Written during a time when England was enjoying the wettest April, June and probably July on record in what the water companies happily called an "abnormal amount of rainfall". We had a month's rain fall in 24 hours on three separate occasions, whilst the USA was suffering a heatwave. At one point, there were ninety flood warnings in place across England and Wales. Seeing the sun was a rare occurrence. Hence, we were pretty sick of rain.

And before anyone says anything, yes, I'm a Brit complaining about the weather. I reserve the right to do this due to the fact that I am actually British, and it's our weather, thank-you-very-much.

"Home" by Aizarphilia used with permission. Please do not copy or repost this poem, but feel free to comment on it if you wish.

Going Home

He wasn't going to lie, he got fed up of the rain.

It didn't help one bit that France always snidely commented on his bedraggled appearance whenever he arrived at one of the meetings straight from one of those surprise heavy showers that he really should know how to avoid by now. Seeing Spain hide a smirk behind his tanned hand didn't help either.

He didn't even get very much snow. He got a little bit, yes, in the north and east, and there were the odd freakish winters when everything went white, but everywhere else in the world that got lots of rain also seemed to get thick banks of snow for sledging down every winter. But he didn't – he just got more rain, courtesy of the warmth from that damn Gulf Stream.

England liked snow. His people might complain bitterly about being trapped and not being able to get to work, and how the government hadn't done enough to prepare for it, but only the most stubborn would insist that they would never enjoy a snowball fight, or zipping down a hill on a narrow sledge. And the children loved it most of all, because it meant they got days off school to run around and play with their friends and cause absolute havoc, all in the name of sheer, unadulterated fun.

So winter was pretty miserable, unless it happened to be especially cold. And summer wasn't much better, which was one of the reasons why England tended to not be in his own country during that time.

It was a tradition. After all, during summer his people scattered to the four corners of the earth in search of somewhere that didn't rain ten days out of seven. So England would follow them, mostly to find out what it was about other countries that made them so much more interesting than his, but also to make sure his people were still safe. After all, he was quite a small island and already had to share his people with his siblings, so he really was very protective of the ones he still had.

His boss actually encouraged him to do it, though England had an odd idea that it was more to do with getting him out from under their feet during the "busy" summer season when Parliament was closed and therefore he didn't actually have anything to do other than watch the rain fall down the windows and avoid answering the phone to smug and sunny France.

The first time it had been suggested, England had been extremely confused as to exactly why he was being asked to leave. His boss had muttered something about fostering international relations, which had momentarily made him perk up – he was adopting some new colonies? - before realising what the man had actually meant.

Oh, cloudless skies of cornflower blue;

You are not my home.

So every year, England left his own country and went to visit one of the others for a few weeks. Most of the time it was America or Italy, as he refused to go anywhere near France – the flamboyant nation had a tendency to remove articles of clothing as the weather grew hotter, not always his own.

Unfortunately, his other options weren't much good either. America spent summer going to and fro all over the place, trying to do everything at once and see everyone and just being America, and England invariably came back irritated and badly in need of both sleep and tea.

Italy spent most of England's visits either hiding or making pasta, even when England had tried to point out that his most famous poet had idolised and immortalised Italy's cities in his plays. Germany also tended to be there, which could sometimes make the atmosphere slightly strained. Not that England and Germany didn't get along; nothing of the sort. It was merely that the way Italy behaved when Germany was there was so different to the way he behaved around England inevitably made for moments when Italy would fall silent the moment that England walked into the room, even if before his voice had been clear enough to be heard throughout the house, and that hurt.

Alright, alright, he was jealous. Germany had chosen to come here for the warm summer, and was received with open arms and lots of pasta. He, on the other hand, was kicked out of his own country every year and spent a month or so in the company of someone who would much rather go and play with the cat in the back yard than talk to him. The only upshot of visiting Italy was that he could get access to the original documents of the stories he had learned whilst under Roman rule, and find out exactly what Italy's Grandpa Rome had thought of him.

Turned out he had been a good little colony to begin with, and had then turned more than a bit rebellious when Rome wouldn't give him a hand against the invading Gauls and Saxons. There was even a copy of a letter in the archives that he had sent to Rome (was that really his handwriting?) requesting immediate assistance against the invaders, as he was paying taxes to Rome so he damn well deserved some say in what they got spent on – like protection for his people - or he would kick all the remaining officials off his island.

Rome's response had been negative, though not aggressive. To all extents and purposes, he told England to deal with it himself, if he was so bothered about it. So England had taken up arms to defend himself, and made himself into his own country.

His own, little, rainy country.

Oh, little villages – so peaceful and quaint;

You are not my home.

Nor are you, dry yellow grasses.

Or villas shining blinding white.

He'd had enough of Italy though – there were only so many days you could spend researching your own ancient history, after all. So this year, he decided to follow the majority of his people, and head for the southern coast of Spain, discovering just why they seemed to like it there so much.

And here he was, for a whole five weeks, longer than he'd ever spent on a visit before. It was warm, dry and surprisingly quiet thanks to the private beach that Spain owned. It only took until he stepped onto the pale sands that he realised just why his people always seemed to vanish over here in the summer months.

The sky and the sea were exactly the same colour. Of course, they were in England too, but here, instead of murky grey, they were blue.

He spent the first week of his visit falling back in love with the ocean. He could do pretty much whatever he wanted, and he had lots of time to do it, as Spain had absolutely insisted that he, Spain, would cook all the meals. He spent most days at the beach, catching up on the books his people were writing, or went walking through the streets of the Spanish ports that he could remember vaguely, though the ships all looked different now, and he'd never seen them from the land before but from the rolling deck of a galley. He even got the opportunity to wander around the decades of architecture that decorated the landscape, from churches to temples to political buildings. They were all so different to his, and he loved them for that, at the same time as it felt... well, a little strange.

No more are you, mountain cities wreathed in cloud

You monumental temples

And cool turquoise seas.

It was about a fortnight after he first arrived that he began to feel as if something was definitely wrong. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but something just felt odd. Assuming it was just something to do with the heat of the Spanish sun, he tilted the brim of his hat down and went back to his book, but the feeling remained.

He couldn't understand it. It didn't feel like something was wrong with his country, like a riot or strike or a protest march, thankfully – he'd seen quite enough of those recently. Nor was it anything to do with the economy, for which he quietly thanked his people for being so typically stubborn and sticking to the pound, however inconvenient it made travelling to other places around the Eurozone. It was just a sort of... emptiness that didn't seem to have anything to do with his nation at all.

Tempt us with your hot sun; your blue sea; your white sand.

We flock to your beauty, bringing

Pink flesh to tan golden-brown,

It only intensified as time went on, and it was most disconcerting. He wasn't meant to be contacting his government, as he was technically "on holiday", but that didn't stop him calling Wales, now rather concerned that something horrible was happening in his homeland that no-one was telling him about. Wales had told him to stop being stupid and to make the most of it whilst he could and hung up, though not before asking England how to deal with an unusual upsurge in the number of dragon sightings, which were great for tourism, but not for the tourists (who tended to get eaten).

He couldn't quite understand it. He was actually enjoying himself here, in the warmth for once, but he was being irresistibly drawn back towards the north of Spain, to such an extent that he left the sunny south and travelled up to visit the cooler northern beaches.

In my home the grass is green and soft and cool,

The skies so often darkened with grey clouds that become

Rain lancing toward our

Muddy soil.

That was where Spain found him on the penultimate day of his visit, staring at the sea without seeing it. It was a far cry from the look that had been on his face the first time that he had seen the Spanish oceans.

"You are not happy, Britain?"

The blonde nation jumped and his eyes snapped back to the present. "Sorry, Spain. What was that?"

"You have been moping for days, amigo. It is not good for the tourists."

"Oh. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"What is the problem, then?" Spain interrupted. He had known England for a very long time, and knew that once England tried to explain why he'd said something that had been taken the wrong way, he could go on forever. But for a long moment now, England was silent, eyes drifting back into the past.

"I think I've been here too long," he said at last. Spain looked horribly offended.

"Too long? You are tired of my beautiful country?"

England looked as if he'd rather not answer that question, but under Spain's unrelenting glare eventually he said, "Yes, your country is beautiful. But it's sunny and hot, and it's not home. My home is a land of cold and wet; a small island with harsh, rocky cliffs to glare defiantly back at your white-sanded beaches. Don't you remember seeing them?"

"Of course I do. Everyone talked about your White Cliffs of Dover. It took me forever to realise I was at the wrong end of the coast,"

For a moment, you might have mistaken the look on England's face for a slight grin. "You found them in the end, though."

"Sort of. Just before... well, before."

They were heading into uncomfortable territory again, and England looked away. It had taken a very long time for Spain to forgive him even the slightest bit for what he and, by extension, the Sea had done to the various Armadas Spain had sent at him – and yes, there had been more than one. In fact, it was only when one of France's bosses had set his brother up as Spain's boss that any headway had been made at all. Spain and France might have been part of the Terrible Trio, but when an upstart Frenchman stole the Spanish throne, there was going to be some problems. It had certainly been a confusing century.

"You are wishing to go home, amigo?"

England couldn't hide his expression quickly enough, and Spain just smiled.

Like birds reversed,

We fly south for our summers

But return north for the winter.

Stowing his small bag in the overhead compartment, England looked around the interior of the plane. There were a number of businessmen on board, as always, a number of couples, some people just travelling alone, and a few families who looked like they were coming home from a long, hot holiday – the parents were already asleep and the children were sunburned and whiny from tiredness.

So at least he wasn't the only one who would be glad to get home.

But, always, we return to our land of cold and wet;

To fields of potatoes and grey seas washing up to

Beaches made from smooth pebbles and crawling with

Slimy seaweed.

He was asleep when they passed over the edge of the territorial waters, twelve miles out from the coast, but the sense of being close to his home jolted him awake when they flew over the cliffs that actually marked the edge of the landmass he belonged to. They were still far too high up for him to actually see his little, lonely island, but he could feel the rolling hills and high cliffs underneath the plane. Looking around the the plane, he saw a couple of other passengers awake, also gazing out of the windows. He wondered whether they had been on holiday, and if so, where. Logic caught up with his thoughts a few seconds later and pointed out that they must have been in Spain – the flight had begun there, and there had been no other landings. Silly me, he thought. I've definitely been in the sun too long if I'm starting to think like this. But they do look happy to be coming home.

As they descended through the clouds, he caught his first glimpse in five weeks of his heart-city, and the great, watery artery that ran right through it. It felt like he'd never seen anything more welcome. He didn't care that the majority of the city was high-rise apartment blocks or glass-walled offices; it was his home, and to him it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

The river glinted peacefully, and for a moment he caught a glimpse of Old Father Thames trudging along the riverbed. The ancient river spirit looked up as the plane flew lower, and England could have sworn that he saluted and waved.

It was raining. Of course it was raining. Water was running down the windows of the plane, obscuring the view, making it buckle and ripple like living silk. Oh well. He was glad enough to be home that he didn't mind walking in the rain for a bit; at least it was his.

And at least he'd remembered to pack an umbrella this time.

We can walk along our roads and up our mountains;

It's too hot where you are.

Heathrow was bustling, as always. Tannoy calls were muffled by the general chatter of hundreds and hundreds of people passing under the sign reading "UK Border", and even though England's hearing was good, he had to listen very carefully when the person checking his passport was asking for the various documents he required to pass the border only a few feet in front of him.

Then all of a sudden he was being waved through, and took the final step over the line that marked his island borders, and felt the land itself almost sigh in contentment as its master returned.

It was then that he knew he'd made the right decision.

Holidays were wonderful, and the sun was wonderful – most of the time – and visiting other countries and cultures was wonderful, and he always looked forwards to his short break in the much warmer countries further south.

But in the end, he was England – he was Britain – and that was where he belonged, rain and all.

And we know that it will be waiting for us;

Our cold little island.

Until the end of days,

We will return to England.

This is actually based on real stats – during 2011, the top five holiday destinations for people living in the UK were, in order, Spain, Greece, France, Portugal and Italy.

The ending of Roman rule in Britain is highly contested. Some historians say that the Roman-Britons rose up and kicked out the occupiers when they realised that Rome was pulling back all the soldiers to defend the rest of the Western Empire. Others say that Rome actually abandoned Britain to the Picts, the Saxons and the Gauls, telling them that they could jolly well look after themselves by now. I've sort of mixed the two together, which is another generally accepted theory.

Heathrow – one of the big London airports. Always insanely busy, always queues of people at check-in.

As you will see from the poem, set out in completed form in Chapter 2, I have used the lines a little out of order. I can only hope that Aizarphilia forgives me for this.

And it doesn't actually rain ten days out of seven in Britain, it's just that sometimes it feels like it does.