Inghilterra aka England

And now we are in England for work and play. We leave on Thursday. England is a place so familiar and deeply rooted in my ancestry that I feel a sense of belonging and in the same moment, out of place. England is the place where both my parents were born and my Grandparents lived. Mum's family is from Devon, Dad's from Oxfordshire. Both 'escaped' to the comparative freedom of New Zealand, away from the constraints of english culture and expectations.

We are staying in England with my father's brother Richard and Auntie Tina. They live in a small village, in a large house which backs onto the Thames river. As a 12 year old I came here alone for 6 months to attend my cousins posh private girls school (why? Is another story!) I was straight from the farm, all gumboots and jandels and while I don't remember being wildly homesick (I don't tend to get very homesick), it was an education on so many fronts.

Arriving at the house, I mostly know which turns to take, where the roads lead to. Out and about the accents are so recognisable to my ears – the accent of my Grandfather and his family. Walking into Richard and Tina's house, everything is familiar. It is a home I have lived in, come and gone from both as a single person and newly married to Rory. We have had Christmas here and have returned to the comforts of good food, great hospitality and warm beds many times. And now 5 years on, two children later and so much water under the bridge, we return to introduce our boys to England (Richard and Tina have met them before). I have a strange mix of thoughts and emotions: being with family causes me to reflect on the changes I have been through. In moments I am back to being the Antipodean farmers daughter, now with Antipodean offspring (!) and in the next, the philospher wondering who I am and what I believe about the world and where I fit into it.

Jane and Rory, 2007, in the vintage Rolls-Royce owned by Richard and Tina - out for a chilly spin with the top down 

In the car we have listened to the familiar accents of the BBC comedians on Radio 4 and laughed out loud at humour I have not enjoyed for months. I've sat down and read a newspaper – the first in months and savoured the experience. We've watched TV (the kids watching considerably more!). I'm adjusting to the fact that when I start telling a story in a public space, everyone will understand what I am saying, rather than taking it fore-granted that I can talk in undecipherable code and remain a mystery.

On sunday, I went to an 8am church service– murmuring my way through a Church of England service accompanied by the soothing drone of an oh-so-english Vicar and a small number of mostly elderly English villagers as we were guided through the memorised liturgy. For my childhood years, we mostly attended a tiny Anglican church, the liturgy engraved into a subconcious that will survive Alzheimers no doubt. It triggered memories and thoughts of so many things, places and people. And God. The church was intact and old – something none of the Anglican churches of Christchurch can claim anymore.

I have visited a friend from school days (Ruth). The last time I saw her was about 13 years ago. We picked up where we left off and it was lovely to hang out with someone who knows my Whanau (family) and Turangawaeawe (land/place). We have talked and talked – telling stories and filling in the years with words. What a wonderful thing it is to be able to stand back from your life and listen to the stories come pouring out, piecing together pain and joy, listening to the moments that have defined you being recounted from your own mouth. And more so, the joy of listening to stories of someone else and sharing their valleys and summits and being amazed and comforted at the same time. To expose the raw moments of your life to someone and feel completely unjudged. We are not alone. To feel understood and to understand is good for the soul.