December 17th, 1984

Transferred to a shed sometime in the middle of the night, where we all milled around, waiting to be allowed thro’ customs + onto the ship.  There must have been about 200 of us there, nearly all young, + most carrying backpacks, but there were one or 2 surprises – a black guy in a white suit carrying only a guitar; a middle-aged couple, dressed conventionally for a holiday, suitcases + all; some black girls with various boxed kitchen appliances.  When the gates were finally opened, we all filed thro’ very quickly.  The ship was comfortable, far more so than I remember from previous trips, + it was easy to find seats – ones comfortable enough to sleep on, had I not been writing + Val sewing.  The situation was made easier for us too by the fact that all non-Brits had to go thro’ Immigration procedures for no reason – this did mean UK as we sailed.  I used up the last of our French money on an early breakfast of chips + bread + butter + coffee – none of it very nice.  And then we were there.  Stepping off the boat onto the sod of England was inevitably an anti-climax.  It was 4 o’clock in the morning, and dark + cold, it wasn’t green + pleasant but yet another customs shed (+ in far worse condition than its French counterpart.)  I couldn’t help thinking how much better it would have been to arrive back in Plymouth.  Immigration was a snip – Val asked for a stamp in her passport, but they wouldn’t give her one, because she was born here.  Ah well.  Straight onto the train, which was brighter, cleaner, warmer + more comfortable than any I remember seeing before.  Once again, Val went off to sleep, but I enjoyed sitting + watching the sky lighten, enough for me to pick out houses, streets, factories.  And then, later on, lights going on in bedrooms, then kitchens, then people going off to work.  We pulled in to Victoria at sometime around 8, + now could consider ourselves, for the first time, home.  We’ve thought about it so much over the past couple of years – the reality, of course, was not bizarre, or strange, but normal + ordinary, as if nothing at all had changed.  As it hadn’t.  We dithered for a while, having no English money at all, + not being able to decide whether to change in one of the Bureaux de Change, or wait for the banks to open.  We wandered back + forth between the various options, inside the stn + just outside, checking exchange rates + commissions, until we decided we were being silly, + got ourselves some cash.  Mum didn’t finish work until 5.30, so we didn’t want to arrive home until at least then – it would just get her into a flap for no reason.  This did mean having to hang around in London all day, + this was made even worse by the fact that Victoria Stn refused to allow back-packs in the left-luggage lockers – God knows why.  Despite that, we decided to walk into the city, via Buckingham Palace Rd, St James Park, Piccadilly + Mayfair.  At the palace, we asked a young + seemingly intelligent passer-by to take a picture of us both – our “here we are back in England” picture” – so we were quite astounded when he agreed cheerfully, then clicked the shutter holding the camera way out in front of him.  I wouldn’t have thought anyone would not know that one generally looked thro’ the viewfinder.  But it was pointed vaguely in our direction so it might have come out alright.  We spent most of the rest of the morning simply wandering around the shops – in Mayfair, on Charing Cross Rd, + Oxford St.  We were driven inside to have a cup of tea when the drizzle which had been waiting outside the stn to greet us turned to quite a heavy rain.  And then, naturally, we were horrified by the price of the tea, but it would have been surprising if we hadn’t been surprised.  London did not seem at all Christmassy – no lights in Oxford St, no special displays in the shops, no excitement in the people.  We went to the cinema in the afternoon, tho’ it took a while to find a film we wanted to see, at a price we could afford.  “Merry Xmas Mr Lawrence” was on, as was “Hotel New Hampshire”, but they were both ridiculously expensive, so we settled for “The Killing Fields” at a special cheap showing.  We paid the price another way, however, for it turned out to be dreadful rubbish, a sentimental and badly-acted version of “The Year of Living Dangerously”.  We walked out to Kings Cross, + caught a train to Hatfield – a businessman’s train, + very crowded.  We felt, with our packs, out of place + awkward.  We arrived sometime around 6, checked first that Mum was not still working, + then crept across the road to 29 Batterdale.  We were a little nervous but only that Mum might not be in – the house seemed very dark.  But we hammered on the knocker, + hearing life inside, did as we had agreed beforehand, + began to sing a carol.  Mum knew who it was before she opened the door, the porch light was on, + she peeped thro’ the security peephole.  There was a cry of recognition, the door flew open, + we were being swung around + hugged + kissed.  All very dangerous, as we still had our massive packs on, + could barely move.  My first thought was that Mum looked older, but after just a few minutes I’m not sure I was right.  It’s just as likely to be a faulty memory.  My mum’s first impulse was to ring Val’s mum, but we asked her not to, as we wanted to spring a surprise down there as well.  Nothing else to say really – we sat, + talked, + had a few drinks.  It was good to be home, to relax, to be able to be off-guard.

And that was it – home. And not momentous in any way – very ordinary. The incident with the camera outside Buckingham Palace was illustrative of how things have changed since then. Someone unfamiliar with a camera, for one thing – it’s practically a religion nowadays. And not knowing for ages whether the photo would be all right – clearly it was no good at all, for we have no such thing (though I suppose we could check the negative, which we still have. Negatives!

One more day killing time – again! – waiting for Mum to be home from work. She ran the sub-post office just across the road from the house (and would, had she lived a couple of decades longer, undoubtedly been caught up in the vast Post Office scandal).

And that is that, in terms of the blog. Thank you to my loyal to the point of religion (again) readers – Sue and Louis and Pam and Kev. (Anyone else?) And Val too, of course. Plus the various fellow-travellers who have dipped in for a while or occasionally or just the once. It’s been quite a trip, in more than one way.

“Life in Nepal” continues, for a little while longer, and further adventures are being planned as I write. Plus a major scheme to turn all the other projects into a more manageable and user-friendly archive. So watch this space.

But Innocents Abroad has come to a conclusion. It began as a lockdown project, which already seems a lifetime ago. And I am very pleased to have done it, to take those hand-written little books and give them a permanent – more permanent, for nothing lasts forever – existence. It has been a slog, almost as much as writing them in the first place – transcribing, copying the photos. But worthwhile, I think. Thanks for reading.