Pommies, in Australia, are famous for what the Aussies call ‘whinging’. Whether this is born of character or homesickness is debatable but, in the past, I have gone out of my way to resist the affliction. Returning to England this winter, however, my resolve was undone and I’ve been ‘whinging’ for Britain ever since.
My stepfather advised, ‘Never marry out of your class, it will lead to great unhappiness’, but, at the age of 24 and ornery, I promptly married both out of my class and country. Thirty years later I can confirm that he was wrong. Marrying outside my social class (I was upstairs, he was downstairs) has not led to ‘great unhappiness’. To the contrary, it opened my world, balanced my views, produced three spectacular children and, the clincher, I’m still married to the bugger. Not living in the country of my birth, however, (while ‘unhappiness’ would be too strong a word) recently rocked me with such a force of regret and sadness that I needed a large teaspoon of gripe water and a good lie-down in the bed I have made for myself.
Of course, spending Christmas in a farmhouse on the Welsh borders with two of my oldest girlfriends is a recipe for misgivings. Purple clouds scudding over hills of brown bracken, the crimson coats of huntsmen and steaming mulled wine at the Boxing Day meet, the smell of smoke and horse dung in the puddled yard, the walks to pubs in borrowed green gumboots, the low-beamed, twinkling camaraderie inside, the instinctive friendships between our children and, most of all, the sinking into that state of belonging so at odds with the expat experience, all tugs and tears at the heart with surprising intensity.
So much intensity that surely the attachment cannot be measured by such a short occupancy in the country of birth.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in