England

“The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.”

Maya Angelou

England. That green and pleasant land.

I don’t think I realised how much I loved it until I left.

But that’s how it goes, right? You don’t tend to see the magic when you’re standing in it. Not really.

You notice the inconveniences. The drizzle that gets in your socks. The greyness hanging over you all February, stealing away any remaining holiday festiveness. The relentless moaning. The constant damp. The way most people get a bit twitchy if you stand too close at a bus stop, or if you dare to try to make small talk.

And yet, when I think of home, I think of England. I think of all of it. I think of the whole muddled, glorious, contradictory lot of it. I think of it, and I tend to smile.

I was born and raised in the South East of England, nestled perfectly between the stark concrete, steel and glass of London, and the folds of a calmer, greener, somewhat more natural Surrey landscape. A landscape that doesn’t shout about itself. Not dramatic like New Zealand, not sun-drenched like the south of Spain. But gentle. Green. Familiar. Beautiful in that quiet, mossy, ancient way.

It’s the sort of epic beauty I now notice most when I’m staring at it through an aeroplane window, descending into Heathrow after far too long away. The patchwork fields. The grey-blue hue of the misty morning light. The country roads, neat hedgerows and mighty oaks. That first glimpse of England always hits me hard, it brings back strong emotions, like a song I’d forgotten about but still know all the words to.

We had a nice house. Not extravagant, but perfect for our little family. Our garden had a hand-built barbecue (seemingly something of a tradition in the houses we lived in), just bricks and metal and coal. My dad would grow vegetables in the greenhouse. All sorts of plants, mostly in old broken pots. Even now, I still remember tomatoes so fresh they seemed to hold all the warmth of the sun, sweet enough to eat like fruit.

We weren’t fancy, but we ate well. Not in the gourmet sense, but in the homely sense. Food was something we did together. My sister and I would sit on the kitchen counter while our Dad cooked, watching him move his way through his tried and tested recipes with a kind of casual ceremony. He always let us help, sometimes stirring, sometimes peeling, sometimes just tasting and being there.

That kitchen was where I learnt how to scale a fish, prepare a chicken, break down a shoulder of lamb. I knew the meat and the animal, and understood that death was a part of eating meat. It sounds grim, but there was honesty in it. There was love in it. A respect for the process and the animal. A grounding. It was honest cooking.

Now, all these years later, when I’m far away and need to feel tethered to something solid, I crave the food of England. Not because it’s fancy, but because it feels like home. A roast dinner on a grey Sunday. A deep, dark beef stew with dumplings. Bread and butter pudding with custard, thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. These aren’t just meals to me, they’re memories.

London came later, and it swept me up in the way that only London can. It’s not a city that gives itself to you straight away. It’s cold. Complicated. It doesn’t give you a big hug when you arrive, offer you a seat on the bus or pretend to care if you’re impressed. But it has a rhythm and a style that slowly seeps into your bones. And once it’s in you, that’s it. London is not just a city; it’s a living, beating,  breathing thing. A mess of contradictions. Brutal and beautiful. Loud and lonely. But also timeless and ever-changing. It doesn’t try to be anything other than itself, and that, in a world of curated cities and carbon copies, is something quite rare.

It’s because most people in London are from somewhere else. And that, I feel, is the whole point. It’s a city that’s built on migration, movement, making do. It’s a place where Brixton can feel like the Caribbean, where Whitechapel can feel like Bangladesh, where entire communities can thrive in tucked-away alleyways near tube stops you’ve never had a reason to visit, until you do.

In the winter, the night hits too early. You can almost feel it from the first light of the morning, waiting to envelope the world in darkness. But it’s not a bad type of darkness. It brings with it open fires, mulled wine, a festiveness and an atmosphere that you can’t help but love. Walking down the street, you could easily turn in on yourself. Hiding every exposed piece of skin under fabric, tucking your hands deep into your pockets, trying to fend off the bitter heavy winter cold. But head inside, and the contrast couldn’t be any greater. Big hugs, groups of friends, cheer in the air, a community feel and an outwards way of living. Winter in England is bitter. It’s dark, it’s cold, it’s damp. It’s harsh. But we always make the most of it. Brits were built for these days, and we approach them with optimism, stubbornness, and perhaps a little too much alcohol.

You can always tell when the season begins to change. Not just by the weather, but by the way people start to behave. As spring begins to turn to summer, there is always an essence of distrust. Is this really it? Can I wear shorts to the office? Will I regret leaving the house without a jacket? Is it some cruel joke before another three weeks of grey and cold? But then the food begins to change. Asparagus starts to show up, crisp leaves and fresh fruits in the markets, and the hungry gap starts to close. I always get excited to unpack the barbecue, to begin the season of smoking meats and cooking every meal over fire, even if I still need to wear a hoodie while doing it. London changes tone. People thaw. They move slower, smile more. They start meeting in the parks, drinking in the streets, relaxing under trees. Everyone wants to be outside. Everyone is chasing the sun.

I think there is no better time to be in London than the summer. There may be no better city in the world than London in the heart of the British summer.

Sometimes, in those summer months, I’d just walk. Aimlessly. At lunch, after work or on the weekends. From one end of the city to the other. Not to get anywhere in particular, but just to be there, and to see and feel the city in all its chaos and charm and food and noise. From Victoria to Bethnal Green. Farringdon to Streatham. Walking was how I learned the city. Not through a map, but through the hidden gems you found in each corner, each changing shopfront, each new smell of a food I don’t recognise but always desperately wanted to try. You miss too much underground. In my mind, the only way to see London is on foot. Eyes up, taste buds at the ready, and your ears tuned to the sounds of the multitude of languages being spoken around you.

You turn a corner and find a cafe that wasn’t there last week. You stop for something small to eat, something big to drink, something new to see. London doesn’t stop changing, and somehow that constant change makes it feel more like home.

I definitely miss that. I miss England. I miss the relentless complaining about the weather. I miss the community that forms around the adversity. The instinct to huddle up. The unspoken agreement that we’ll find joy in the bleakness, even if we have to drink three pints and eat a sausage roll to get there. I miss the fog in the mornings that makes the skyline look soft and magical. I miss the mess of it all. The stubbornness. The subtlety. The chip butties with too much vinegar. The fact that one of our national dishes is curry. The constant feeling that we’re always on the verge of falling apart as a culture, but somehow we never do.

But for all this love, for all the thick, weighted affection I carry, England is no longer where I need to be.

I needed something warmer. Kinder. A place where the seasons don’t define your state of mind. A place with space. With the sea. With softness. It took leaving to realise how deep my roots go, but I know now that roots aren’t shackles. You can love a place with every fibre of your being and still know you have to go. You can carry it with you. Let it shape you. Let it live in your food, in your stories, in your memories. You can honour it by stepping away, by making something new somewhere else.

And still, still, when I need it most, when I need home, I look past the rain-drenched streets, towards England. Towards London. Still, every time I see the British coastline from a plane window, when the fields come into view, when the light gets a little paler, when the landscape begins to look familiar in that way only home can be, I feel it. The ache. The pull. The quiet whisper: this is where you’re from.

London is, was, and always will be, my city. My favourite city. England, my country. My foundation. The start of my memory. My grief and my joy. The place I came from. The place that made me who I am.

But not, anymore, the place I need to stay.

And that, somehow, will only ever deepen my love for it.