‘I honoured the great-uncle I had never known in a true corner of Britain abroad’

From India and Canada to the poppy fields of the Somme, enduring signs of a British presence stirred your feelings

Disillusioned with teaching (after only three years), I sought escape and travelled 8,000 miles south, courtesy of the RAF, to the Falkland Islands. Queen’s birthday parade? Tick. Margaret Thatcher Drive? Tick. Darts on a Friday night at the Upland Goose pub? Tick. Portraits of HM and Prince Philip in the post office? Absolutely.

There was one zebra crossing outside the primary school, and the Union Flag flew proudly outside Government House. The local radio station broadcast The Archers omnibus every week – and the best place to listen to it was on the beach, watching the penguins.

Thirty years on, I’m still teaching… and still missing it.

THE FULL ENGLISH

Varkala Beach, believed to have holy waters, sits on the Arabian Sea in the southern Indian state of Kerala. Tranquil by day, as sundown approaches street-sellers call passers-by to tables laden with fresh seafood, to be flashgrilled with warm, pillowy naans and fragrant rice, served by candlelight.

However, it is mornings I remember best. Among the palms, breakfast is incongruous: boiled eggs, creamy porridge, toast, golden butter, raspberry jam and a large pot of tea. Here, a little bit of Britain not only survives but is celebrated. “To eat well in England you should have breakfast three times a day,” quipped Somerset Maugham. Perhaps he visited this place, too. Charlotte Marples, Brighton

ROYAL TREATMENT

You won’t see a “bobby” on every corner, but you will find red double-decker buses, afternoon tea at the Empress Hotel, and cricket in Beacon Hill Park. For this is Victoria, on Vancouver Island, the most British city in Canada.

Further evidence shows in its Victorian architecture, including the stately Parliament Buildings and Craigdarroch Castle, built by a Scottish immigrant who made his fortune from coal. For plant enthusiasts, the Butchart Gardens includes an English garden abundant with rose beds and arbours.

With the Royal London Wax Museum and its chamber of horrors also on hand, you will never feel more at home when abroad.

Malcolm Watson, Isle of Wight

IT’S ALL THE RAJ AGAIN

Tikli Bottom, our first stop in northern India, was a haveli owned by an English couple in their 80s who had lived there for 40 years and held fond memories of the British Raj. Mornings were punctuated by the peacocks’ cry and Mina, the housekeeper, opening our door to bring us “bed tea”.

As the sun slipped below the horizon, guests were expected to dress for dinner and G&Ts. The cuisine was roast beef and apple crumble, eaten in oppressive heat. One guest, a beautiful woman in white, told us she was a princess. We had no reason to doubt her. Waited on by servants, listening to chat about why British rule should again be implemented, we were stunned into silence and hungry for a taste of the real India outside the gated walls.

Janey Harvey, Nottinghamshire

TEA WITH A TWIST

I was born in Britain but educated in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. Still having relatives there, I visit every four to five years and make time to enjoy the quintessentially British custom of afternoon tea at my favourite corner of Britain abroad – the Palm Court at the Oyster Box Hotel, in Umhlanga Rocks, about 15 minutes north of Durban.

For me, it is the perfect blend of traditional British and contemporary South African, from the eye-catching crystal chandeliers (bought from the Savoy hotel in London) to the striking paintings by local modern artists. Sipping tea while overlooking the Indian Ocean, enjoying the bright African sun and a cool breeze as I indulge in dainty sandwiches, crisp samosas, sumptuous scones and silken milk tarts, is perfection. My visit wouldn’t feel complete without this uplifting experience. Kellie Bradford, Derbyshire

AT HOME DOWN UNDER

Six months into a holiday Down Under, my partner and I left the dry, flat scrub of Western Australia and headed east to the sub-tropical rainforest of Queensland. After days of driving in pulsating heat on a Honda 750, we wound up the Kennedy Highway towards the Atherton Tablelands. The air became cooler, the undulating hills grazed by dairy herds. The bucolic hinterland reminded me of my West Country home.

In Atherton, we browsed an antique shop with a selection of collectible English china and in a quaint café we enjoyed a “Famous Devonshire Cream Tea and Scones”. Enclosed by a white picket fence on a closely mowed emerald pitch, a game of England’s most ancient and aristocratic sport – lawn bowls – was being played out. Immersed in this Little England, I realised that the call to “come home” would prevail.