Regent’s Canal

‘The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.’ — Maya Angelou

This summer I finally showed one of my childhood best friends around the UK, visiting both London — the city I love more than anywhere in the world — and the serene and picturesque countryside along with a couple unique, off-the-beaten-track regional cities. Having been friends for over twenty years, she has seen me at my best and at my very worst, in the place I was born and raised and in my several transient ‘homes’ across Canada. Yet due to circumstance, she had never visited me in the place I truly call home.

We walked the North Downs Way to the art gallery in the Surrey Hills where I work, and she tried her first ever cream tea before we dressed up in Victorian costume and took silly photos with painted cows at Guildford Castle. We had fish and chips in Spitalfields and cocktails overlooking St Paul’s. We dodged a downpour in Portsmouth by ducking into Southsea Castle then ate ice cream on the rocky beach.

We crossed Abbey Road, then traced Regent’s Canal from King’s Cross to Camden where we purchased art at the stables market and toasted Amy Winehouse with an afternoon cuppa. We drank wine in my garden in the evenings, and I introduced her to my most important people and places. She finally had the chance to see me at home, completely myself, as I am, without question; not longing for anywhere else but content to just be at home.