Why I'm leaving Britain

Which way, Faustian Man?

In 1471, a young Englishman fled his country for Brittany, where he would spend the next 14 years in exile.

His noble father had died like a dog, imprisoned in Carmarthen Castle after battlefield defeat. The mentally ill king whom he served had bought the nation to ruin and was deposed and executed in the Tower of London.

But in Brittany, the young Englishman married strategically and built alliances. He won over Francis II, Duke of Brittany and the English baron Richard Woodville.

In 1485 - now in his prime - he set sail for the isles to which he was born. Alongside him were two thousand French mercenaries and a ragtag group of other dissidents.

They landed at Mill Bay on the Welsh coast. The young Englishman knelt in the sand, raised his hands to heaven, and prayed “Judge me O Lord, and favor my cause!”

They began their march inland. Invoking the names of his ancestors, the young man amassed the support of local nobles, and his ranks grew.

Two weeks later, outnumbered, he engaged the forces of Richard III at Bosworth Field, Leicestershire. The victory was decisive; Richard was slain. The young Englishman became the last man to ever win the British crown in battle.

His name was Henry Tudor, and he went on to found a dynasty that gave his country an empire and laid the foundation for her dominance of the planet.

But if he had never left these isles in his youth, history would never have known his name.

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I’ve come to a final conclusion on the question which I’ve agonized over for more than a decade. I’m leaving my home. It’s time to get out.

I love my land, but I love my family and my people more, and we’re not thriving here. The land will still be here in 100 years; I need to make sure my descendants are too. A nation is its people.