England never interested me until recently. My early backpacking days were filled with mountains and ice and snow and golden-skinned Scandinavian goddesses, and wild parties and cheap beer in hot, humid locales in South-East Asia. (Or at least that’s my rose-tinged reflection.) England didn’t seem exotic enough for this Aussie, the cultural appeal of a plate of fish and soggy chips cooked by a man named Roger and eaten on a sodden shingle beach in the rain. Of course, I was merely ignorant of the fact that England is brilliant. A fog of mortality and reflection shrouded my journey through the motherland.