I have found it surprisingly disorientating moving from Hong Kong (22.3°N), where there is little more than two hours’ variation in daylight hours over the course of the year, to southern England (51.2° N), where the longest day exceeds the shortest by nearly nine hours.

Living in a small village with little artificial light makes the change in daylight hours even more palpable, especially on the days when there is a sudden one hour jump to British Summer Time and back again to Greenwich Mean Time.

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In the mid-seventh century, Æthelburh, daughter of Æthelberht, the first Christian king of Kent, established one of England’s earliest Christian communities by the source of a pure chalk stream on the North Downs.

Æthelburh, or Ethelburga as she is now known locally, had been married off to King Edwin of Northumbria but after he was killed in battle (a common fate for Anglo-Saxon kings), she returned home for a life of quiet aristocratic contemplation with God. She commissioned a convent and a small stone church on the hillside directly above the spring feeding the stream in the valley below.

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The tiny Oxfordshire village of Ewelme* is very much off the beaten track nowadays, hidden down narrow country lanes in the Chiltern Hills, away from any major thoroughfare. But 500 years ago, it was the stage for an epic drama, the rise and fall of one of England’s most prominent families, tragically embroiled in a dynastic struggle we know today as the War of the Roses.

The clue to Ewelme’s former status is the imposing church of St Mary the Virgin on the hillside above the high street, and its adjacent almshouses and school house, a grand stone and brick complex more suited to a small town than a few scattered households.
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The quality of mercy is not strain’d.

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

In one of William Shakespeare’s most famous speeches from The Merchant of Venice, Portia attempts to persuade Shylock of the importance of mercy over the blind pursuit of justice, in the hope that he will relinquish his “just” demand for a pound of flesh and accept the offer of double the money he loaned to the beleaguered Antonio.

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Somewhere on the hillside of Mosfell, about 20 kilometres to the east of Reykjavik, lies buried treasure. It is here, more than a thousand years ago, that Egil Skallagrimsson, Iceland’s infamous warrior poet, dumped two chests of silver that had been presented to him decades earlier by the king of England. It is reported that some English coins of that era were subsequently found in the area but the bulk of the treasure remains lost – for now.

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Hidden down a muddy farm track on the greensand ridge overlooking Romney Marsh is a ruined chapel and the site of a 16^th century miracle – allegedly.

It was here in 1526 that Elizabeth Barton, a 20-year-old servant girl from the nearby village of Aldington, prophesised that she would be cured of the seizures and deathlike trances that had recently afflicted her. She had growing a reputation among the local population for the visions and prophesies that emerged during her trances, so a considerable crowd reportedly gathered to watch the event.

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On a recent trip to London, I took a shortcut back to the train station through Gray’s Inn. As I hurried through a narrow alleyway, I noticed a plaque on the brick wall to my right bearing the name and unmistakable image of the first president of the Republic of China, Sun Yat-sen. This was the site of Sun’s lodging house, provided by his friend and teacher in Hong Kong, Dr James Cantlie, in the late 1890s.

It was a serendipitous sighting. Earlier that day, I had walked by the Chinese embassy in Portland Place, and was reminded of how Sun had been held captive there for 12 days in October 1896. It was one of the most sensational kidnappings of the decade, an incident that would not have been out of place in a Sherlock Holmes novel.

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There are a growing number of people in Britain who seem convinced that the country is under attack by asylum seekers storming the beaches of Kent in fleets of small boats.

While I accept that some concerns over the scale of immigration are legitimate, it is important to remember that this is not the first time that foreigners have landed on the shores of Kent in small boats: it has been going on for millennia, and it is this continual migration and interaction of different peoples that largely defines Britain today. In fact, Kent itself only exists in its current form because of a small boat invasion of economic migrants from Germania in the fifth century.

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One of the most obvious changes I have noticed since returning to live in England after 15 years in Hong Kong is that hardly anybody uses cash anymore, even for the most insignificant of purchases.

This was evident to me on earlier visits to London but the trend has now spread to engulf even the sleepy rural village where I live. Everyone uses contactless payment cards or apps in the convenience store, the café, the pubs, even at the bi-weekly farmers’ market where all stall holders have a mobile card reader. You can still use cash (for the time being) but everyone assumes you will be paying by card. Having to keep bank notes and coins on hand is now seen by business owners as an inconvenience and many actively discourage payment in cash. One of the few places I can still use cash without worry is the chicken farm where I buy eggs.

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Queuing is a well-established British tradition, probably dating back to the establishment of the mass transit system in the late 19^th century, and reinforced by decades of cultural indoctrination. As such, it should have come as no surprise that tens of thousands of loyal subjects were willing to stand in line for more than 12 hours to pay their respects to the country’s longest reigning monarch, Queen Elizabeth II. Even in the former British territory of Hong Kong, thousands of people braved unseasonably hot September days to stand in line for hours to sign the book of condolences at the British Consulate.

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