Brits Abroad Survey Results - A Diversity of Experiences

After a fantastic reaction of over 3,800 responses, our Brits Abroad survey is now closed. This has provided us with invaluable data on the socio-economic characteristics of British emigrants (both permanent and temporary) as well as those who have returned from overseas and those who are intending to move. We have also received some really illuminating accounts of life in another country – the sheer diversity of the stories confirming the heterogeneity of British expatriates. We chose three stories that we thought reflected important issues faced by Brits heading overseas. Each participant left the UK for a different reason and has overcome a different challenge while living overseas. Below is one of the two second prize winners.

Joe Cawley left the UK for Tenerife where he and his partner set up their own business. His story is quite typical of many people who go for a holiday and then decide to pack up and go for good. Yet unfortunately, his success is not a routine experience for all Brits who do not prepare in advance of moving. Unlike Joe, our research suggests that many Brits find themselves in severe financial difficulty abroad as a lack of language skills confine their business to the seasonal tourist market and are unable to navigate a different bureaucratic system. Our report, which will be published in December, will suggest that Brits should take greater steps to equip themselves with the skills and knowledge necessary for living overseas in advance of arriving there.

“Once or twice in life everybody is presented with an opportunity that can shape the rest their years. Mine came after another dreary day standing knee-deep in fish giblets on Bolton fish market. My partner, Joy, and myself had been employed to knock out trays of dubious quality fish at three for a fiver. It was not what you would call ‘glamorous work’. That night, we received a phone call that would change our lives. My stepfather had just returned from a two-week holiday and spotted the potential of a British bar on a residential complex. “Would we be interested in buying it?” he asked. A complete lack of business experience, zero Spanish language ability and a bank account that teetered precariously on the edge of red did nothing to dilute our enthusiasm. It was an escape route from frozen fingers, the rancid smell and an uninspiring life centred around dead carp. “Where do we sign?” we replied.

Three months later, after sorting out the fine details, like how we were going to pay for it, we touched down at Tenerife airport, waved our passports at the disinterested customs officials and awaited the arrival of four mismatched suitcases, three borrowed holdalls and plastic Tesco’s bag. We’d been to Tenerife several times before, and like many, had toyed with the idea of making our stay a more permanent one. Fuelled by sun and sangria our conversation would veer towards what we would do, and like most, it settled on running a small bar. However, those were virtual plans. This was reality. We were now the proud owners of The Smugglers Tavern with all the accompanying fixtures of condiment sets, bar stools and urinals. I’d never owned a urinal before.

After dumping our belongings in a rented apartment we went to meet the previous owner, who, in a kitchen never designed for such large gatherings, showed us both the basics of how to cook for 140 people at once. For the first few days we floundered spectacularly. Our life in the sun turned out to be a life indoors and very little time was spent with the big yellow globe. “How come you’re so white if you live here?” became a constant enquiry. However, as the weeks passed and we grew accustomed to our new roles, we began to appreciate this new life. Only having to throw on shorts and a tee-shirt every day made a pleasant change to the multiple layers necessary to sustain life back on the market. Also, the chirpy atmosphere created by holidaymakers who had the sole intention of enjoying themselves served as a refreshing tonic to the sullen spirits darkening Bolton’s cobbled market aisles.

Life was good, a heady mixture of wry banter and an ever-ringing till. New priorities took over from trying to serve customers before they starved to death. Raising the hygiene levels to just above lethal became top of the agenda, closely followed by persuading bored locals not to tinker with things that were best left untinkered, such as the gas supply, the fire alarm and the brakes on our car. It was also proving to be quite important that we mastered enough Spanish to avoid ordering 500 barrels of beer each week instead of 15.

But, in time, all these objectives were met and with a happy bank manager, contented customers and enough money in the pot to start paying for staff, we finally began to ‘live’, rather than just work, overseas."