Arrival...England

Arriving in London we were greeted with a sign bearing our surname.

 If we’d had the presence of mind we should have got them to hold up ‘Foreign Idiots’, because that’s how I would feel, blundering about the business of trying to connect with a new place over the ensuing week.

But, back at this point in time I was sitting jet lagged in a taxi staring at the passing pony dotted allotments and quaint housing, with a ridiculous grin on my face. We had made it! If we died in a horrible crash right now, I would still be chuffed that we’d got here. Well, maybe not.

 London traffic was suffering from Olympic asphyxiation, hence we got the slow scenic taxi route to my brother and sister-in-laws in North London.

After a lovely reunion, our 3 year old nephew , Oscar, gave us a tour of his local

park, pointing things out from his little wooden scooter in a cute English accent. Funny that my Aussie brother and his Kiwi partner should produce two very English children. My brother is just as mystified by this, but at least confident they are in fact his children, which is all you can ask for really.

Queens Park is an emerald oasis surrounded by streets of terraces from the reign of lets say, Queen Eudora, as I am not sure how old they are, but they aren’t new. So, Eudorian terraces with checkerboard tiled paths, brightly painted doors and roses and honey-suckle spewing politely over little garden walls. Probably enough Dom Perignon in kitchens to create a really lovely carbonated moat around the park.

The park itself is impressive and had so many things- (petting corner, sandpit the size of Tatooine, formal garden [‘NO DOGS OR ANNOYING PEOPLE PLEASE”], playgrounds etc). There was a lot to take in but pouring rain streamlined our priorities and we could only take in a really awful coffee with a placatingly good brekky at the café, staring in wonder at the baskets of begonias the size of your head and the cute blood wars between bird and squirrel for scraps.

A day and a half in London was all we had (used for such boring tasks as bank set-up, phone plans, admiring dogs in prams) before we were whimpering with fright, following my sister in law and children out of London, in our rental car. Sure, they drive here on the same side of the road as us, but only if there aren’t cars parked along  your lane or if there is more than one lane. Perhaps there should be different classes of License to be allowed to drive in other countries. You could get say a Beige card for Sydney (behaved but really up tight), a Blue card for London (just make it down this road with your side mirrors on), progress to say a Green card for Italy (‘STOP’ is just a suggestion) and end up with say a Gold for somewhere like China (Keep your hand depressed on the horn and feel free to drive through red lights or into buildings). But no, we just had to upgrade on the run. At least the run had pretty trees and grass on the roadsides- like having a heart attack while gazing at a Monet.

We did eventually reach the New Forest in Hampshire where our trauma was eased in a very fine Pub called The White Rabbit. It was all nooks and beams to the wahzoo (which really floats my boat), so I had to try a local cider and really pop the icing on it. I was a bit confused by the flatness and warmness of my beverage, named Rosie’s Scrumpy. It was okay, as far as tepid watery apply juice goes,  but only a fifth cousin of what I was expecting so I can only give it a 5 and hope the bartender was not under the bar peeing himself stupid at what the ignorant tourists will swallow. The platter I shared was however very fine- a sort of English tourist in Majorca- pasties and pickles and cheese with hommous and olives and tomatoes. On the walls of the pub were photos and pictures of times gone by in the local area, including a shot of the famous local snake catcher who rid the forest of these nasty beasties by the tens of thousands. I couldn’t help thinking’ “They’re not real snakes! If ya wanna see a REAL snake mate, come to Australia.”

But I guess he chose life and more attainable fame.

The New Forest in no particular order contains Robin- Hood worthy forests, heath land, Anglo-porn cottages, deer, ponies and my grandmother,  which makes her sound like a fairy book character. But it is a bit of a fairy story that I get to see her as she isn’t at all well and the farewell we took five years ago, I’m sure she thought was final. I love people being proved wrong, as long as it’s not myself, so it was doubly great to see her. Na, na, we’re back!

Visits being short as they were and needing to burn off some Full English fat, we headed off like excited labradoodles to see Winchester and begin that tiny detail of finding a job, home and schools.

Seeing signs for Winchester coming up was very exciting. For me. The kids did look up for a nano-second from their electrical devices, but Fil was simply focused on not Liverpool kissing the oncoming traffic.

 Winchester, that place we’ll call home. Winchester, that place that we love. Winchester, that place that we’ve never even bloody been to before-

 HERE WE COME!!!