First Impressions

We left Chennai (that was once Madras) early on the 6th of November, 2025. We were flying to London’s Heathrow non-stop. It was our first time on a British Airways 787. We were airborne just before 8 am, and it was smooth sailing all the way through. We even arrived at our destination early, completed all the formalities without any hassle, and were whisked away to Northampton soon after. We reached home by about 3 pm, GMT, and soon settled down for the evening.

But this fairly easy-going account does not tell the whole story.

It was an ordeal; but, as they say, it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive. An 11-hour trip is for the young, not for the young-at-heart. The “English” breakfast rallied us a bit, but the wait for the next refreshments was unnecessarily protracted, I feel. A shot of whiskey certainly helped, but the general lack of liquid intake (water, I mean) made the task of going to sleep very painful—all the muscles in my legs kept pulling every which way but loose.

Heathrow Airport is a warren of human activity. All the signage is in one language, but since we know a little of that one, it was easy—up and down a series of escalators, into a “terminal” train, and finally to the Immigration counters. That was a very long wait, and so I had time to read some of the advertisements that adorn the walls—all about the iconic sights that captivate you in this ancient land. And yet, I was thinking to myself, not that this could be heaven or this could be hell, but that it could not be London’s Heathrow if there weren’t serpentine queues at the counters.

Then we were on our way. At this time of the year, the trees have shed most of their leaves, giving one the impression of dryness all around. Once out of London, and bearing north, the foliage brightens—the falling leaves of Fall have not yet all fallen. Vast swathes of land encompass you as you hurry down the highways, eager to get home.

They also say (who “They” are, I don’t know, nor have I cared to ask) that the soul of India resides in its villages, and the same sentiment rings true in England, too. The best of England, as with the best of most other lands, is to be found far from the bustle of the city, any city.

Today, that’s Friday, is my first full day here. It is quiet here—as “Little England”, aka Veteran Lines used to be—more so because everyone and everything seems to be hunkering down for the bleakness of winter.

But we are here, to bring in some cheer, and spread all that around to everyone we meet. It feels nice to be back in good old Blighty, for as one of her poets said, quite some time ago: Grow old along with me, /The best is yet to be.”

Cheers, people.