In truth, I stopped seeing Nottingham as home many years ago. I’ve long since become a citizen of nowhere—or perhaps everywhere, if you prefer a more glass-half-full view. I chose Rugby as my UK base not for sentiment, but for logistics: it’s on the West Coast Main Line, nestled between two motorways, and within an hour of three major airports. All the escape routes a man could hope for.
Still, Nottingham was home for the first twenty-odd years of my life. I’ve rarely returned since leaving—just a handful of times—operating under the belief that the world is wide, and my attention is better spent elsewhere.
I came back recently for my brother’s second wedding. The first, it turns out, was a kind of dress rehearsal. The second took place at a countryside venue in Southwell, a short drive from greater Nottingham. I spent one day at the wedding and another wandering the city centre. It’s not the confident place I remember; the centre reflects the same socio-economic decline visible across much of the UK. And yet, the visit stirred up a flood of powerful memories—snapshots of weird and wonderful formative moments that only a hometown can hold.
It may no longer be home, but it’s still where a part of my heart lives.
Dr Martin James 