London in Small Doses

I will never get tired of London, the British capital that is a foreign land to the rest of the country, but my feelings about it has always been that of ambivalence.

Whenever I visit, I am always drawn to the city's throbbing, thriving beat where everything seem to be happening at the same time. But every visit is unique - a discovery of a different street, a new perspective, a changed mind-set - that it always feel like I have been on a long journey away and became a different person because of it.

From my northern English city of Sheffield, it only takes two hours to reach St. Pancras International where a busy mix of travellers converge. During the autumn term break we found ourselves there.

How to spend 2 hours on the train.

We wanted Isaac to experience the big city because at five, he has become more aware of the many different countries there are in the world (thanks to FIFA World Cup 2018 and his visits to the Philippines, Spain and Germany earlier this year).

Isaac: "Is London another country?"
Daddy: "No, it's in England (but thinking, I won't believe it either)."

Our B&B was located in Hammersmith in west London, in an area that is as residential as it was touristy with a good mix of local shops, restaurants and cafes.



There was a public park close to us and we had lunch there on a Saturday because the sun was out and it was warm for November. There were many families about and Isaac ran around with the other children but very few of them spoke English. We wondered if they were tourists like us too or if this is really a representative of London's demographics where white English families have now become a minority. Would we ourselves be capable and attracted to bringing up children here?

We took the tube to go around and if Isaac would be asked what his favourite experience was, it would probably be that - running to catch the train in the underground, reading the Tube map and counting how many more stops before our destination.

On some of our underground journeys, we saw teenagers on smart uniforms with their younger siblings get on-board a busy train. The older ones were engaged in friendly banter, while their younger siblings read books. We marvelled then at how different life is for suburbanites like us where school can be easily reached on foot and then we pondered at where they would find themselves eventually. Having already made it to London where a lot of aspirational young Northerners would probably want to escape to, what more would they aspire for?



Trips to this city occasionally brings out my FOMO, that sickening niggling feeling that I am somehow missing out on life. It comes out when I see university students piling out of their prestigious universities working hard for their bright exciting futures. It peaks when I see smartly dressed women strutting out on the street as though they have conquered the world. London epitomizes youthful dreams and their successful realisations. Never mind that reality is more than that, with high costs of living, expensive rents and a competitive workforce that filters out the less ambitious.

We were one of those. London was our road not taken. Shortly after we got married, John had been shortlisted for a job interview at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital in the most expensive part of London. We were excited at the idea but when he didn't get the job, we also breathed a sigh of relief. In another lifetime perhaps it would have been right for us.

On the day we arrived and after a short nap at the hotel, we took Isaac to the National History Museum to say hello to the famous roaring T-rex in the dinosaur exhibition. It was mid-afternoon when we got there and although it was still very busy, there were no longer any queues to get in.

Along with the dinosaurs, we saw an expansive collection of stuffed animals that got the little one asking questions but it was really the earthquake simulator and volcanic eruptions that he found most exciting.



The next day we took the Thames River cruise which gave us the river view of iconic images from this great city all the way to Greenwich.



In Greenwich we had lunch at the market where we met a man selling antiques who told us the story of his life and how he brought us his kids successfully. We didn't buy anything but we both gained a lot from the exchange.



We walked up the hill for an amazing view of the country's capital and on a sunny day, it was breath-taking.



We took the tube back to Hyde Park where we met my childhood friend Jaja, 21 years after we said goodbye on our elementary graduation. London is like that - a melting pot, a meeting place.

While walking along the Serpentine towards the Museums Quarter we caught up over the last two decades of our lives as though we only saw each other yesterday. It is always fascinating meeting old friends - the path of your life has made you a different person but they always remind you that you are still the same inside, and it makes you grateful.



We went to the V&A Museum to take part in the Mexican celebration of 'The Day of the Dead'. We danced to the beat of their lively music and took part in a conga line of happy people moving like a slithering snake. But Isaac was getting tired so our reunion was cut too short. We left Jaja to an exciting student life in London where she is doing a master's degree on the prestigious Goldsmiths with an invitation to visit our home in Sheffield.



The next day we went to Wembley, the home of England's football team, for a stadium tour. For a five-year-old boy whose heart flutters with anything football, this was heaven on earth. We took his photos with the jerseys worn by his footballing heroes and when reached the highlight of the tour - the walk outside the tunnel to greet the what would normally be an expectant crowd - he volunteered to lead our side. He seemed a bit too grown up then and even his daddy, another football-crazed male specie, couldn't help but feel emotional once we reached the pit.



Then it was home-bound in the afternoon with tube closures everywhere that it took us nearly an hour to get to St Pancras from Hammersmith. On the train back, we whizzed past the Midlands and then crossed the non-existent border to the North, where it is greener and the pace of life is a little bit slower. As the train slowed down to approach Sheffield train station, I felt glad to be back to my daily grind.

I will never get tired of London, but I will only take it one dose at a time.

A Weekend Walk at Longshaw

In plain common-place matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine October morning - so fine that you can almost hear the song of the birds drawing you to the countryside where the air is fresh and the woods are bursting in colours. And it happened to fall on a Saturday, a perfect day for an autumn walk.

The clouds scuttled across the deep blue sky, allowing the sun to break out in bursts as we made our way to Longshaw Estate in the Peak District on a car journey that took us less than 30 minutes from our side of Sheffield.

We've had our weekly helping of the traditional English breakfast from our local pub before setting off but it was only 11am when we parked at the National Trust car park that was already busy with early birds, mostly families with young children and walkers with dogs.

From the car park (where you can pick up a map) we were faced with a choice of two routes to get to the teahouse and we followed the one that led us through the woods by crossing a wooden bridge leading to the stone steps up a hill.



Along the path we found a little village of chopped down trees carved with doors and staircases where boggarts of the English folklore store away their stash of stolen goods, making them look like dried leaves to the naked eyes, or so we imagined.



This is Boggart Rise and in this enclave we found dens made of broken tree branches, crossed a river through a dodgy log bridge and chased dry leaves being blown by the wind where it took many attempts before Isaac managed to successfully grab one. He put them in his jeans pocket ("This is golden money", he says).



Back in the main path, there is a welcome booth directing us to a small serviceable café beside the privately owned Longshaw Lodge with an open view of the moors in the horizon. The lodge was once a shooting retreat for a duke and became a military hospital during the wars. They have now been converted into private flats for those who have chosen the mostly bleak English country life.

There is a path that leads to the three waymarked walks around the estate and we took on the route of the pink arrows, a 1.5 mile circular walk popular amongst families with toddlers.

We followed a corridor of rhododendrons leading us downhill and hidden behind the bushes is Boggart Rise where Isaac played balance beam on a log while we looked out to the lovely view of the pond in the distance, eavesdropping on a mother explaining to a toddler the importance of leaves in the ecosystem (and instinctively smirked at the confirmation that we are with the right crowd).



We carried on to an open field where an herd of sheep are lazily grazing and Isaac excited pointed out to the many different forms of mushrooms and molehills on the ground. We reminded him not to venture off the footpath because we were surrounded by marshland where he can easily disappear on one of the bogs ("Will I go up the sky?", "No, you'll sink underground.").

Before we reached the pond, we followed the sound of children's laughter from under the bushes and discovered Boggart Burrow. On the ground is a clump of bony tree trunks stretching outwards like spider's webs or mangled snakes however you imagine it to be, where we found the little voices we heard jumping from one branch to another, like happy monkeys in the Indonesian jungle before the coconut plantations took over their habitats (but that's another conversation).



Within this realm we spotted a little wooden bridge leading to a tunnel of green we have to crouch to get to the end of and where we were welcomed by a carpet of brightly coloured fallen leaves and more trees spreading outwards. It felt like entering another world, a little version of the enchanted forest kingdom of Terabithia.

After a few moments of climbing around the fragile branches, we managed to drag the little boy out to let other children enjoy the magic. Around the bend is the pond, beautifully reflecting the glorious autumn colours of the trees surrounding it with a flock of ducks waiting on the bread crumbs.



Behind the pond is Granby Woods, where at the root of a fallen tree a den has been created, large enough to play houses or to stop by for a picnic.



We carried on with the walk and Isaac found a tree with a tiny hollow where he could wiggle his fingers towards the other end. Not long after we found an old barn with exhibits about the history and wildlife of the estate but we didn't stay long.





Beside the barn is a road where an ice cream van is strategically parked to tempt little feet to venture further, and that's what we did. The stunning view before us was the flat-topped hills of Carl Walk, a Bronze Age hill fort about 3,000 years old and the gritstone outcrop of Higger Tor.



We followed the path downhill to Padley Brook, which we crossed following a stone bridge instead of the wooden one. On both sides of the stream, few walkers have settled down with their sandwiches, amongst the grazing cattle scattered around the meadow.



The proximity to the enormous beasts has made the little one weary so we didn't stay long. We walked upstream along the side of the brook where at one point the boys decided to play pooh sticks in the stream but alas there were no sticks to be found so they settled for dried leaves. There will only ever be one winner, all the time, so all was well.



We crossed another river and walked uphill and Isaac ran up the rock called Toad's Mouth, like all the other children before us have done.



We were now back to the car park, on a circular walk that took us over two hours with a lot of stops in between. The cafe was getting busy so we did not stop by, the car park was still filling up when we drove away.

We spent two pounds on the ice cream and used a bit of petrol on the car. When they say happiness is free, they must mean days like this - blue skies and chirping birds in the countryside, holding hands.

A Mid-Terraced House in Hillsborough

In a quiet corner in Hillsborough, on a cul-de-sac that faces the entrance to the park and the tram stop for Leppings Lane where Sheffield Wednesday supporters usually disembark to walk to the football grounds where we hear lively chants on match days, our humble home stands, as it had for over a century where it has endured two world wars and enjoyed the glory days of the industrial revolution. It rises among the rows of terraced houses, on a slightly steep hill now deplete of the grand old trees cut down by the Council for seemingly no reasons, with cars parked on each side of the road.
Our neighbours are a friendly bunch, typically educated middle classes who are either young families with jobs in IT, health and education or older couples who have lived there most of their lives. Except for our next-door-neighbours on each side of the wall and my mother-in-law and her neighbours at the bottom of the road, we do not know most of them by their names. The English are never known to impose on others' personal space but decorum requires that we smile when we meet in the street, comment on the change in the weather and occasionally give their dogs a pat.

When I moved to Britain eight years ago, I discovered that people choose their homes not necessarily for its size or its outward look but mostly for its location, a roundabout way of saying, it's for the school catchment area. Because of course the students in your child's class are deciding factors to the kind of future he will look up to, or so most parents believe. Therefore, a four-bedroom detached house with a big garden but in a shady neighbourhood could only be worth half as much as a two-bedroom terraced house in a desirable area. This is obviously a far cry from the residential landscape I was used to, where highly gated mansions proudly stand amidst shanty huts and no one bats an eyelid.

This said, our property is classed mid-market (though it is still half the average price of a two-bedroom flat in London!), Isaac's classmates are generally with 'desirable' family backgrounds and his school is fairly competitive (and demanding). Like a significant portion of British millennials, we were only able to afford a mortgage by accessing the 'Bank of Mum & Dad' after selling a flat John owned for less than what he bought it for when the property prices were at their peak in 2007. We are lucky, but we do pay interest on the deposit which helps ease the guilt of not being able to fully stand on our own two feet.

Our mid-terraced house is deceptively small from the outside but it is four stories high which includes a dry cellar that is home to our forgotten treasures, mostly stuff we've held on to for the second baby that we haven’t got round to sorting out, and an attic which used to be a guest room but has now been turned into a Subbuteo playroom and mini-library for my many books that's been steadily collecting dusts and the abandoned art projects which were once so exciting but has been put on hold for real life (and kDramas).

We have very few IKEA pieces in our home. After moving a few too many times in nearly a decade of cohabitation, we have become wiser in choosing furniture that would last a little bit longer than the Swedish flat packs you'd want to covet in their showcases only to discover that they don't work in your own living spaces or are not actually reliable.

Our kitchen is an expensive built-in John Lewis model we inherited from the previous owners with a pull-out pantry to store my many kitchen essentials. When we moved back from a few months away of living abroad and with very few possessions intact, I was fascinated by how much space I have in the cupboards when I always felt like there wasn’t enough. It didn't stay empty for long. Spaces are meant to be filled, says my compulsive hoarder self.

The living room has a big bay window looking out to the street with a comfortable chair that lets you sit back and watch the busy lives pass you by while sipping a cup of tea, like how Tito David used to do. On the front wall is a gallery of photos from our trips abroad, my feeble attempt at pretentiously imitating a typical British pub wall.

Through a steep (vintage-style) carpeted stairs, more photos line up the walls - of family portraits, important events and Sheffield Wednesday keepsakes. The landing opens up to our bedrooms, a small bathroom we all share and the staircase to the attic.

Isaac's little bedroom, which has been subjected to many transformations during the years, has a landscape window that looks out to the neighbourhood gardens below and the rolling hills spreading out over the horizon, a view that changes with each season.

Our bedroom looks out to the terraced houses on the other side of the street through a large window that I've always fancied would look nice to turn into a Juliet balcony but which the Council will probably say no to. The floor is stripped bare to its original wooden flooring and laid with the expensive carpets (at over €200 each!) we were conned to buy in Morocco on each side of the bed. The watercolour painting over the bed is an idyllic village scene somewhere in the South of England that we found from a British Heart Foundation showroom and the built in wardrobes store my impressive clothing (and coats that would rival kDrama candies!) collection all courtesy of a weekly charity shopping spree.

At the back of the house, through the kitchen door, is the little garden which used to have a shed with overgrown ivy that looked so picture pretty but John had to take down for the famous health and safety reasons. The green lawn requires considerable maintenance and can go bone dry in warm summers that once we were tempted to replace it with artificial grass to save us the hard work but felt guilty about the wildlife that relies on these little bits of urban green that we decided to let it stay.

When Isaac was born, John bought palm and maple trees that we were going to raise alongside him. They are now planted in the ground although they have not grown as tall as he is yet. At the end of the garden there is a fig tree that steadily produces sweet fruits in the summer. On one of the fence walls the rose bushes gave us plenty of silky red roses during the summer and right next to it is the cherry apple tree we planted last year that are just about ready for the autumn harvest. Our pots have changing flowers based on the seasons and the grounds have sunflowers and pea stalks in the warmer weather.

On warm and sunny days, we normally sit out in the outdoor sitting area with Spanish flower pots on the garden walls, to sip a cup of coffee and listen to the humming birds. Occasionally, our next door neighbours would come out and join us for a chat while the children would bounce off happily in their trampoline. We are, embarrassingly, a pin up poster of the English bourgeois.

But not quite the aspirational types. Our modest accommodations do not have the front façade of the grand Victorian mansions a little bit further up the hill, our garden is not even half the size of the semi-detached houses some growing families tend to 'upgrade' to once children became part of the picture, our kitchen doesn’t have an 'island' most modern suburban houses tend to have and our windows don't have balconies that apartment dwellers enjoy. But from all the other houses we have lived in throughout the years, this one has always felt just right that we have never once felt we are missing out (despite our curious fascination with other houses advertised in Right Move).

And so, in this nondescript residential street in Hillsborough where one can easily rush down the road to catch the next tram to town, amongst a row of Victorian terrace houses, our happy family lives in blissful middle-class contentment.