Moving Back

Is moving back actually moving forward?

Ten years ago, we moved from England to France when a terror attack in Glasgow airport brought back memories of 7/7 bombings in London and Gordon Brown replaced Tony Blair on the political throne. Terrorism remains a constant thorn in our sides and Brexit has added a new ingredient to the pot. Change is bound to happen. One can never go back to a former lover and expect the same. Both partners move on. As we prepare for our re-entry into Britain, I wonder what lies in store for us.

A decade in France and Netherlands has changed us in ways we don’t even recognise. Driving on the right-hand side of the road seems normal. Spending time in cafes, in pretty squares fenced in by historic buildings have become a way of life. We have eaten French tripe sausages and snails, Dutch bitterballens, krokets and pancakes. Dazzled by the range of cheeses and wines, we have allowed ourselves to become food snobs, quite unaware that when we order a wine we like to know the terroir. ‘Is the rose from the Camargue?’ I ask a baffled waiter in Nijmegen. He doesn’t know and has to ask the manager. I hesitantly order a kir, wondering if they’ll know to mix cassis and wine to make my favourite apero. Cheap red wines give me migraines, I hear myself say. I’m all right with a Chateauneuf du Pape.

The French may have haute cuisine but we have longed for English culinary goodies - steak and kidney pies, fish and chips and hot desserts like jam roly poly with lashings of yellow custard. House guests are asked to bring PG Tips teabags and Heinz salad cream. Indian spices are available widely but the love of English food – baked beans and Marmite I’m sorry to report is not something the Europeans share. In fact, the general opinion is that the English can’t cook, that over-boiled vegetables and bland meat constitute la cuisine anglaise. But we have been zealous champions of pies as much as curries and I do believe that the Europeans now have a better idea of the force of the fork across the Channel.

As I reflect on my time in mainland Europe I am pleased with my achievements. I have paraglided over an Alpine valley, taught English as a Foreign language, published my debut novel Under the Pipal Tree and typed The End to the first draft of my domestic noir, No Missed Call. I speak French and have achieved my ambition of reading the original versions of L’Etranger by Camus and Le Misanthrope by Moliere. I have a basic grasp of Dutch and am now learning German.

If this sounds to you like listing accomplishments and boasting on social media, it’s not meant to be. Rather, it’s reassuring myself that although I have not been in full-time employment, I have lived life to the full and pushed personal boundaries. Indeed, in life as on the roads, when you cross a border, the instant change of culture and environment hits you like a warm flannel on cold cheeks. In French, a border is a limit. I like the idea of a metaphorical road trip, of reaching the limit of a country, beyond which new adventures beckon.

From chaotic roads in southern France to disciplined pedestrian crossings in the Netherlands, it has been a journey full of wonder and ‘Ah’ moments. It’s a constant process of learning new things.

Therefore, I ask myself, is going back actually going forward?

We are moving back to England to live. I repeat this mantra as I pack ten years into boxes. Ca va aller, it’s going to be all right.

What would it be like? It’s the same house but different us. The children have grown up, the neighbours have retired. No more frantic school runs and chatting with other mums in the school playground. No more Sunday nights fretting over - are their uniforms clean, have they done their homework, have I got something clean, smart and ironed to wear for work? Who is taking them to the dentist? GCSEs, A levels, a thing of the past. We missed out on most of their university years. We were abroad, so they scarcely had the excuse of bringing home dirty laundry. They tried.

We are entering a new phase of life - semi retirement. In clearer terms, it’s working part-time to occupy ourselves while pursuing hobbies. My hobby of Writing, will continue to be my profession for this golden period when our duties are done: mortgage paid, children independent, leaving us free to renovate our house and re-invent ourselves.

That’s definitely a way forward, don’t you agree? Please leave comments below or share your experiences.