Once my house had eventually been sold it was time for me to leave the UK for good. I hired a car, said my farewells and drove off to England for a few days to do likewise with my friends South of the border. A few days later I was on a plane heading for the next part of my life.
The plane that I was on had departed from Stanstead airport a few hours earlier but as it was approaching Santiago airport in the North West of Spain my vice-like grip on my seat began to loosen. Ever since as a young police officer I attended the crash site of flight Pan Am 103 that was blown out of the sky over the town of Lockerbie in Southern Scotland one evening in December 1988, I have, for obvious reasons, always disliked flying. As the wheels of the plane touched the runway, and much to the consternation of the somewhat refined middle class English woman sitting next to me I burst out laughing. Due to what I have previously written here of my dislike of flying, you would assume that it was some sort of reaction to a sudden release of tension and apparently so did the woman next to me.
“I am not fond of flying either” she confided in me.
You should have seen the look on her face when I explained to her that yes indeed I did not like flying but the reason for my laughter was that I was glad to have left the UK for good with no intention to ever go back!
In complete astonishment she then asked me “Why? What is so wrong with the UK?”
I then proceeded her in my opinon what a shit hole the UK actually was but how that she as a middle class person looking at life from within her wealth induced shit filtered bubble, she was not actually able to see or smell the obvious decay within the shit holes that the vast majority of the UK cities actually are. I then told her that instead of flying to Spain for a spring break with her two legged cash dispenser (sorry I mean her Husband!) she should perhaps walk the streets of Glasgow, Bradford, Liverpool, or any other conurbation outside the South East of England after the sun goes down and perhaps she then might just understand my reasons for leaving. The look on her face, it was a picture of complete incomprehension and disgust. It was almost as if I had soiled myself whilst sitting beside her.
As I got off the plane and made my way over the tarmac to the terminal with every worldly possession that I wanted to take from my home in a rucksack over my shoulder, I could not stop grinning like some idiot that had just won a giant teddy bear by shooting a row of tin cans off of a shelf at the carnival. It had suddenly dawned on me that I had actually done it. I had actually left the UK for good and after years and years of cutting myself free from the numerous anchors that weighed me down and a couple of false starts, I had actually done it and it felt great!
After settling in to my hotel I wandered around the city of Santiago de Compostella for a while and let myself soak up the sights and sounds of the country that would be my home for the next year.
As I thought about that I estimated that it would take me two years to become competent in Spanish so right there and then I decided to spend not one but two years in Spain before moving on. At that point I then realised that one of the best things about my new life was the flexibility for me to do what I wanted to do, whenever I wanted to do it, without reference to anyone else. No more ties or commitments. Ever.
As I walked through the city I took a few pictures.
