England dear to me

 Dear Reader,

Awake last night I started to think about Prince Harry and how he must be feeling now he has his identity, his medals and all that represents, taken away from him.  And he lives in California and, it is said, will very rarely come back to England.  And I bet he will be homesick for us, left here in these damp islands of Great Britain.

I mean, what is it that pulls at our heart strings when we are away abroad for any length of time?    After all, some of our habits are distinctly strange.  For example we like to go to the beach when it is raining, and have our picnics. We like eating, when settled into a damp sandy spot, cucumber sandwiches and Penguin biscuits and a cup of tea from a thermos.  And then thoroughly wet, we like to walk in our wellingtons  along the sea shore, gathering shells to take home and put in the bathroom.

If we were on a French beach or Spanish beach in the sunshine we would be munching on baguette with local cheese, washed down with a bottle of cool white wine. A bit different.

And we like visiting tea rooms.  Having a good chat with a friend with a slice of drizzle cake and a cup of tea. And we like going for walks in muddy fields in the middle of nowhere. And we don't catch birds to put them in cages, we feed them in our gardens and grow attached to them. And we like brass bands and rousing anthems to bring a tear to our cheek, which makes us feel proud to be British.

You can probably think of lots of things that mark us out as English. But there are a few.  Harry is English, traditionally so, and I am sure on quiet reflection he misses his homeland and his English friends and family. 

We miss him too.

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England Dear to Me

It is the robins, blackbirds, blue tits,
hopping and grubbing in the garden
that lurch my heart
make Eng;and dear to me.
It is the velvet of green moss,
oak trees, old with history,
the first cowslips,
hedgerows filled with dog rose, foxglove,
and shy sweet-peas in china bowls.
It is finding tea rooms in small market towns,
enticing with homemade scones and strawberry jam,
or suddenly glimpsing church spires
inching their way to heaven.
It is finding a Norman church,
full with a thousand years of prayer,
and a quiet churchyard mothering its dead.
It is small country lanes, high hedged,
views of mauve hills stretching skywards,
sheep and lambs dotting the green,
and bleached Norfolk beaches,
silence only broken with a seagull's cry.
It is the people,
their sense of humour,
their way of saying "sorry" when you bump into them,
their fairness, and once or twice a year
their "letting go",
singing "Jerusalem" with tears and passion.

It is these things
that lurch my heart
make England dear to me.

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With very best wishes, Patricia