RUNNING AWAY

I was talking to my neighbour the other day. What with the apparent unhappy state of the country and the dark days of Winter ahead, we talked (not very seriously) about going to live abroad – somewhere warm, by the sea, a small Greek Island, perhaps.

I’d never do it, of course, because of my children and grandchildren. Yes, they’d come and visit me occasionally on my island, I expect, but I couldn’t be so far away from them. At the moment, I have one living five minutes down the road, one three hours up the M5, one four hours up the M5/M4 (including grandchildren) and one living at home while between jobs. That’s pretty cosy compared with some families, and I know how lucky I am.

Also, I have witnessed some pretty unhappy ex-pat living. Years ago, I went on holiday to Malta with my parents. We were invited to dinner by the mother of someone I worked with, who following her husband’s death, had made a new life in Malta. She was a charming host and had gathered together three English couples to join us, who were also permanent residents. I was years younger than anyone else at the table, but even I could see how homesick everyone was. All they wanted to do was to quiz my parents about England and to reminisce about the life they’d lost. To add to their misery, in those days living in Malta was expensive and they were all running out of money – to such an extent, that one couple couldn’t even afford to go back home for their daughter’s wedding.

Some years later, helping out with my husband’s business, I regularly visited a small community in the north of Sardinia. There were about fifteen villas, largely owned by ex-pat English couples. We were only there during the summer months, so each autumn we would say goodbye to everyone and then would return again in late Spring. It was all very confusing. Clearly, during the winter, they had read all the books they possessed, played endless games of backgammon and then run out of things to do. So, we’d come back to find pretty much everyone had changed partners!

You can understand, therefore, why I am content to stay in Trencrom, despite the weather, our politicians, the struggling NHS and potholes.