It was wonderful to remove ourselves from mist, rain, and fog. Flying over the Alps, we entered again a land of blue skies, blue seas, and snow-capped mountains. It felt deeply good to return. The air was warm — not summer warm, but spring warm — and when we reached home our cats greeted us with unmistakable relief and affection. We, in turn, were grateful for the crumpets and good cheddar we had brought back, enough to make a comforting toast before collapsing into the sleep we desperately needed after a two-o’clock start.

As for reflections on our stay in London: we were pleased with very many things. The trains, in particular, impressed us — improved efficiency frequency, reliability. Less pleasing was the cleanliness of certain areas, and the prices, which could be astonishing, especially for exhibitions. Fortunately, thanks to Sandra’s foresight in securing life memberships of both the National Trust and the Art Fund, we benefited from generous reductions. We were also very grateful for the considerable courtesy shown in handling our requests, which left a particularly warm and lasting impression.
London itself displayed its familiar character as a global city. We experienced this most joyfully during the Chinese New Year celebrations, where the diversity of the city seemed festive, harmonious, and alive. Yet multiculturalism, if it is to flourish, must surely involve some degree of integration, and it was this question that lingered with us.
We were staying temporarily in a district with a strongly South Asian character — largely Indian, especially Gujarati. Walking down the high street felt like stepping into another cultural space entirely: one Indian shop after another, food stores, clothing shops with beautiful traditional garments, restaurants, sweet shops. The usual chain stores were present — Costa, Tesco, Boots, Primark — but otherwise the environment was almost entirely shaped by one community. English was seldom heard, and when it was, it was spoken in accents quite different from the familiar tones of London.

Then we travelled, barely an hour by train, to a traditional cathedral town. The contrast was striking. Suddenly one heard English everywhere — not merely the language, but a recognisably English accent, gentle and rural. The streets, the faces, the rhythm of life all seemed continuous with an older memory of England, the country as I had known it in youth. It felt less like travelling within one nation and more like crossing an invisible frontier between two worlds.

What struck us most was not diversity in one place and continuity in another, but the apparent lack of overlap. In the London district, traditional English institutions had largely vanished: a Baptist church converted into a mosque, a pub transformed into a restaurant, services run almost entirely by people of non-English heritage. Yet in the cathedral town, there was almost no visible presence of non-European backgrounds at all — as if time had paused somewhere around the 1970s.
This raised, for me, the broader question of multiculturalism beyond major cities. In Italy, too, diversity exists, though often tied to specific economic roles. In Emilia-Romagna, Sikh farmers have become renowned for their skill with dairy cattle. In southern Italy, migrant labourers harvest tomatoes under extremely difficult conditions. Integration here is pragmatic, grounded in work.
I was reminded of my own experience teaching Eastern European students in England who worked as fruit pickers in East Anglia. They would sometimes apologise for falling asleep during lessons — not from lack of interest, but from exhaustion. Their day had begun at three or four in the morning, transported to the fields before dawn and returning late. One wonders whether such workers remain in the same numbers today. Countries such as Poland, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, and Romania have grown rapidly more prosperous; the old stereotype of the “Polish plumber” feels increasingly outdated.
There is also, in England, a deep attachment to the traditional image of rural life: the village pub, the parish church, the landlord behind the bar, Morris dancers in the street, the sense of continuity with centuries past. Many people wish to preserve this vision, fearing that change might dissolve it. Whether such preservation requires resisting diversity, or whether tradition can coexist with renewal, remains an open question.
Italy presents a slightly different case: in some regions, migrant labour is not merely tolerated but economically essential. The Sikh farmers of the Po Valley are not seen as intruders but as indispensable contributors.
These reflections leave me with mixed feelings. I love England deeply — its landscapes, its history, its humour, its institutions. Yet I cannot ignore a certain unease, not only about that country but about our era as a whole: a sense of division, of mutual suspicion, of cultures talking past one another rather than with one another.
What seems most needed now is not argument but empathy — a rediscovery of kindness, curiosity, and love not only for one’s own community but for humanity as a whole, and indeed for the fragile planet we share. Without that deeper foundation, neither tradition nor diversity can flourish safely.
And so we return home grateful, thoughtful, and hopeful that the future may yet be shaped less by fear and more by understanding.