Notes from the diary of an Indian in England
It is always interesting to read the comments visitors leave at tourist destinations. They offer a window into the soul of the place, I believe—well, at least into the souls of those who visit. The visitor’s book at Black Head, an unmanned concrete structure the National Trust has built on a cliff-edge not too far […]
If you are a 72-kilo man hiking 14 or so miles a day with a daypack, you need at least 3,600 calories in your system. How do you get that in if you are also on a 20-hour fast?
So I walked on, the sun in my eyes and the sea on my side, along red cliffs bitten away by landfalls old and new. In places the path veered very close to the edge and you could see cracks in the dry earth.
I know no easy way to break this news gently to my English friends, so I am going to come out and just say it: you are more indebted to the Americans than you are aware of.
Walking is the second favourite pastime in England (the first is queuing, of course). Only here have I seen people go trudging across muddy fields on the most miserable day and coming back exclaiming, “Ooh! That was lovely!” It is astonishing.
England is full of good-natured nutters who do amazing things for their community in their own quirky ways. I got to know one such by the name of Robert Stephen Hawker when I walked into Cornwall from Devon.
There were 20 of them at the Little Chef for New Year’s lunch. Outside, it poured. Inside, under the electric mist that hung from red lampshades, it was warm, the red tabletops smooth and shining.
Who wouldn’t want to live in a place that ends with an exclamation mark?
Tthe air hostess has severe doubts about a shalwar-clad young mother’s capability to comprehend the language. So much, in fact, that she asks, not once, not twice, but three times the question, “Do you speak English?”
I went to Tyneham because of its history. I wanted to see a village ‘frozen in time’ with my own eyes.
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