. We are indeed fortunate to be returning there soon.