Sunshine’s Better

The grim start to what passes for the Great British Summer reminds me why more often than not we take a foreign holiday. 14c, cloudy, drizzly – ah, how I long to be somewhere where the sun does shine. I can almost, though only almost, understand why so many people throw the towel in and go abroad not just for a holiday but to live. I completely get how wonderful it must be to know that tomorrow you will wake up to sunshine, the whole sunshine and nothing but the sunshine.

I cannot deny that there were times when I seriously considered moving abroad to live. But once I’d seriously considered it, I seriously rejected the idea. Because if I upped sticks permanently, great weather would simply not be enough for me.

We have friends, more than a handful, who have escaped Britain’s permanent slate grey skies in search of a perma tan and outdoor cocktails every evening. Not one of them, so far as I can tell, regrets their choice either. So, what, other than our maritime climate would I most miss if I decamped to another part of the world?

As well as my family and friends, who matter more to me than anything, I’d miss some things you’d probably regard as stupid. Supermarkets, for example. I’m a big fan of most of our big brands, with the exception of the behemoth Tesco stores (I don’t mind the friendly little stores), and I love the fact that I can stock up with things that are much harder to get, say, in the Greek islands. I am not one who greatly enjoys eating out in this country, never mind abroad, so what I can buy to cook, even ready meals, British supermarkets do it for me.

Then there are pubs (yes, yes; I know), book shops, record shops, trains, local rock gigs and a million other things. Added to that, I don’t want to live like a Spaniard or a Greek, or a Brit abroad, scratching around for a full English that looks and tastes nothing like a full English.

20 years ago, we went to Spain to visit my father in law who lived in a large mobile home park where people from everywhere except Spain came to live. His accommodation overlooked lemon groves. It was all rather lovely. One evening, I went for a walk and suddenly, from every other mobile home and caravan, you could hear the opening bars from East Enders. Having escaped that, there was a local bowling club and members of the site were part of the Torry Army, a group of non Spanish speaking ex pats (British migrants), who support the local football team, Torrevieja. I was told they did this by raising money for charity and getting shit-faced on a daily basis. Well, good for them, I say, and I mean it. If that’s what you really, really want, then go and get it. Everyone I spoke to freely admitted there was one reason they lived in Spain: the weather.

I can certainly relate to anyone who wants to escape this brown and unpleasant land, with a leadership as drab as the weather, a country of lions led by donkeys. With public services in tatters and food banks used by record numbers of desperate people, there’s not a great deal to celebrate. But something will always keep me here.

With most of my older family members having long shuffled off their mortal coils, I am drawn to those who are still with us and those who still have their lives to live. Yes, I know cheap flights are available to fly home to the UK if I was to set up in some idyllic Spanish village, but I want to be there to offer my lack of skills to anyone desperate enough to need them.

It’s probably, almost certainly, that I’m far too set in my ways to pack my bags for another life. And for all the things I hate about Britain – Boris Fucking Johnson, Brexit, Piers Morgan, The Mail,  Carling Lager, Ed Sheeran and so on and on – there will always be enough to keep me here.

For all that, I’m looking forward to having my day – 14 of them, actually – in the sun, knowing that when I return things will be just as overcast as when I left and, in a couple of weeks, the nights will soon be closing in again. At least when I get back I’ll be able to visit the New Bristol Brewery, devour one of Danny’s delicious burgers and get the Metrobus home as my tan begins to fade.

“Hot town, summer in the city”? Not in Bristol, sadly.