Arrival

Apart from security becoming ever tighter, nothing much changes in international travel. Airports will always mean queues and a miasma of mixed perfumes as you choke your way through duty-free, and security and immigration officials who never smile. One surprising change at Heathrow though – we didn’t have to perform the manage-the-multiple-bag dance on arrival. Previously, acquiring a trolley meant possession of a pound coin to unshackle it, something we don’t use regularly. Now you can grab one simply by, well, grabbing one. Still the same at the baggage carousel though, my stomach tight as suitcases glide by and I hope to spot a familiar one. Distraction comes in the form of loudspeaker announcements to ensure that children are kept under control and away from the moving belt, and that unattended luggage will be removed and destroyed. As a non-parent I wonder why they don’t combine the two.

Years ago, our first experience of hiring a car in our native land wasn’t a positive one, the truculent clerk insisting they had no car of the size we had booked, and that we would have to pay more to get a larger one. Neil stood his ground and we eventually got what we’d paid for. I had a moment of deja vu this time when the company we’d booked a car with wouldn’t let us have it as we had no return flight booked. No, I have no idea, and neither did the clerk: ‘It’s company policy’, although not mentioned anywhere when you book the damn thing. Thankfully he was a human and not an automaton and suggested we try other companies in the area as he was sure we’d get one there. Cue an hour or so (just what you need after already forty hours of travel) of Neil hoofing it between various offices whilst I sat in the Hertz office minding our luggage and drinking their free coffee, offered despite that they couldn’t help us (no drop-off option in Sheffield).

I’m always surprised at how easily we slot back into England. Neil drives the four-lane M25 like he does it daily rather than every couple of years, and everything feels familiar, like an old friend you don’t need to make an effort with, you’re just comfortable together. Even the idiot drivers, switching lanes at the last minute, pushing into spaces that don’t exist, make us sigh in exasperation rather than yell in anger (or fear – at 70mph it can be a scary experience to have a car suddenly pull into your braking space). And the queues, frustrating as they are, now seem to be merely part of driving-on-the-motorway-life in the UK.

Within a few days I can’t remember if a logo or company name I recognise is because I also see it in New Zealand or because it’s familiar from when I lived here, or from recent visits. It doesn’t take long for me to get used to family being in the same time zone but friends being in bed while I’m awake. Apparently this is reflected in my accent, which drops right back to the Yorkshire I tend to temper when I don’t live here. Mind you, I still refer to dollars rather than pounds, highway rather than motorway and can’t think in miles to save my life.

Some things do change. The amount of overgrown undergrowth (a fabulous oxymoron!) is astounding, roadsides with thick green sideboards, in many places so prolific it obscures road signs. Maybe it’s a twenty-first century thing and testament to the fact that most people use some form of navigation system rather than looking at a map or a sign by the roadside. But it’s challenging for those of us who used to be local and don’t need a disembodied voice from the dashboard directing us, just a little reminder to make sure we’re taking the right exit from a roundabout or even from the motorway.

A few years ago in Newfoundland we noted the proliferation of potholes that were, frankly, a danger to not just car tyres but to wheel rims and shock absorbers. We learned that the reason locals spent a lot of time weaving across the centre line wasn’t due to inebriation but to self-preservation, or that of their cars. It became a joke that if a car in front of us swerved, we should do the same to avoid falling down a huge hole. We never found a reason for the state of the roads but put it down to the nine months or so every year that they were covered in snow and ice. After a few days driving here, I’m not sure why the roads are in a similar state but we can be sure it’s not due to snow cover. Even on major highways (sorry…) there’s a risk that a wheel will suddenly drop into a hole that shouldn’t be there, and driving around city streets is tantamount to driving along a railway line without the rails. The car judders and bounces so much I expect flashing fairground lights and look for a bloke in a cap, bag slung across his body, hanging casually onto a pole and collecting fees for the ride. If there is a Sheffield street without speed-restriction humps we have yet to find it. And you, Surrey, can put away that smug smile – you’re just as bad.

Our first few trips back to the UK were fraught with caffeine-free days so we’re thankful that decent coffee is now available in most places, even if we often have to rely on a chain (thanks Costa). By the time we return home I’ll probably just have got used to asking for a semi-skimmed flat white rather than a trim one.