Last Brexit From Boston

On EU referendum day I had my first funeral at Boston Crematorium, the English heartland of Brexit, with a higher percentage of people who want Britain out of the EU than anywhere else in the country.  It was a damp, grey morning as I drove from Newark across miles of largely empty farmland.  As I pulled into the car park of a large Asda, the Boston Stump loomed out of the mist.  Driving on through the town I saw rows of neat terraced houses interspersed with Eastern European food stores.

The crem. is a grim fifties edifice in some well-kept parkland.  I was shown into the Vestry and later given a quick tour of the chapel and shown the buttons for changing the music and closing the curtains.  I drove back to Newark at lunchtime, and in the afternoon picked up my motorbike from the garage and had a nice chat with the garage owner about bikes and touring and double-checking the bill he even found a mistake and knocked a few quid off.  Then I went to the Polling Station where the Poll Clerk offered my a munchie before handing me my ballot paper.  "How very English" I thought, in a good way as a rode my motorbike back to Dobson's Quay.

After a run along the Trent I kicked back in front of the TV and got ready for the first referendum results to come in, convinced of a win for "remain."  I became hypnotised by the results strapline as the votes for Brexit piled up until it was clear by the early hours that a majority had voted to leave the EU.  It was fascinating to watch the ill-disguised shock on the faces of the presenters who had obviously voted mainly for "remain" and could scarcely believe what they were seeing.  I voted "remain" too but at the same time felt a certain guilty pleasure in watching so many smug professionals have the smile wiped off their faces, though that was obliterated by the ghastly spectacle of a triumphant Nigel Farage.

Now, two days later I feel anxious, but also excited.  For good or bad this result is going to lead to change and already it's interesting to see even some of the most die-hard remainers beginning to start seeing the opportunities.

Back to the UK

Sat on plane from Brindisi to Stansted, bored and tired.  Somewhere below through the clouds is a flat bit of France or Germany.  I'm only over for three odd weeks during which I have a funeral, a memorial and a wedding.  Also in two weeks I'm meeting Sue at Stansted so we can go together to a kind of memorial meet up in Brighton for our old friend Keith.

Oh and there's the UK referendum on EU membership.  Reading the Guardian the chattering classes are suddenly in a panic as the polls swing towards Brexit from a comfortable remain lead a few weeks ago.  I find all this scary and disorientating.  I had complacently assumed that as the deadline loomed people's fear of change would widen the gap in favour of remain and this may still prove to be the case.  But I'm realising increasingly that there are a lot of angry and dispossessed people out there who pin their anger on immigration and see Brexit as some kind of solution.

My reaction to all this is complicated.  I am a European but I'm not in love with the Brussels bureaucracy.  I also fear what a Britain outside Europe might become - a more nasty and alienated place than it is today governed by toffs I feel no connection with.

Interesting times.

Peschici

I took this photo last week lying on our bed in the afternoon in a lovely little hotel in the centre of Peschici, a small port and resort on the tip of the Gargano peninsula in the north of Puglia.

Since I got back to Puglia in early May we've been working hard getting our house and land ready for the summer, so we took a break for a few days to relax and recharge our batteries.

It's only our second time in the Gargano, the first time being a day trip with Old Paolo and Erminia to St Giovani Rotondo, the centre of the Padre Pio industry not long after we bought the house in 2004.

Although further north than our home it actually feels more remote, because it's far from the main autoroutes and regional airports.

At the centre of the peninsula is the Foresta Umbra, an ancient woodland of oak, beech and pine to which wolves were reintroduced a few years ago.  We took a stroll in it for a couple of hours, enjoying the shade and the peace and feeling strangely reminded of the Bornean rainforest.

But mainly we just strolled around the local seaside towns, taking in the views and the sunsets, dining on excellent seafood and eating ice cream.

It was however still early in the season and many of the locals were still frantically tarting the place up before the tourists arrive in greater numbers.  Unfortunately, this didn't extend to removing a rusty chunk of reinforcing bar attached to a lump of concrete buried on Peschici beach, which I managed to hook my foot under going for an early morning run sending me flying and burying my chin in the sand and bruising my ribs, which still hurt when I cough now more than ten days later.