It was a dark and stormy night… that
shit made me miss my flight. It was white out conditions with some bumper to bumper action. I was already ecstatic to be leaving Canadian
winter behind, now more than ever. Where’s the bar, need a drink. After
performing a quick disappearing act with two beers, I jumped on the computer to
find the next cheapest flight. Immensely soured and pissed off I click BUY, for
the second time! Flight two is in nineteen hours, better set up shop in the
airport and get comfortable. Too cheap to get a hotel now. As long as I was
still on route to England, I could deal with a rocky start.
English soil, made it, as I sit
down, starving and exhausted from a day and a half in transit. I notice my
cousin and aunt walk in so I crank my stone stiff legs up again to be able to
make eye contact. With a slightly awkward hug of the familiar, yet unknown
meeting for the first time as an adult, open arms were extended making me feel
as if I had just been returning home from a long journey. After a much needed
shower, I was treated to a plentiful as usual, perfect English breakfast.
Bacon, sausage, beans, eggs, fried tomatoes, mushrooms and toast. Fighting
against the last few bites, I tapped out. I lost that battle but I would beat
the jet lag, so out we went to have a few drinks. Starting at a few anyways, it escalated quickly with Sambucca shots. Not only was I given a thorough
introduction to the local pubs, but the drinks within having nothing twice.
Sleeping it off, I was on track. It was the best way I could have imagined to kick off my stay with my cousins. The days ensuing were similar, going to watch a football match, Manchester United vs. Sunderland. I was getting spoiled being shown such great hospitality.
Black pudding for breakfast, nothing like some coagulated
blood to start the day, and off to extend my known family a little more, being
introduced to another two generations. On the way to their house we stop at a
place called Whittakers, which had stood the test of time, serving up pasties
and pies. Leaving with a heavy meat and potato pie, I’m informed the way to go
about this in Tyldesley is throw the whole pie between a buttered bun and sauce
it up. Red or brown, Ketchup or HP Sauce.
Filling my stomach with a warming sense of nourishment I was
off to Manchester for the night navigating my way by train and metrolink. On a
slightly different note, Cuba, another trip, what seemed like another life.
Through the drunken stupor of a week I met a couple who hailed from Manchester.
With intentions on coming to visit sooner than I did, I was now on their side
of the pond and chugging through the streets to their house. Arriving a little
bit late, stepping off the metrolink I can see them waiting in the cold, wet
station. Another reunion of the new and old, surreal, meeting six years prior
in a different world. Where to first, the local pub for a couple brews before
heading to their place for dinner. As we ate and drank late into the night the
six year gap was filled. After a late breakfast and a stroll around the heart
of the city, stopping at Krispy Kreme before I jumped back on the train to
Tyldesley for my last night with my family. Out to dinner and the pub for the
evening, where I was made to feel at home for the past week. Unfortunately not
long enough, my time here was very beneficial and gratifying, giving me a
second home in the world in which I plan to return to. Driven to the bus
station, our sad goodbyes were said, and I was London bound.
Against all judgements and criticisms I give organised guided
tours, I was on board for a bus trip. I was in Southern England such a short
period of time and always fascinated with Stonehenge, I had to get to the ‘pile
of rocks in a field’ as most British people referred to it. Cruising through
the tranquil English countryside in our little bus through weather with a
hormonal imbalance, we were taken to Stonehenge and Bath. Arriving in Bath
starving and parched, I made a beeline for the recommended pub for something to
stuff down my gullet, moistened by local ciders. Ultimately a ham and swiss
sandwich done brilliantly. Shredded ham hock, sautéed mushrooms and gruyere
cheese warmed on a crunchy roll and a grainy beer mustard. Parsnip soup with
the warmth of chili was perfect for the dreary English winter day. The ciders
were outstanding, leaving me with a greater respect for the apple elixir
ranging from a dry, more pronounced flavour to a dangerously sweet, tasting just
like juice. A full belly, warmed bones and glow of cider, I knew I would be
getting some shut eye on the bus back to London, something I was getting a lot
of practice at.
Getting in around 3:30am, early afternoon came quick. I dragged
my ass out of my bunk and went on a bit of a foot tour. Caught a quick glimpse of Big
Ben, Westminster Abbey and walked across London Bridge, before diving back into
the river of beer I’ve been swimming up. I just didn’t care enough about Buckingham
Palace, the London Eye, even what I did see this time, it
wasn’t the London I came for this round. Finding myself in the first pub I came
across, I notice symptoms of dehydration. I’ll have a beer, well a cask ale or
real ale. It’s an unfiltered and unpasteurized beer that goes through a second
fermentation, hand pumped from a cask without having to add the carbonation
pressure of the regular draft. Generally served around thirteen degrees for the
actual flavour, it suits England very well never really having to escape the
extreme heat for a frosty one.
Relishing this nectar, I’ve gotten to know quite well over my
short stay in England, I remembered I was on a mission. I was hunting for the
fish and chips experience I had as a child of six. I recall a crispy fillet of
beer battered cod, it seemed the size of my thigh at the time. A mound of
chips, peas, tartar sauce and lemon. After searching when I was fifteen and
returning home unsuccessful, I was bound and determined to find this meal of
what was becoming to feel more like imagination. As I relentlessly ate fish and
chips, I thought I might be trying too hard. Having a sudden epiphany during my
fourth plate or so, I realized that I wasn’t looking for it to taste the same,
look the same or even smell the same. It was a memory that did exist but was
unable to be recreated. It was of a simpler time, very little care in the
world, not having dealt with any of the trials and tribulations of my life yet.
Sitting down at a restaurant I couldn’t name, with my Mom, Dad and sister as we
laughed and smiled, brought together by food and travel.
As I was squeezing in a few more ales before catching my
twelve hour bus out of the country, I was already looking forward to my quick
return. After experiencing a bit more of the real England, there was something
that drew me to this country. Was it the stunning landscape, the rich history,
the memories of my childhood trip and family who made me feel at home, my
heritage, the cosiness of the pub, the beer or food, I wasn’t sure. Regardless
of the reason, I was hooked in and could feel my lip being tugged. It was only
a matter of time before I resurfaced there. 
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