Floods of Immigration

The beauty of Blickling Estate, Norfolk, England. On a warm Autumnal Day

I just returned from a lovely two week trip to England. Aside of the Autumnal, overcast and drizzly weather, it was a great holiday.

When I visited last summer, I vowed to only habit the rural areas of England, as they remain locked in time. They are a time capsule for what I remember as a child. English traditions, accents, building, festivals, pubs, food. The visit last year solely comprised of driving down small, sunny single lane country roads. Pub lunches every day and basking in the plentiful historical landmark buildings. Countryside surrounded me in every which way. The sound of rookeries and rapturous local birds, always present.

During my last visit, I picked up again upon a rumbling amongst the common English folk. It was a faint manifestation, but clear and frequent to the “observant ear”. I heard it half a dozen times in the short period of being back.

People would say things like “It’s changed a lot here”. “Things are different now”. “It’s not like the old days”.

It got me thinking.

What were these vague signals people were putting out? What was this repetitive pattern I kept running into over and over again?

They were being coy, but I knew exactly what they were talking about. A signal for recognition, for confirmation from a perceived friendly face. A statement made without fear of consequence. How could it - it was so vague and abstract? All of statements made without having the guts to speak their mind, to present and unpack their ailments.