Episode 6 — Coming Home Through the Long Way Round

This week I went to England for a funeral.

That is the sentence that started it.

But what unfolded across those five days became something far bigger than grief. It became about home. Belonging. Ritual. Flexibility. Love. Family. Pleasure. Presence. And the strange kind of miracle that happens when love is stubborn enough to gather people across decades of silence and distance.

It almost didn’t begin smoothly.

The days before the trip — Dodenherdenking and Bevrijdingsdag — had already become lessons in letting go of the plan.

René and I had quietly looked forward to both days. We had imagined meaningful rituals, beautiful moments, shared experiences. Instead, we encountered barricades, endless queues, aching knees, crowds, overstimulation and plans collapsing in front of us.

At the remembrance ceremony near Scheveningen, the queue stretched endlessly ahead while my body was already hurting badly. We realised that by the time we would even be allowed near the monument, we would miss the actual ceremony itself.

And strangely enough, almost immediately, I felt:
this is not wrong.

It was almost as though Life itself was redirecting us.

Because had we stayed, we would have stood in the cold for over an hour with my body already struggling. Instead, we watched the remembrance differently. Softer. Warmer. Safer.

The same happened during Bevrijdingsdag.

The festival became so full within half an hour that people were literally being turned away from the roads surrounding it. Again, frustration rose. Again, plans collapsed.

And again, something better quietly appeared.

A peaceful lunch in greenery.
A recalibration.
A release of tension.
And later in the day: parking directly opposite the festival entrance, sunshine, music, laughter and ease.

The Universe kept rerouting us toward the gentler version — if we were willing to stop arguing with the closed door.

That lesson carried through the entire week.

Then came England.

Or perhaps I should say:
home.

Not because England is perfect.
Not because nostalgia erases reality.

But because there are parts of me that still recognise themselves there.

The buses.
The humour.
The sounds of London.
The food.
The movement of people.
The smell of train stations and coffee.
Indian restaurants.
Public transport adventures.
Sticky toffee pudding.
Fish and chips.
The Big Ben chiming.
Borough Market early in the morning.
Little starlings eating crumbs from our hands between the pigeons.

So many ordinary moments that somehow felt sacred.

We woke at 2:30 in the morning for Schiphol.

There is something strangely ceremonial about travelling in darkness before dawn. The sleepy house. The airport lights. The exhaustion mixed with anticipation. René and I sat in the shuttle bus looking around at all the white-haired travellers awake at impossible hours wondering where everybody was going.

We had breakfast at four in the morning.

And we laughed.

That became one of the strongest energies of the entire trip:
shared adventure.

London received us gently.

At Borough Market we wandered through stalls only just opening. Fresh breads. Olives. Cheese. Cakes. Coffee. Salmon bagels with cream cheese and lemon zest that I still remember tasting days later.

We fed little birds from our hands and simply existed in the now.

And somewhere underneath all of it, I realised:
I was not just showing René London.

I was also showing myself.

Because I left England before I turned six.

And yet the city still recognised me somehow.

Or perhaps I recognised myself in it.

Wednesday evening, we helped set up the reception hall for the funeral.

White linen tablecloths.
Purple lilac runners.
Fold-up tables.
Family members arriving one by one.

Aunty Jacquie.
Aunty Barbara.
Aunty Marilyn.
Aunty Jean.
Aunty Lorna.
Aunty Lorise.

And René — my beautiful man — carrying tables, helping wherever needed, immediately folded into the family’s warmth as though he had always belonged there.

That touched me deeply.

Because later he told me:
he had never felt so much love from family before.

And I realised how healing it was for me too, watching someone I love be embraced so naturally by my people.

My father met René warmly at the church doorway.
My brother unexpectedly arrived.
My sister Zerrne, from whom my father had been estranged for 36 years, sat at the same table with him during the reception.

And somehow — by what honestly felt like Divine orchestration — our entire fragmented family ended up around one round table together.

My father.
My sisters.
My brother.
Partners.
Children.
Laughter.
Food.
Conversation.

No forcing.
No pretending.
No masks.

Just:
life is short.
love matters.
show up now.

Straight after the church service, my father quietly told me he had received what he called some “good blows” that day. Something had really landed for him emotionally.

Then later, at the burial ground, another layer surfaced for him.

He realised he is now the eldest of the eldest line in the family, and that what he does next matters.

Watching that awareness unfold in real time felt deeply significant.

Even the burial itself became symbolic.

The casket could not initially be lowered because the space was too narrow. Someone joked gently that Aunt Will simply refused to go into the ground before hearing two more songs.

So we sang.

And somehow everyone laughed softly through tears.

That was Aunt Will’s final gift.

Even in death, she kept the room together until we were alright.

Friday became our free day in London.

And what strikes me now is how instinctively René and I moved through the city.

Not through strict planning.
But through feeling.

Coffee at an Italian café instead of Starbucks because it simply felt right.

Standing still on the pavement waiting for Big Ben to chime at noon.

Lying on the grass in St James’s Park doing absolutely nothing, which honestly felt revolutionary.

Buckingham Palace unexpectedly hosting a Royal Garden Party for 8000 guests while elegantly dressed people drifted quietly through security gates.

Trafalgar Square.
Piccadilly Circus.
Chinatown.
Sticky toffee pudding.
Shepherd’s pie.
Late-night drinks.

And then one of the most emotional moments of the trip:

Returning to Beechdaleroad.

Standing outside the house where I was born.

And then walking the two blocks I used to walk alone as a five-year-old to reach Aunty Maureen’s home — sometimes carrying my baby sister with me.

Something about René physically standing there with me transformed memory into reality.

It was no longer just a story I carried internally.

Now he had walked it too.

That mattered more than I expected.

Saturday we visited my brother Darron and his family.

Green hills.
Sunshine.
Conversations.
Relaxation.
Laughter.
Watching René completely soften into ease around my family.

And I realised something important during this trip:

when René relaxes, I relax more.
When I relax, he relaxes more.

We regulate each other through love.

That evening, we stood on London Bridge looking toward Tower Bridge lit beautifully at night exactly where my brother told us to stand for the best view.

Pizza afterward at Wetherspoon.

Simple.
Ordinary.
Perfect.

And then Sunday came.

Fish and chips at Elephant & Castle before travelling home.

One last cocktail before leaving England — an Old Fashioned with Angostura bitters, a flavour from my childhood I recognised emotionally before I recognised it intellectually.

Old fashioned.

Exactly.

Because this entire week carried something old and sacred inside it.

Family.
Tradition.
Ritual.
Home.
Belonging.
Gathering.
Remembering.

On the plane home, René and I laughed almost continuously.

Not because anything specific was funny.

But because we had lived so fully.

Five days felt like weeks.

Not because we were rushing.

But because we were present.

And I think that is the real secret:
presence expands time.

When you stop forcing every second into productivity…
life becomes fuller.

I have called myself a hedonist for years — someone deeply connected to pleasure.

But this week taught me something deeper about pleasure.

Pleasure is not superficial.
Pleasure is medicine.
Pleasure is nervous-system healing.

Pleasure is the body remembering:
you are safe enough to laugh again.

And perhaps that is the deepest thing this week gave me:

The understanding that home is not only a place.

Home is a nervous system feeling.

Home is a round table where fractured people remember they belong together.

Home is a man carrying fold-up tables for your family and being thanked by name the next morning.

Home is feeding birds crumbs in Borough Market.

Home is lying on grass in London without urgency.

Home is being welcomed back after years apart without first needing to explain yourself.

And home is also this:

A five-year-old girl walking two blocks alone in England carrying her little sister…
already knowing how to find her way back.

Maybe she never forgot.

And maybe neither did I.

If something in this reflection stirred something inside you — about belonging, family, identity, healing, nervous-system safety, or the homes we carry within us — you are welcome to stay close to this journey.

And if you want to explore the deeper emotional patterns underneath how we lose ourselves and find ourselves again, my free 5 Human Clouds guide is a gentle place to begin.