Some years ago, before I even got to know of his existence (it’s complicated), a man who was destined to become a family member partially emigrated to Spain. He spent winters in Spain and summers in England and we got to see him a fair bit during his lengthy stays. To us, it seemed to be an ideal arrangement, admittedly more for him rather than us. Essentially, he would avoid the worst extremes of winter on a permanent basis, an endless summer if you will. Later, he made Spain his sole residence and we at first rarely and later never got to see him. He died this year, surrounded not by family, aside from his partner, but by people he had met over the years on the Spanish and British Costas. No funeral, no chance to grieve; distance had truly separated us in life and in death.
The reason he had left England was the usual, and frankly only, logical reason possible: the weather. He had moved away from his entire family and all his friends to live in a place in the sun. It is not for me to question his choices because obviously we are all free to choose our priorities in life and to act on them. Until his death, I assume he was happy with the life he had chosen.
We had visited him once, a long time ago back in the 2000s, in late winter and while it was not exactly baking hot, it was usually dry and mild. He had made friends with many in the British migrant community (they referred to themselves as “expats” because, I imagine, migrant is, for some, a dirty word) and indeed a few Spanish folk, having learned basic Spanish.
The British migrant life closely resembled the British life in Britain. Migrants visited the British-run bars (Sunday Roast, Full English, Carling Black Label etc), played bowls and darts, joined their own “expat” clubs; some even supported the local football club Torrevieja, calling themselves “The Torry Army”. In the evenings, it would be all about watching television, exclusively British television. I well remember one evening after dinner walking around the mainly British area in which our family member lived and at 7.30 pm British time, the theme music of EastEnders came belting out from almost every home. That Spanish life, you see.
Meeting the British migrants, few of them had a good word for Britain. The country was “going to the dogs”, what with all the crime and, worst of all, without irony but with breathtaking chutzpah, far too many migrants. They were, at least on the face of it, happy to be under a Spanish sun.
The Spanish sun was clearly the main attraction for being there. Everyone said as much, although they welcomed living as part of the migrant community that, in some areas, dwarfed the indigenous population. Although they were quite literally migrants, they held on to the “expat/Brits abroad” identity as a badge of honour.
We travelled around the area with our relative and, I freely admit, enjoyed the experiences. It was easy to obtain home comforts, such as British tea, Marmite, HP Sauce and all the other things you would have had back in the UK. But apart from the weather and the prevalence of at least a few Spaniards this was only living abroad in a literal sense. Where we were staying was nothing short of being in a ghetto, albeit one populated by middle class Brits and other assorted Europeans. It was a little bit of Britain, as well as Germany, the Netherlands and several other countries abroad. It was literally all about the bingo, the darts, the skittles and all the things that are as Spanish as cricket itself. But there was something far, far worse than that. In the case of most people, it was the permanent separation from family and friends.
The era of cheap air fares has made it far easier to stay in touch with family members who emigrate to foreign countries. There were numerous daily flights to Alicante and Murcia with fares cheaper than a typical British rail fare. It would not be hard to see your loved ones a couple of times a year. That is clearly enough for some folk and who am I to criticise them? However, it would not be enough for me.
There are aspects of Britain today that greatly trouble me. The rise of the far right – let’s be blunt and refer honestly to the rise of fascism because after last week’s huge rally in London, that’s what it is – concerns the hell out of me. While I do not feel there are any more fascists than there used to be, it is clear that the likes of Nigel Farage and Stephen Yaxley-Lennon, who calls himself Tommy Robinson, Britain’s increasingly right-wing media and, abroad, Donald Trump and Elon Musk, the hatred and loathing, especially of foreigners, LGBT people, women and anyone who basically isn’t from the right of politics, have somehow become legitimised. Yaxley-Lennon and Musk talk about revolution and violence and, because it is not being effectively countered, it feels like the norm. But on the ground, away from the media bubble, life in rainy, windy Britain carries on as normal.
Sure we moan and complain about everything: it is what us Brits do. And while it would be negligent of me to not mention the alarming levels of poverty that exist in our land, which simply must be addressed by the government and soon, life in Old Blighty generally carries on the same as it ever did. If you follow the gutter press and the lop-sided media coverage, you might be forgiven for thinking we are in the kind of civil war imagined by the far right, but we’re not: we’re nowhere near it. It is debatable that we are the greatest country in the world but apart from the ghastly autumnal weather battering on my Man Cave windows, I am still looking forward to the week ahead. I have a pub engagement with an old friend, I am going to see the great Guardian political sketch writer John Crace later this week at the Redgrave Theatre, I will be watching my son play football, I shall be on the golf course, I’ll be going out for something to eat and next weekend I’ll be at a football match with friends. Best of all, I will be with much of my family. If I lived in the soaraway Costas, it wouldn’t feel quite the same.
I emphasise that what works for me does not work for everyone. I do not pretend to be better than anyone else – far from it – but speaking via, say Microsoft Teams, will never be enough. For better or worse, I am a hugger and a kisser (no tongues, obvs) and being there means more to me than anything in the world. And I know just how awful it is to be separated by a vast distance, with my two brothers living over 5000 miles away in western Canada. I am not exaggerating when I say that sometimes it kills me that I cannot often be in the same room as them, without bankrupting myself.
I am from a family of migrants, who to a different degree left everyone behind. My paternal grandfather came to England from Norway, my mother from the Netherlands, my father emigrated to Canada. To varying degrees, they kept in touch with their roots, particularly to his credit, my father. Others less so, my mother being a prime example of being someone who eventually severed all contacts with the Netherlands. So I certainly understand how it works. It’s something I could never do. But you are not me and if you feel differently then all power to your elbow.
I believe we will never pass this way again and if I don’t spend time with the ones I love in the here and now, then I never will. And that reminds me of two of the worst words in the world: what if? What if I had seen more of my family and friends, what if I had done more with them?
My little world, not withstanding my poor mental health, is still a place I long to be in and to be in for the rest of my days. No amount of sun, sand, sea, bingo, bowls or darts under the Spanish sun could matter more than the ones I love. Each to their own though, eh?
