While it is true that travel broadens the mind, it also brings ones home country into sharp relief. Not so sharp as to be a shock, but sharp enough for me to be thinking, really? Is this what we do now? I mean, we’ve only been pottering around Europe for two years, on and off, but that’s plenty of time, apparently, for Britain to have moved on without us. As Marcel Proust once said: –
‘The only real voyage of discovery consists, not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.’
Consequently, there are lots of little things that I’m sure I’d never have noticed, except that we now have ‘new eyes’.
For instance, it seems a law may have been passed ordering everyone to get an ALEXA. Which is fine, unless your name is Alexa, in which case it must be absolute pants. I have a ‘Steve’, which works pretty much the same and cost a lot less.
And somehow all the bollards in Bath have been replaced with Stanley screwdrivers.
I rest my case.
And, sweet baby Jesus, how come there are now adverts telling us to buy shampoo that is gluten-free. Gluten-free? When did hair, of all things, become gluten-intolerant? How is this even possible, and, frankly, how would you know? It’s not like your hair can come out in spots (though that would be cool).
Let’s talk about …
Signage
When we’re travelling we are used to road signs that are either a bit of a challenge, or rather funny. But I’ve always thought the ones we left behind in the UK – well, they’re just normal, surely? Actually, no.
Take cat’s eyes. We’ve driven through fifteen countries now and most of them don’t use Cat’s Eyes – those little studs we have in the middle of the road with reflective glass in them. They are brilliant, and they cut down accidents HUGELY, but many visitors to our shores are completely unfamiliar with them.
So – at best – this is baffling to them: –
And, at worst – if you add in the British sense of humour – then the result is probably quite traumatic.
And while we’re on the subject of signs, let us consider Chelwood. Which pointedly informs me that it is a thankful village. Er, what? How, how do you quantify this? And why? I mean, was there a poll?
I pass through every time I go to the airport and, at first, I tried to work out how thankful each villager had to be, on average, in order to add up to a whole village’s worth of gratitude. I simply couldn’t figure it out.
And, to be fair, it came across as just a little bit bossy – less of a boast and more of a command: be thankful while you drive through here, or else! I’d often end up quite cross. By the time I was out the other side I was frequently swearing (ok, not that unusual).
Eventually I decided to stop being lazy and Google it (which is where Alexa has one up on Steve, I suppose), and now I’m really embarrassed: a ‘thankful village’ is one where every occupant survived the First World War. Oh, ok then. Quite right. So now you know.
The artisan invasion
Since we came back, it has become clear that it’s not worth getting out of bed in the morning unless one is ‘Artisanal’. Honestly, the word is everywhere. When we left there were a few artisan bakers, charging the cost of a small country for each carefully hand-kneaded loaf.
But now everything has the word ‘Artisan’ in front, as if this guarantees its superiority and quality. The only thing it actually guarantees is that it now costs at least twice as much, and is probably a bit knocked-about looking.
My favourite use of this word was on a sign I saw for Artisanal Hand-made Sandwiches. I’m not even joking – sandwiches! So how exactly were we making them before? Or did we just have the wrong sort of hands, i.e. not artisanal enough?
Kids today
The latest crazes are demonstrated to us when we visit my niece, and her two lovely daughters.
First, there is ‘Flossing’; a strangely difficult, but wildly popular, dance-move, that doesn’t even look good once you’ve mastered it. Invented by a Russian kid in the summer of 2016, it became a huge Internet hit, and was subsequently featured in the popular computer game, Fortnite. You’ll have to YouTube it, because words can’t describe. I can actually Floss, but I wish I couldn’t because I look as if I’ve run out of medication.
Then there’s ‘Slime’, which is made from a mixture of contact lens cleaner, bicarbonate of soda, and glitter. Opticians all over the country are now freaking out about empty shelves.
The stuff is mixed up and then, basically, handled. That’s kind of it (although they did show me how to make a brief bubble out of it, as, you know, an extra bit of excitement).
Under the heading, ‘we made our own entertainment in those days’, it is all perfectly fine, if a bit bewildering.
Dressing up
There are many, many fabulous, chic, outrageous, inventive, or stylish trend-setters amongst the Brits, but it has to be said that they are not in the majority. In general, most Brits like to fit in with the people around them and therefore they base their style choices on that of your average Maths Teacher (and I should know, I’m one of them).
But if you want a bit of dress-up, then look no further than when The Jane Austen Festival hits the streets of Bath. At this point I’d like to say that when we were in Cesky Krumlov, for The Five-Petaled Rose Celebrations, the whole town was involved and it was proper feasting and fun everywhere. (Read more about Cesky Krumlov here.)
But in Bath? Not quite so much. We’re vaguely aware that there is something going on up at the Royal Crescent, and things may be happening at other venues. But only for the people with tickets – the ones in costume. The rest of us haven’t got a clue.
The first that most of us know it’s even on, is when people in bonnets and breeches start crossing the road in front of us, or clog up the queues at Waitrose, fiddling with tiny velvet purses and uncomfortable gloves.
The shops aren’t all decorated, and there are no posters. The streets have not suddenly morphed into Regency England, and there are no stalls selling things with odd names and no purpose. It could be like the ‘Who will buy’ number from the musical, Oliver. Instead it is all spectacularly underwhelming.
Consequently, they tend to stick out a bit, because this is Bath, and we are posh. But if they tootled down the road to just past Shepton Mallet, and went into The Caravan and Camping Show, I reckon they’d pass completely unnoticed.
Camping shows
We try and visit at least one of these each time we’re home, because they have a wealth of gadgets for life on wheels, and, anyway, these are our people.
But many of them do dress differently, it must be said: if they aren’t in practical fleeces and flowered cotton trousers, then they are tattooed and in leather. There is a strong element of guys who once went everywhere on their motorbikes, now needing the comfort of a motorhome instead. And, of course, there are the free spirits, who want a simple life and tend to favour a lot of rainbows. Like these charmers.
I reckon the whiskers of a Georgian gentleman would be fairly low-key here.
Harry (Prince)
We have arrived home in time to see Prince Harry and Meghan Markle tie the knot. Now, the Brits love any reason to throw a party, have a beer (or, better yet, a Prosecco), and generally swank in front of the neighbours, and nothing achieves this better than a Royal wedding.
Overnight, the kind of people who’d usually mutter darkly about ‘how much the Royal Family costs us,’ and ‘what do they actually do?’ forget all that for a day, dress up, hang bunting and get happily sloshed.
Local pubs, cafes and restaurants all try to cash in on the deal. We spotted one place offering a cocktail called The Ginger Prince (not cool, guys), and including Coronation (?) Chicken Sliders in its hamper. Also on the menu was a BBQ pulled pork scotch egg: which is obviously traditional…….to absolutely no one. All totally illogical and, therefore, completely British.
The day after the wedding, everyone got back to normal: the Internet was full of wittily-dubbed videos of what people imagined Harry was saying to Wills before the bride arrived, and the papers were trying not to snigger at the over-inspired, ranty, Bishop.
Harry (Potter)
Once just a set of children’s books, the whole Harry Potter thing is now a staple of British life. The generation that originally read them have reached their late twenties, so all things Harry are considered mainstream.
Take our local craft store (note – not a toy shop): unable to escape the Maths Teacher look themselves, they’ve made themselves a ‘Dobby’, and now they dress him up according to the season.
It’s not like he’s even friendly looking, and he’s right behind the till!
. . . . . . . . . .
I love all this. I love the bonkers signage, the bunting be-decked street parties, the almost invisible festivals, and the devil-may-care costumes. I love that every fish and chip shop or hairdresser’s must have a pun in the title, preferably a bad one. And that even if your parents had a brain-fart and gave you a terrible name yourself, it’s still, ‘flaunt it, baby, flaunt it’.
As we start the countdown to our next departure, I find I’m looking forward immensely to what Britain will have waiting for us on our return.
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