As I stuff my face with red currants and gooseberries on my way out of Day-to-day Northern Europe, I'm having a moment of intense nostalgia for Yorkshire. I was having drinks with a Midlands friend in Brussels last week who asked me if I was reverting when I said I was thinking of buying the family some pet ferrets. Hah hah. I haven't been there since I was pregnant with Godzilla and Granny was still alive. Nigh on exactly 11 years ago. But it struck me as soon as we got to Deutschland - how familiar it seemed here. Not like northern France or Belgium or the Netherlands. Here and northern England recall each other a little. There's something intensely similar. The rooks probably, or the red currants. Or the gooseberries. The brambles. The language. I don't know. But I think my grandparents would have felt something comfortable here, if they hadn't absolutely detested Germans as was reasonable for their generation and many others. I will miss that - the rooks especially. Fuck me, will I miss the rooks. Oh well. I'll visit. Perhaps not here, but I'll visit rooks somewhere.