Return

On December 1, the well-known journalist Masha Slonim went into exile for the second time*. The New Times begins publishing her diaries from a "foreign land"

Return is not departure.

Departure is abrupt, impetuous, the very word cut off: DEPARTURE.

The return is extended both in time and even in space.

Returning to England was a process. I went, looked closely, picked up a house, thought. I arrived, the house is empty, IKEA, only not in Khimki, but in Bristol, my own bed is there, sofas. Around - almost Tuscany, the house is warm and cozy, but the feeling that I was in a hotel. Not my house. Too clean and as if something is missing, the soul or something. But on the third day, the dogs-cats arrived, which I sent separately, on special vehicles by land and by sea. And the house suddenly came to life. They turned a faceless hotel into our common home. Dogs, ironically, were my anchor.

England has always been home, once first, then second. Here are pieces of my family - sister and niece, son and grandchildren. I lived here both in London and out of town, in the county of Berkshire, half an hour from London by fast train. But she never spent more than a week in the countryside.

Now I find myself in a small village in a very rural area, surrounded by farms in the beautiful county of Devon. The population of the village is 444, and judging by the number of tractors plowing the narrow paths and the herds of sheep grazing on the emerald pastures, they are mostly farmers. The paths are like tunnels - thick hedges on both sides, like walls protecting pastures. There are holes in the wall, though. My dogs pointed them out to me, pushing their way through the dense bush to the sheep. This is very dangerous for dogs. Yes, for me too. Under English law, a farmer has the right to shoot a dog that disturbs his herd. And as a hostess, I face a fine and even imprisonment for up to five years. I am now waiting for the dog trainer Ruth, who is ready to teach our ignoramuses English manners. She even promises to do hands-on training with her own sheep.

I haven't studied village life properly yet. I know that here, of course, there is a church, Village Hall, where holidays and meetings of the local parish council are held, a strange pub that a local resident keeps in her living room, and a Buddhist monastery nearby.

But from the monthly bulletin, which is distributed to homes, I learn parish news and receive a report on the work of the parish Council. An entire page in the bulletin is dedicated to where the road needs repair, when the complaint was made, and what has been done. Apparently, a lot has been done, but there are enough holes on our narrow paths. Tractors and underground streams are destroying the roads, but the local Council is on the alert, watching the roads. Still would not follow: each household pays a quite tangible tax - more than £2,000 a year.

I follow big politics on the radio. In Russia, over the past 10 years, I have become so unaccustomed to TV that even here I don’t turn it on. But the usual stations of the BBC, Radio 4 and World Service, quite satisfy my needs for information. I suddenly remembered how much I enjoyed listening to parliamentary debates when I lived here in the 1980s. Now it has become especially interesting - Syria, the discussion of the participation of the British Air Force in the war, the dramatic speech of the shadow foreign minister with a position diametrically opposed to that of the leader of his Labor Party ... Listening to parliamentary debates, you remember that parliament is, yes, a place for discussions.

And from the local church - Christmas is coming soon - on the occasion of Advent, bells ring out every evening.