Home and away

The Outsider is back ‘outside’, so to speak: currently returned in the land of my birth, doing my duty and taking little Z to see his grandparents. And, as was to be expected we are being right royally fussed over. "Another cup of tea, slice of cake, dear? Is it warm enough for Little Z? Do you want me to make you a sandwich? Should we put a sweater on him, or take one off? How about another cup of tea…" and so it goes on.

Families are wonderful things, even if we don’t realise it or appreciate it at times. And, undoubtedly the hardest thing about my upping sticks and moving to Canada was the decision to leave family, and to wrench a grandson away from his then newly infatuated grandparents. However, family bonds are strong: VERY STRONG! Both sets of grandparents have already visited us in our new home. These trips, I wholeheartedly encouraged in order that they could experience just why we felt the need to fly so far from the coop. But grandma, give your newly Canadian son-in-law a break! I’ve seen more of the mother and father in-law since we absconded than I did when we lived virtually next door to them in Blighty.

Our trip is predominantly one of family time: shuttling between grandmas’ homes, being smothered in the type of hospitality that only ladies of a certain age can muster. But, in anticipation of and as an antidote to said family love, our vacation is bookended with stays with the Londinium sophisticates, the friends we left behind when clearing out after 15 years in the metropolis.

And, as the saying goes, ‘when in Rome…’ We’ve already dined in a ridiculously expensive restaurant, the proprietor of which now makes his living swearing on TV. We’ve sampled wines so smooth and complex that a country as young as Canada can not hope to produce something as refined, just yet. And, the cheeses, oh the cheeses. The pungency of these soft slices of soured milk, the aroma wafting from the fromagerie door… Most were French, I admit, but purchased in a deli local to a chum’s doorstep. I almost wept at their taste. We’ll visit museums, too, and perhaps take in the theatre. Oh, and we’ll shop: tis a vice that my lovely wife succumbs to when afflicted by any large city.

However, as we relax after a hard day enjoying ourselves - slumped in a stupor, part alcohol induced, part knackered from chasing Little Z around the Tate Modern attempting to ensure he didn’t add a mark of his own to the Rothkos, Twomblys and Hirsts - I can not help but think of the fields and forests of Haliburton, bundled in a thick fluffy quilt of snow. I miss the growing familiarity I enjoy with Haliburton Village and its friendly inhabitants. Most of all I yearn for the view across the Burnt River that I stand gazing upon each morning when I rise in my Canadian home.

Love it as I do, London and England can not compete with the more rough-and-ready charms of Canada and Haliburton County. Your wine may not be as refined as the European vintages and the good cheeses in Canadian stores – the speciality ones, not the giant slabs of fluorescent plastic that masquerade as my favourite sandwich filling – are more expensive than gold but these are small prices to pay for the fresh air that I taste each morning when I wake in Haliburton; the view from my window; the opportunities to sit in a small hut on an icy lake and catch nothing… OK I kid about that last one.

I’m enjoying seeing my family, reacquainting myself with British friends and sampling the delights that only a city like London can offer. But amidst it all I look forward to returning to the freezing temperatures and warm hearts of Canada.

See you all soon.