[It was a long time ago, by the time I am actually uploading this to a website but…] 2015 saw a homecoming of sorts. Some of the family and I returned to Hong Kong. The first time as an adult, old enough to actually appreciate a place so impressive and captivating, and also the first time with my grandmother, a HK native. A trip which was supposed to be her last, to the place she was born, and although at this point in her life has spent more time in the UK is probably where she would call home. So as well as exploration through the maze of densely populated high rises, we journeyed through old districts. Visiting places of her past. Hearing tales of where her character was formed, calluses earned, and traumas suffered. How she was intertwined with the events of Hong Kong’s history.

Although I had always held some memories of Hong Kong, I’m unsure whether these are real or imagined recollections, confusing early memories with thing I expected to resemble Hong Kong or actual experiences from childhood. Alas, now was the time to find out. My brain now formed enough to comprehend Hong Kong.

With intrigue in every nook, and curiosity around every corner I spent a few weeks wandering the through pungent wet markets, around peaceful temples, atop mountains, some away from the city, others over looking the endless high rises of the island, down the densely shopped, market lined streets, selling everything from intricately woven fabric to cheap trinkets passed off as authentic. DVDs of the latest blockbuster to hit the cinema, the same Rolex seen in the Hatton Gardens. But, the thing that I now think about often is the food. Served on flimsy plastic tables, toilet roll as serviettes, handprints on the kitchen door that had probably been layered and formed over decades now probably more of an indentation than a grease mark, but the kind of places never empty. With the scent of fried fish, freshly steamed rice, the slight char of an eternally heated wok drawing you in, the occasional whipping of fish sauce and shrimp paste, was enough to make you recoil, but only momentarily, until you were desensitised. Plates clanged and oil sizzled, as the percussion to a symphony of singers. One ear heard shouts from table to kitchen of orders - (there is no time for the finesse of the European gastronomy) the other ear … market traders summoning punters to purchase their latest and greatest stock. Senses dialled up to maximum, everything deserved a second glance. Space being in limited supply required the utilisation of the most unusual configurations. Alleys backing on to restaurants served as the washing up space for the kitchens on the other side of the wall. The kind of thing that would get you shut down in London, but even as “clean freak” couldn’t keep me away. Dim sum however was the crown jewel. The purity and freshness of Cantonese food is well noted. Never more so than delicately, masterfully, tightly wrapped har gow - the usually translucent skin, now even more so due to how thin it was, the structural integrity however was never in question. Although the standard of craftsmanship was more refined the chaos in these bustling restaurants was its equal. Trolleys wheeled through narrow gaps between tables. Elbows best be kept to yourself - although I’m sure the expert drivers are in complete control, if you are hit, it was on purpose. Eaten for breakfast or lunch, sometimes both at least half the time I was there, (probably responsible for my increasing weight despite the 20k (minimum) steps I was doing each day) always finished off with Dan tat (custard tarts (I chanced my egg allergy every time ( and I will do it again))).

This density is part of life in Hong Kong everything woven so tightly, and the rhythm of the Hong Konger in sync with the environment and each other. As chaotic as it could feel at times I’m looking forward to going back. I have cousins to see, babies to meet, and a great uncle that has told me that he’s taking me to the casinos of Macao.