Notes from the diary of an Indian in England
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.
Anyone who has ever passed through an airport anywhere in the world has witnessed the swagger of the pilots and the sashay of the stewardesses.
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.
I believe they are wonderful creations of God, made solely for the purpose of teaching big airports a thing or two about how airports are meant to be.
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?
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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