Tag: UK

We moved so my 80-year-old wife could attend Cambridge University. The loneliness and shifting responsibilities have been tough.

By Barry Rueger
Published: Business Insider
July 7, 2026
1066 words

Two people smiling for selfie in classroom

Just before her 80th birthday, my wife, Susan, was accepted into a master’s program at the University of Cambridge in the United Kingdom.

This would not be her first degree, but earning one from such a prestigious academic institution is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Pursuing this dream has been daunting. Not only does completing a master’s in only nine months seem nearly impossible, but we’ve also temporarily relocated from our home in British Columbia.

Although Susan was born in the UK, she’s considered an international student — tuition and fees for this degree are tens of thousands of dollars.

Still, my role is to support her as she embarks on this great challenge.

Our income has been reduced and I’ve taken on all of the household responsibilities

Susan and I have both always worked, often seven days a week.

After decades of managing not-for-profit organizations, I’d moved into freelance writing, and we’d been operating a successful dog-walking business. Susan has also taught piano to eager students around Vancouver for many years.

However, my wife is now focused on her studies. And as I’m in the UK on a tourist visa, my options for working are extremely limited, and I can’t get a job locally.

We have pensions and some retirement savings, but this has been a bigger challenge than expected, especially amid relocation costs and tuition bills.

Unable to do much work during our time in the UK, my plans were to read lots of books and finish the memoir I’ve been writing for several years. What happened has been much more mundane: I have become a bit of a stay-at-home husband.

I cook, I clean, I shop for groceries. I do laundry and am careful not to place Susan’s more delicate garments in the dryer. I take out the garbage and recycling, I pick up and return books at the University library, and I keep track of meetings, appointments, and doctor visits in my calendar.

We’d always shared these jobs and responsibilities, but now they’re almost entirely my domain while she focuses on her studies.

I’m also the in-house proofreader and editor, and Susan’s person to bounce ideas off of. When her workload seems most overwhelming, I’m the person who shuts up and just listens.

My entire life revolves around Susan’s schedule and requirements, and my own goals and needs have become secondary.

I often feel I don’t belong in Cambridge, though a new hobby has helped

It didn’t take long for me to learn that I have no real place in Cambridge. This feeling began at the college gym nearest our home for the year, a beige-painted apartment in student housing.

Susan’s keycard opens the door for her. My “partner” card doesn’t, so I can only work out when she does. More frustrating was realizing that not only would my card not open the door to get me into the gym, but also it wouldn’t unlock the door to let me exit. If there were no one else in the gym, I’d be trapped.

Furthermore, Cambridge is a town famously devoted to students and faculty. Because I don’t fit in either of those boxes, I’m excluded from all sorts of facilities and events, including free concerts and lectures I see advertised that happen inside colleges that I’m not allowed to enter.

Worse for me was realizing that because I wasn’t part of the University, I also rarely fit into conversations. When I meet someone locally, their ice-breaker question is always “What are you studying?”

“Um, nothing. I’m Susan’s husband.” turned out to be a very fast way to end a conversation. I’ve adapted that to, “Oh, I’m Susan’s plus-one…”, with a laugh, followed quickly by, “… and I’m working on a memoir.” That literary pretense is often enough to establish my legitimacy with Susan’s classmates.

After three or four months, I realized that this lack of a place to be, or a role to play, was making me terribly unhappy. Susan was entirely consumed by her studies, and I couldn’t in good conscience expect her to fix this.

So, on my 70th birthday, I came up with a solution of my own: taking up flying.

Man in plane with sunglasses on

I began taking lessons nearby, and although the hobby is satisfying, it also reinforces the box I’m living in.

Gliding lessons have to fit around Susan’s life, and because we don’t have a car in Cambridge, I need to find people who can give me a ride to the airfield, which is 45 minutes from our student home.

Because it takes me away from Susan and takes up a large part of my depleted income, gliding also makes me feel guilty.

As much as I love soaring through the skies over the green English countryside, I keep being reminded that we’re here for Susan, not for me.

And even among the pilots, I find myself surrounded by retirees from the University and students from its gliding club. Once again, I don’t quite fit into either group.

Ultimately, these temporary discomforts are worth dealing with to see my wife’s dreams come true

Susan and I have always supported each other’s passions — that’s what has made our marriage successful — but this new arrangement has been a challenge.

However, it is temporary. In a few months’ time, when we return home to Canada after Susan has completed her degree, I’ll be able to continue my writing work, and Susan will return to teaching.

Our budget won’t feel as strapped, and we’ll be back with our friends and community in Canada. We’ll probably return to our more balanced division of labor, taking turns who shops for groceries and cooks dinner.

And hopefully I’ll finally finish — and publish — my memoir.

Part of the memoir I’m writing looks closely at my mother’s life as the wife of my father. A bit like me during this time, she didn’t have a job and had less money than she really needed. She was stuck at home as a housewife, cooking, cleaning, and raising us kids.

My mom worked tirelessly to make sure that we were happy and secure. Like her, I’m going to great lengths to support someone I love, giving up part of my own life to make Susan’s dream come true.

If there’s one lesson that I’ll take home from Cambridge, it is that this is often the greatest gift that you can give a loved one.

Lessons from driving in England: Pedestrians, cyclists and cars actually exist as equals

By Barry Rueger
Published: Globe and Mail
June 18, 2026
977 words

Barry Rueger is a Canadian writer based in Cambridge.

“Left lane! Barry. LEFT LANE!” shouts my wife Susan for the tenth time in the first half hour I was behind the wheel of our rented Fiat 500, negotiating the medieval laneways of Cambridge.

I’ve been driving for more than 50 years and believe I’m a good driver, but I’m realizing very quickly that habit is 99 per cent of driving. Britain, like Australia, India and Japan, is a country where you drive on the left-hand side of the road, but fighting the urge to pull into oncoming traffic on the right was just the beginning of my problems. When you need to pause and think through your actions on a high-speed British motorway, you’re a danger to yourself and everyone else on the road.

Before we even left the car rental lot, I’m was walking up to the Fiat, keys in my hand, and.. doh… the steering wheel is on the other side of the car. This happened over and over. And the rear view mirror, which should be on my right, is now on the left, so I never know what’s behind me.

Strangely, shifting the manual transmission with my left hand instead of my right was easy. Understanding what the lines on the road meant – much less the road signs – was another challenge entirely. Fortunately the Department of Transport has a handy “Know Your Traffic Signs” booklet. In only 169 pages you can understand what a single yellow line along the curb means (“waiting prohibited” at certain times) or a double yellow line (“waiting prohibited” at all times) or a white zig-zag down the middle of the road (no stopping here because pedestrians and bikes need space).

Traffic lights, thankfully, still have red at the top and green at the bottom. One nice change is that the amber in the middle will light up just before the light turns green – those few extra moments of preparation actually make start-offs feel more relaxed and easy-going. And, like most European countries, England does not allow the left-hand equivalent to the Canadian right-turn on a red light.

In towns, the traffic is calmed using speed bumps, traffic islands and by the randomly parked cars along every street. Parallel parking is a complex manoeuvre, and even moreso when you’re backing your car into a space on the left-hand side of the street. Add to that the U.K. rules that say cars are free to park on either side of the road, regardless of which way they’ve been travelling. For a Canadian, the option to park pointing against the direction of passing cars just feels wrong.

Precisely because streets are so narrow, there’s also a long established practice of parking with two wheels well onto the sidewalk. Because this blocks the way for pedestrians, the disabled and parents with strollers, work is happening to change the rules so that drivers have to keep all four wheels squarely on the roadway.

After you’ve parked your car and are actually walking down a street, you’ll need to learn a menagerie of names for different kinds of crosswalks, beginning with a “zebra crossing” (a painted crosswalk), pushbutton activated crossings named after puffins (older pushbuttons for walkers), toucans (pushbuttons for walkers and cyclists) and pelicans (the newest technology with sensors that keep the crossing-light green until all walkers have crossed.)

One idea that I’d love to see adopted in Canada is removing the little green man across the street that tells you it’s safe to cross. At newer crossings in the U.K. you’ll find him beside you, and to your right, which forces you to look directly into oncoming traffic before stepping on the road. It doesn’t sound like much, but even when you’re not constantly forgetting which side the cars are coming from it could save your life.

And any true Brit will make sure to point out the Belisha Beacons, big yellow globes on tall black-and-white-banded poles on either side of the road. At these zebra crossings the pedestrian always has priority over cars.

All of this gives pedestrians in the U.K. a better likelihood of not getting hit by car drivers. It also means that when you’re driving you’re really conscious of pedestrians and find yourself looking in every direction. Perhaps, more importantly, in Britain you quickly learn that pedestrians, cyclists and car drivers exist as equals on the streets of most towns and cities – although London may be the exception.

We’re living in Cambridge, a small city whose streets are nestled by the wealthy University colleges and their chapels, many built 800 or 1,000 years ago.

In Cambridge, the narrow streets almost always have cars but, in the central core, bicycles outnumber cars by some 10 to one. When stopped at a red light, you’ll often find your car surrounded by a swarm of cyclists coming up on both sides. According to Josh Grantham at Camcycle, a cycling advocacy group, “66 per cent of residents cycle at least once a week. Cycling to work in Cambridge is typically estimated at around 30 to 35 per cent, which is exceptionally high by U.K. standards.”

Coming from Vancouver, it’s amazing to realize that drivers here accept that the roads are shared, not their private domain. Grantham explains that “The U.K. Highway Code now includes a hierarchy of road users, where those who can cause the most harm have the greatest responsibility to reduce danger. Street design states that pedestrians should come first, then cyclists, then public transport and finally private cars. In practice, cars are still often prioritized, and a lot of our work involves challenging that default and pushing back against car-centred thinking.”

After two months, I’d adapted to British driving, only to return to visit Nova Scotia, leaving the Halifax airport on the Veterans Memorial Highway, in another rental car, quietly shouting to myself, “Right lane Barry! RIGHT LANE!”

 

I’m an accidental tradhusband – I have newfound respect for my mum

Barry and Susan at YVR, en route to Cambridge.

By Barry Rueger
Published: iPaper
April 11, 2026
1232 words

I cook, clean and keep the house while my wife is a Cambridge scholar. I didn’t expect this complete loss of identity

I know which brand of Greek yoghurt to buy, and how often to order fruit and snacking veggies from Waitrose. I keep the kitchen clean, and wash the dishes. I know when we’re running low on soaps and staples, and where best to buy them. I check the mail each day, and take outgoing packages to the post office.

I also do all our washing. Laundry goes into a cold wash. That’s simple, but only my clothes go into the dryer – Susan’s clothes ALL hang to dry. That careful separation saves me from accusations of, “You put that in the dryer? It’s ruined.”

For the past year, I have been an accidental tradhusband and the stay-at-home partner of Cambridge scholar, Susan. She is spending a year completing an Mphil degree in Musicology. Before we relocated from Vancouver to Cambridge, I knew that my role was to support, to take care of the day-to-day things so that Susan could focus exclusively on her intense course of study.

Read the entire column on-line at The iPaper.

I thought Canada was cold. And then I moved to England

By Barry Rueger
Published: Globe and Mail
December 18, 2025
980 words

EDF Smart Meter

A few weeks ago, we began our Christmas season with the Advent Procession service at Great St. Mary’s in Cambridge. Like all older stone-built churches in Europe, St. Mary’s has no heating system. Despite our scarves and heavy winter coats we were shivering by the time that the choir and organist had finished, and even Rev. Clare Stephenson, who led the service, and offered us her blessing as we left, had the look of someone who was very ready for a warm fire and a glass of Christmas cheer.

The British are a proud people. They are justifiably proud of their history, still dwell on their memories of empire, can celebrate literary icons like Chaucer and Shakespeare, and more recently still have vestiges of waning pride in their rejection of Europe during Brexit. But more than all of that, the British find their greatest pride in being cold.

Before moving to Cambridge, where my wife Susan is studying for her Master of Philosophy in Musicology, I had of course heard the jokes about slippers and cardigans, and about the British obsession with not spending money on heat. What I now know is that these weren’t jokes – they were the very foundations of a national culture.

We’re renting one of the Charterhouse terraced cottages in the village of Grantchester, on the outskirts of Cambridge. It’s a lovely home, built around 1880, with a great landlord, and the 250-year-old Blue Ball Inn just two doors down. That pub turns out to be a very good thing because when our home is too cold to stay in, the pub always has a roaring blaze in the fireplace. The downside is that our bills for cask ale and pork pies are approaching what we pay for electricity.

We have a Smart Meter from EDF, our electricity company. Minute by minute a little light is either green (good), amber (caution), or red – you’re using too much power! The screen shows us exactly, to the penny, how much we’ve spent on energy as each day progresses. During the cold snap in November that daily number crossed £10. Our Canadian minds quickly translated £300 a month to $550 Canadian dollars!

What I’ve learned since arriving in Britain is that yes, everyone wears layers of clothing indoors, and that yes, likely only one room in the house is heated at any time. Old houses are drafty, and the heating systems are unlike anything I experienced in Canada. Our cottage has “storage heaters,” which take advantage of half-price overnight electricity rates (charging double the rate we paid in Vancouver) to heat large, heavy ceramic blocks inside of a radiator. In the morning when electricity prices jump (to triple Vancouver rates!) that stored heat is allowed to escape and heat the room. At least until around dinner time, when the stored heat has run out.

As I sit on the sofa, reading, with my feet curled up under me keep them warm, or while we snuggle under a duvet while watching the BBC, I’m reminded of our home in Canada. Homes there have big gas or oil-fired furnaces, double glazed windows, and (oh how I miss it) under-floor heating. I remember being able to walk from room to room and stay warm no matter where I went. I look back fondly on turning up a thermostat without a moment’s hesitation, making everything just a little bit warmer because, really, it costs so little.

Like a lot of Canadians, we’ve spent many evenings watching programs like The Crown and Downton Abbey. In both series the most memorable set pieces show people deep in discussion beside a roaring fireplace. What I now realize is that 10 feet away from the hearth people were likely shivering frigidly. Even the wealthy and powerful in Britain live half the year in the cold.

Because the heating systems in British homes are so spartan, almost every single room in the house – including the bathroom – has a small, plugged in, electric heater to “take the edge off” the cold. These inefficient little boxes do warm things up a bit, but are an expensive solution.

Although their homes and apartments may be cold, the British people are genuinely warm and helpful. When we’ve complained about being chilly, they’ve been quick to suggest solutions.

“Layer the floor; even newspapers under a rug stop the cold coming up.” “Eat something warm and calorie-dense before bed to keep core temperature steady.” “Cafés with poor ventilation tend to be warmest; linger.”

And my favourite: “A small pet is effectively a mobile heat source. Cats are the most efficient, but anything warm-blooded helps.”

Which is not to say that the British couldn’t also improve their insulation, and add weather-stripping to doors, and price their electricity a little bit more for comfort than profit.

Of course, when I look back fondly on our toasty, warm Canadian homes, I can’t help but think about how they were heated. In B.C. you might be able to use the power from hydro-electric dams, and in Ontario from nuclear power plants, but more likely your furnace still burns natural gas, or in Atlantic Canada, heating oil. We were warm all winter in our Nova Scotia farmhouse, but the oil heating is one small part of the global warming that led to this year’s Maritime drought.

The other morning, I came down for coffee and breakfast. I stepped into a freezing kitchen and found Susan warming her hands over the toaster. “Seriously,” she said, “I feel like Hans Christian Andersen’s ‘Little Match Girl’, scrabbling for whatever scrap of warmth I can find.”

I smiled at that image – until I took the time to read the story that I vaguely remembered from childhood. The Little Match Girl was found frozen to death.