Trip to England

One of the advantages of living in Europe is the cheap air fares that facilitate shuttles between countless countries and cultures. At the end of November, we took advantage of one, from Ancona (our closest airport, an hour or so away) to Liverpool. €1 per person each way, plus tax, making it a total of €118 for all 3 of us. (That, however, is where the economic side of things ends – England, with its super-strong pound, is very expensive in euros, never mind dollars!)

We flew in and out of Liverpool, and were treated to the warm and welcoming hospitality of our friends and landlords, Al and Vron, in West Yorkshire in the High Peaks area. Aside from being just a bloody good time being together, we got to see York and its Minster, Whitby with its moody abbey ruins on the blustery coast, and the stately Chatsworth, home of the Duke of Northumberland. Had fish ‘n chips in Whitby, Yorkshire pudding at home (along with several other superb meals), drank some good bitter in a few warm pubs, and watched the SA vs World XV rugby game live on TV (going to the game was the original impetus for the trip, but it just didn’t work out).

Leaving Liverpool airport introduced us to the new UK, uncompromisingly and unflinchingly unmovable on the “no liquids” rule. We tried to travel light and not check baggage, taking everything on board the plane. Big mistake.

Granted, I can see how my Gillette Sensor razor blades could slice off the plane’s wing in mid-flight, so I gave them up willingly. But marmalade and a tape measure? Into the bin they went, along with the peanut butters, lip glosses, and other weapons of the terrorist’s arsenal. The shaved-headed twenty-somethings that conducted the pillage even took one tiny bottle away (a very expensive essential oil) because “I don’t know what it is, luv.”

Perhaps it’s our own fault in the end – we should have known – but we really didn’t think that the English could match, let alone surpass, the security zealots in the US. But then again, who’s to say that the marmalade made by the Housewives League of Holmfirth isn’t packed choc-a-bloc with explosive ingredients, or that they are secretly funding Al Qaeda operations? The England of olde – friendly bobbies without weapons – is clearly a thing of the past. Apparently, there is more surveillance in the UK than anywhere else in the world. Perhaps this is all necessary. I don’t know. All I know is that it’s a shame.

The eventful nature of our return didn’t stop there. Ancona was fogged in, so we were diverted to Pescara in Abruzzo. Thankfully buses were laid on by Ryanair, and we were on the road in short order, finally getting home around midnight instead of 9:30pm.

We were then greeted with another stark reality – Mr Young was nowhere to be found. We had left him with enough food and water for the 5 days, and left the upstairs bedroom window open so he could at least get outside on to the roof of the patio. But it was too long for him – he had fled. We searched all around, calling and pleading, but no response. So we went to bed, anxious and concerned.

Maria found him the next day, perched high in a neighbour’s tree. He probably got down from the roof after a few days, and then, when he found he couldn’t get back into the house, sought out the safest place to him in a hostile environment of roving dogs and wild cats. For a highly-strung creature like a cat, it must have been terrifying. Apparently severe stress like this can cause a thrombosis, and this could well have been the cause of his mysterious affliction a week later, and ultimately, his death on December 23rd.

Now that he’s gone, I’m constantly brought back to this incident. What were we thinking, for 5 days leaving a totally dependent creature that identifies so strongly with its family that it relies on them for not only food, but also for comfort, security, and general wellbeing? And what goes through an animal’s mind at times like this? Was he going to look for us? Did he think we had abandoned him?

There are no answers, only haunting questions …