It may be assumed that life in Australia for me would ultimately be ideal, considering for the past twenty years it has officially been my home. Australia is, of course, a handsome country afterall, with its impressive landscapes, stunning cities, cultural diversity and wonderful history. And with my footsteps covering almost every square foot of Sydney's city and surrounds, I've grown to love this place and all it has to offer; from beautiful Darling Harbour to King Street Wharf, the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House (which is, mind you, just a fifteen minute walk from my home), the shopping in Pitt Street, the small little hide-away cafes and restaurants and fun Australian pubs, the QVB, the bus rides on a hot, sweaty Summer's day that lead to Aussie landmarks such as Bondi and Coogee beaches, the unique coffee shops of Newtown, Surry Hills and surrounds, my suburb of Woolloomooloo with it's famous Harry's Cafe De Wheels and the wharf with many a fancy restaurant or celebrity (having Russell Crowe live a block away isn't too bad either!), and Paddy's Markets which is right in Haymarket and Chinatown. These are among many other Sydney fascinations... but something, just something, doesn't quite fit.
As a child I did dream of living it up in Beverly Hills (just like the '90210' cast did!), and likewise wanted so badly to move to Queensland's Gold Coast where the sun shone endlessly and a tan was as good a necessity as a car, but in time these were overtaken by a weird attraction to the country most known for its Queen, the constant downpour, terraced homes, brawls, snow, ancient pubs with hot and cosy fireplaces, HP Sauce, roast dinners, a "half a lager and black", the taprooms, 'Eastenders', 'Little Britain' and 'The Bill' - England, of course.
I first went to England (after many years of wishing!) in 2003. It was exactly as I had imagined! Yes, it was cold and wet, but it was beautiful. With its windy roads and cobblestone streets, warm-natured locals and adorable little pubs where a strange little toy named a "fruit machine" took up a sizeable spot near the bar (didn't expect that). The terraced houses were gorgeous, lined up neatly along many a hilly road - all looking the same but inevitably different on the inside. I loved how each room in a terraced home was decorated in contrast to the rest of the rooms, and how even on a freezing, drizzly day you could still wear a flowing dress inside for the radiators were in all rooms making the house warm and cosy. I loved how whilst wearing a big fluffy coat, scarf, thick gloves and two pairs of socks, it was always a pleasure to open the front door to an endless heat. And how cute the homes were, with little skinny staircases that lead to cute little bedrooms, washing machines and dryers were in kitchens (not a separate room!) and how strange that some of the bathrooms even had carpet!
England's beautiful countryside was in particular a joy to see. First time in England I travelled by car from London to Bristol, then Bristol to Manchester, then from there to Nottingham - all the while taking in stunning views of gorgeous green fields (some even patterned smoothly like a quilt), the occasional tiny country pub with large outdoor picnic tables and unconventional names such as "The Owl and Parsley" or "The Slug and Lettuce".
Upon my return to England in July 2007 I again ventured from a small town named Mansfield to Chesterfield and Nottingham via bus (my uncle was the bus-driver, so free rides for me!), and again fell in love with the countryside. There is something about such beautiful and serene scenery which conjures up feelings of peace and happiness within me, and all I desire is just that moment, and everything else is non-existent. I am totally in love with the English countryside! On the bus I had such an endless view, and I enjoyed seeing the country homes and adorable little cottages, the vast amount of cemeteries, gorgeous lakeside pubs, tall and proud churches with vicious-looking lions and gargoyles eyeing me suspiciously as we drove past, as well as an endless array of trees and forests leading to nowhere but somewhere.
Who can forget the pubs?! It's part of English culture! I have been to so many different pubs in Bristol, Manchester and Nottingham where, although accents and people differ, the atmosphere and historic value certainly do not. Sure, the beers and ciders lack resemblance from one place to another, but when you walk into a cosy pub when it's snowing outside it's like a small English home, made apparent with Victorian-inspired carpet in hues of scarlet and gold, dark mahogany furniture with intricate tapestries, heritage-style stormproof windows (either foggy from the indoor heat or rimmed with snow on the outside), the pub framed indoor with black wood and brick from floor to ceiling, and classic paintings or historic pieces mounted on the walls.
That's exactly what English pubs are like, and the nature of the people you are with, whom you meet whilst there, and those who serve you just add to the excitement. Sure, it's not a live concert or a dance club, but it sure is a wonderful place. I would sit there with friends and family talking about the great things about life, my uncle telling me stories of how my grandmother use to sit in that spot and drink that drink (I never met her), and how often they had to tell me to stop saying how happy I was to "finally be in England". Another thing? Kicking almost everybody's arse at pool whilst downing my third pint of lager and black was of course an ego-boosting feat!
I remember specifically one particular evening after serving John Smiths, Guinness and 'real ale' (whichever was on that week - and boy, was it hard to pull!) in a pub called "The Lord Byron" in Quarry Lane, Mansfield. It was just the three of us, me, Ally, the other bartender and one of the Landlord's closest friends Rebecca, and we had shut the pub at midnight on the dot. The fire was warm and inviting, the snow outside feathered from sky to land, the lights indoors were dimmed to emit a warm, soft glow, and, quite appropriately, Robbie Williams' latest album played in the background. We poured our own drinks maybe once, maybe twice, and sat there laughing and cheering, chatting and singing, pouring and drinking, dancing and yawning. The most fun part was when we began to all sing along to 'Angels' by Robbie Williams as if our hearts depended on it, which for me was a moment where I really realised I was loving England. The feeling was outside, inside, in the company I had, and inside me. I knew then this was home, and not just because I was in a pub, but rather because of everything together; and I felt this way every day I was there and the same when I returned a second time.
There is something completely different from England to Australia which I have tried to describe, but I really can't. My heart just belongs there. The majority of people here are impersonal and (dare I say) mostly pretentious or after a sole purpose (rather than a 'soul' purpose) which I really cannot stand (this is in general, not the people I know closely or whom I have liked over the years!). There are people who are lovely here - naturally; however when I meet and speak with an English person I connect almost immediately, and with most that I meet I end up having a dear friend for life.
I am returning to England in June or July to give it a real shot. It seems after having returned twice from England to be in Sydney, something was truly lost; remained completely in England. I want to go back where the thinking man's season of rain and grey skies dominates my daily ventures, where the tall castles and churches and historic buildings emanate beauty and pride, where the accents of North and the accents of South remind me of exactly where I am, where the grass is greener on the countryside, where the Sunday Roast is a national pleasure and where you're guaranteed a tasty treat of chips with mushy peas and gravy at 3am after a bout of clubbing in the town!
So wish me luck, as my biggest dream of living in my favourite country is only a few months away. And only then can I enjoy a traditional Sunday Roast (with extra yorkshire pudding, apple sauce and lots of thick gravy) down at the local pub, have a few pints of Carling with a few friends and thrash them at pool, come home and throw my soiled clothes into the washing machine in the kitchen, run upstairs and enjoy a long hot bubble bath and wrap myself in a big fluffy towel that's been draped over the radiator, run down the little staircase and pour myself a yummy Typhoo's cuppa from the 'kettle' and break apart a few shortbreads, sit down in front of the 'telly' and decide whether I wish to watch 'Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps', 'Eastenders', or 'Coronation Street' ; or whether to just lay back, listen to the pouring rain outside and thank God for no "g'day mate".
Cherie
xxx
Legally © Cherie Baker 2008 All Rights Reserved.
