Something old, something new

A bulldog stared back at me fiercely, annoyed that a young girl was pulling him in a direction he didn't want to go. The spray-painted figures were carefully applied to an otherwise nondescript brick wall, hidden in a hilly corner of Bristol. A group gathered round and nodded sagely at the image, thoughtfully picking apart its post-Brexit themes:

"Look at the girl's face, her vintage style of dress – it's obviously meant to be the Queen."

"There's a star hanging from the dog collar – now that's interesting, see how there's one less in the EU flag beside the dog?"

"This is so rich in meaning!"

But not to me. I hadn't caught any of it. We were midway through a hearty tramp up and down the city's streets learning more about Bristol's long history and its renowned street-art scene on one of the tourism centre's city walks. It was a good mix of what made Bristol famous: the historic harbour, the pirate pubs and, what's making it a destination today, Banksy's infamous spray-paint works – all shared through a passionate guide who is a street artist herself.

The Brexit piece – covered and sealed in thick plastic – is not signed. Despite the protective cover, it's not considered a Banksy, but the political overtones make it valuable, I'm told. Finally, I've spoken up, admitted my ignorance, and instead of smirking, this group kindly fills me in on more of its imagery and symbolism. It makes me realize how long I've been away from Britain – from 50 per cent of my roots. And how much I missed it. My mom was born in Bristol, my father's side left England for Canada only one generation ago, and I spent a lot of summers over here as a child.

But unlike me, most Canadians who travel to the Britain don't wait 30 years to go back.

In 2015, Canadians took 4,522,300 overnight trips abroad to visit friends or relatives, according to Statistics Canada. (This is known in industry shorthand as VFR, visiting friends and relatives.)

The Conference Board of Canada found that in the same year, 56 per cent of those VFR Canadians were travelling to Europe (Britain and France welcome most of those visitors); while 28 per cent of Canadians return to Asia and Oceania (and in these regions, India, China and Hong Kong receive most of the VFR Canadians). Tourism boards pay a lot of attention to these numbers, Visit Britain reports Canadian VFR visits to Britain jumped by 9 per cent in 2015 from the year before.

But it's something I've never truly understood – if you've got money to travel, there are so many places in the world to see, why do so many continually go back "home," to a place they know all too well. Often, instead of celebrating that annual overseas trip, I hear a lot of family-bound vacationers complain about the commitment. So why bother?

But I underestimated the draw of the familiar. My teenage daughter had never met the English side of our family, and she often wondered why; so when a cousin's wedding gave us a good excuse to travel, we packed our bags.

First the castle, then the family

At first I resisted the familial pull – I had a rental car, I was going to use it to do more than shuttle between relatives. Checking the map before we left the airport, I noticed Arundel Castle was just off the highway we'd be taking through West Sussex. Perfect. I'd never been inside a proper castle. I was sure we could squeeze it in before our expected arrival for dinner.

Arundel was impressive: Over the past 1,000 years, this great country pile has been built up and destroyed, then restored to its present grandeur by the 15th Duke of Norfolk. It's been in the Norfolk family since 1138, and is still the family home. Paying visitors are allowed to wander (somewhat) freely inside the castle keep, down the great hallway, through the plush library with its archives from the 12th to the 20th century and through the family's own Gothic chapel. While historic oil portraits adorn the walls, more recent family snapshots sit in silver frames, making it feel as if the family hadn't yet come down to breakfast amongst the sparkling spread in the dining room. "This is only the second-best silverware," the docent explained somewhat apologetically.

Like Buckingham Palace, Arundel is open for tours only when the aristocrats are summering elsewhere. And while our entrance fee didn't get us access to the castle bedrooms, we did see where Queen Victoria and Prince Albert slept on a visit in 1846. I'll bet no one's dusted it since then, either; we immediately began sneezing and moved on, trying to keep track of the mounted animal heads on the walls. We lost count after 21.

Stopping and awe-ing at Arundel, and the idyllic town of the same name just outside the castle walls, would make us miss that family dinner still 95 miles away. But there was cake left when we finally arrived, and my aunt brewed us our first of many proper cuppas as we caught up.

My daughter and I would spend the next few days in a whirlwind of family gatherings, which really meant we were sightseeing without intending to: coffee catch-ups in historic homes, long seaside walks, admiring the Dorset and Devon countryside as we drove its narrow roads (many too small to be called such by North American drivers) and attending an intimate wedding in a 1,000-year-old church. For a research-focused traveller such as myself, this free-form informative fun was a real insight.

Bath, Bristol or bust

A few days later I would step into the ancient Roman bath in Somerset and couldn't figure out if I truly remembered this UNESCO site or if I remembered the Super 8 video of my first visit as a child.

It was an odd feeling, but I am pretty sure the helpful audio guides – with two channels, one for historical detail, one for the impressions of humourist Bill Bryson – were not available back then. Neither was the spout from which Bath's mineral-rich waters flowed continuously, with paper cones to sample the stuff. Warm and thick-tasting, I wish I hadn't.

But fuzzy memories cleared into focus the next day when we arrived in Clevedon, a lazy seaside town about 30 minutes southwest of Bristol. This is where we'd always stayed, at Grandma's house, high up Dial Hill overlooking the Bristol Channel. On the beach I noticed kids still fished for crabs at low tide and licked Mr. Whippy ice cream, complete with a chocolate Flake stick. But what really caught my attention was the ornate Victorian pier extending 312 metres over and 15 metres above the Bristol Channel. I'd never seen it like this. Built in the 1860s, the promenade partly collapsed in 1970 and stayed like that till noted Victorianist and poet Sir John Betjeman got involved, calling it "the most beautiful pier in England." Now it's a Grade I listed monument and officially reopened in May. The long walk out over the Channel felt like a pilgrimage of sorts – I must have been the first in my extended family to do it since the collapse, and I waved in the direction of my grandparent's old cottage when I reached the end. Sure, this place was familiar, but here was something new I hadn't expected to find.

My daughter and I ticked off a few other Phillips-family pit stops in Bristol, and we paid our respects with a selfie at the John Cabot statue in Narrow Quay. My daughter recited recently learned facts from school about Cabot's arrival in Canada in 1497, then cocked her head and connected the explorer's adventure to her own grandma's sailing into an unknown land 52 years ago. I smiled at the stretch, but I couldn't disagree with her.

Cabot's statue looks out over still busy docks, where small ferries buzz about shuttling locals and tourists among the locks. We hopped on one to find the much-buzzed about restaurant, the Sanchez brothers' Pi Shop. The Napoli-meets-Bristol pizzeria is a cheap-chic eatery from the restaurateurs best known for their Michelin-starred Casamia eatery (found next door). We arrived just as it started to drizzle, which made the quay view all that more British. And if you're wondering what Napoli-meets-Bristol could possibly taste like, order the lamb, pickled cucumber and mint-yogurt pizza – it's a game changer.

Connections when you least expect it

If I thought the family-highlights tour was over on our last night in England, I was wrong. In London, one of my cousins invited us to his corner of the city at Borough Market, near London Bridge. We wandered the lively Thursday-night crowds, looking for his favourite gelato spot, and over a couple of scoops of Eton mess (strawberries, cream, bits of meringue) I heard that another cousin – an artist with a particular interest in Victoriana – had helped restore the decor of our historic hotel.

We were staying at the St. Pancras, a Gothic Revival beauty designed by architect Sir George Gilbert Scott and first opened in 1873.

It was brought back to life in 2011 after a complex seven-year restoration.

Staying here had seemed a no-brainer: Our travels had taken us into Europe, and we had arrived back in London on the Eurostar a few hours earlier – grateful that the hotel's train concierge was waiting as we stepped onto the platform at Kings Cross with a bag trolley. We didn't have far to walk: our room, one of St. Pancras's heritage Chambers suites, overlooks the train platforms. They are a grand, 18-foot-high-ceiling mix of Victorian class and modern needs, USB charging stations and more bath soaps and lotions than you can use.

The Victorian-era railway hotel had been left derelict for decades and was threatened with demolition ("I used to cycle past and stop and let myself in – there were always pigeons flapping about inside," my cousin wrote to me later) but guests now can admire its eye-popping restoration – from the grand staircase (wait long enough and a Spice Girls fan will dance their way down it – in 1996 it was the setting for Wannabe) to the grandeur of its restaurant and lobby restorations. With our multistop, multicountry getaway drawing to a close, I ordered a Pimm's at the hotel's Booking Office bar (where my relatives once bought their train tickets) and my daughter poured one of her last pots of English tea. We talked about our favourite things from the past two weeks. I was surprised by my teen's answer: It wasn't the dynamic pulse of London, not the stonework, cut into lace-like designs, that we'd admired, not the outfits ogled over at the Bath fashion museum or the Queen's stylish mid-century gowns we saw inside Buckingham Palace. She wanted to go back and lick another Mr. Whippy by the seaside and goof around with her new-found cousins. The family ties pulled hard. I think I finally get it.

The writer's rental car and some activities were covered by Visit Britain. An overnight stay at the St. Pancras Renaissance Hotel was hosted. Neither organization reviewed or approved the story.