The wind in Salisbury bites harder than the storms back home in the Philippines. When I first arrived in the UK, I underestimated how much the cold would affect me. I had packed for fashion, not function, and it wasn’t long before I realized my mistake. But the weather was just the surface of what I’d need to adapt to.
The first few months were both exciting and disorienting. I was in a new country with rich history, stunning architecture, and a lifestyle so different from what I had known. But underneath the thrill of the new was the quiet, persistent ache of displacement. Everything was unfamiliar—from the currency and road signs to the way people spoke and interacted.
Financially, it was a different world. Rent, council tax, bills—even something as simple as grocery shopping required budgeting like a hawk. Back home, I was surrounded by family, shared expenses, and familiarity. Here, every pound counted. I started to understand why people planned their shopping down to the last coupon and why second-hand shops were such a cultural staple. It wasn’t just frugality; it was survival.
Cooking Through Homesickness
Cooking became a ritual of longing. I missed sinigang, tapsilog, and even the simple fried tuyo. I tried recreating dishes with local ingredients, only to be disappointed more often than not. Yet, each failed attempt taught me something new—about patience, adaptation, and letting go of perfection.
“As an actor, I’ve always been drawn to stories and characters, and Salisbury, with its rich history and unique atmosphere, has always been a place that feels like home to me. From my time at Swan School for Boys and Bishop Wordsworth’s School, I’ve always felt a connection to this place, and it’s a place that I’m proud to call home.”
Joseph Fiennes
Culturally, I struggled. Small talk in grocery stores, apologizing excessively, and the subtle social rules that felt like invisible walls around me. I often smiled even when I didn’t fully understand what was said, hoping kindness would bridge the gap. The British were polite and reserved—and while warm, they weren’t quick to open up. I learned to embrace the quiet, to appreciate a nod or a warm “Cheers!” as signs of growing inclusion.
Rebuilding Home, One Memory at a Time
But slowly, I started to find pieces of home in the most unexpected places—a Filipino store an hour away, an old woman on the bus who smiled and asked about my day, or the warmth of a co-worker sharing their lunch. I met fellow Filipinos who, like me, were trying to make sense of two identities pulled in different directions. We shared laughter, lumpia, and life stories. Home, I learned, can be rebuilt. One memory at a time.
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John Doe
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