One amusing detail that I failed to mention from yesterday’s visit to Dover: There were two main gun batteries at Dover during World War Two, both named after Winston Churchill: One was “Winnie,” and the other was “Poo.”
Well, this seemingly endless trip is now coming to an end. I can scarcely remember home. Heck, for that matter I can scarcely remember Israel or Switzerland or Austria. They seem very, very long ago.
It’s Sunday morning here, and I’m sitting in an airport hotel waiting to head to the terminal.
I hate this part of a trip.
Yet it’s really time to go home. And especially from this trip. I enjoyed it, on very many levels, despite the seemingly dedicated efforts of two or three people back in Utah to ruin it as much as they could. We had looked forward to it for at least a year, in somewhat different form. But, when my brother died suddenly at the end of March, I knew that it would be a tough and nostalgic few weeks for me, since he and his wife and some of his family had been scheduled to go on the cruise around the United Kingdom with us. (Incidentally, his brother in law, who spoke, as I did, at my brother’s funeral — a younger man, extremely outdoorsy, rugged and fit and lean — collapsed and died suddenly this past week; his funeral was on Friday in northern Idaho. Stunning and disconcerting news. Death and loss seems to have been the major theme for me since just before General Conference; I hope this phase will pass soon.) But the politics in Provo, and the many ramifications of that messy and (in my judgment) wholly unnecessary episode, made things infinitely worse.
It’s time to go home, but I’m not looking forward to it. I’ve discovered many new friends, and discovered the deep loyalty of some I had already known as friends, but I’ve also recognized a few previously unsuspected enemies, and that’s been profoundly disheartening.
Such, I guess, is life. Ever since the Fall.
Near Heathrow Airport, England.