Alison Monks-Plackett, 77, retired – Pillemoine, France
I lived and taught bilingually in Switzerland for the latter part of my career. After my retirement and my mother’s funeral, I had the chance to remain in the family home in the UK, but I felt like a foreigner in Britain. So I decided to settle in the old farmhouse in France that my late husband and I had – somewhat enthusiastically – bought many years before with hopes of renovation. It was the best option to live out my years.
I was known in the village since I had already spent considerable time there and was encouraged – strong-armed, more accurately – to stand for election to the local council. This strongly influenced my decision to stay permanently. I was voted in for a seven-year term. And I loved what it offered me: a way to make myself useful, build relationships and integrate with the village. I could vote in local elections and those for the European parliament. I was an active citizen.
As my seven-year term approached its end, the Brexit referendum drew nearer. There was some interest in Brits locally and I confidently told the local paper: “I think it’s a storm in a teacup. I don’t think they’ll vote leave in the end.”
All sorts of upheaval across the continent followed. But for me there was a clear consequence: I couldn’t stand again for my seat on the council. I couldn’t vote either. In fact, I found myself totally disenfranchised, unable to vote in elections here or back in the UK. Suddenly all that contact that had shaped my days – with local businesses, schools, community groups and organisations – stopped. I’m still here, of course. But no longer was there a means through which to participate. Through the council, I had a purpose. Now I’m isolated.
I still live opposite the town hall. I see the comings and goings, and people do stop by to keep me updated even though I have no official role. Local issues and problems are still the same, and I have much to offer. They even need new councillors. But, thanks to Brexit, I feel nothing but a spare part – a bystander in my own home.
Tim Heymerdinger, 59, musician – Odder, Denmark
My partner and I moved to Denmark in 2018, in direct response to the Brexit vote. It had always been something we imagined doing at some stage. Seeing the UK’s direction of travel – and knowing it would be far easier to up sticks during the transition period – made a more immediate move seem the most sensible choice.
Why? Well, I’m British born and raised, but the country seemed to be rapidly reverting to a more unpleasant past. As a person of colour, to me the UK felt increasingly unsafe. I grew up in the 70s and witnessed the rise of the National Front. I’ll never forget sitting in front of the telly as a child, watching racist comedians. For a couple of decades, it seemed things had improved. But the ghosts were lurking. In the wake of the Brexit vote, I was racially abused three times. Twice in the street. Then I was chased down the M1 after being racially abused in stationary traffic. It was the first time I’d experienced this sort of explicit hatred since my schooldays.
During the vote, I’d been a big remainer. But rather than be bitter and bereft in England about what was lost, we decided to get out and move on with our lives. Wash our hands of it all.
In 2017 we travelled around Europe looking at new places to call home. In the end we settled on Denmark, even though until our recce I’d not been since I was a kid.
Moving while the UK was still – just about – a member of the EU meant it was a fairly straightforward affair. The Danish authorities couldn’t have been more diligent, friendly and supportive. We were in and out of the offices to sort healthcare and taxation within 90 minutes. We have temporary resident status here for now. I have the same rights as any other EU resident in Denmark – minus freedom of movement. In five years, it’ll be permanent; after 10, I’ll be applying for citizenship.
As the drummer in otherwise London-based band The Little Unsaid, I now have to travel a lot back and forth – my choice, I know. But while we do fine on the UK circuit as an independent act, touring and releasing music into the EU now means dealing with difficult and costly post-Brexit bureaucracy. I don’t relish that.
Moving was an act of self-preservation. In our small town, life feels different. Safer. Calmer. Cliched as it sounds, we liked being part of the European community. But rather than be accused of remoaning and bitterness, we decided to take matters into our own hands. While we do regret having left amazing people behind, I can’t see any reason for us to ever return. I don’t feel a sense of loss at all, to be honest. The UK today doesn’t feel like my country.
Daisy Hyde, 30, project manager and fitness trainer – Berlin, Germany
I moved here in 2011 at age 18, straight out of college. I’d only intended to stay a year, but here we are. I never made a conscious decision to make Berlin home on a permanent basis. It’s just there never seemed a reason to leave.
I became a German citizen three years ago. I have two passports and nationalities. Brexit was the catalyst – I’d never have bothered with becoming a citizen of Germany otherwise. Until the referendum, I never thought much about nationality or identity. There was a fluidity to my presence in this country. And the continent. But once the vote happened, it required some thought.
Initially, it was other people who made me reflect: worried friends offered to marry me to help secure my future here (I think they were joking); my boss would regularly ask if I needed support. Early on, it was obvious I’d be able to stay. At first I thought about residency. But because of the educational programmes I’d been on – and the length of time I’ve been here – I could apply for citizenship sooner than I’d expected.
I did a naturalisation test and navigated a lot of bureaucracy. But it went fine. At the naturalisation ceremony at the local town hall, 50 of us took to the stage and shook the district mayor’s hand. A live band played a medley of the national anthems of the countries we all came from. Then we got some bread with salt on. It’s tradition.
The process was simply a practical one. Becoming a citizen offered me a sense of security. More recently I’ve reflected more on what else it means. I was travelling in Thailand not too long ago and told someone in passing I was about to go rock climbing with the “other Germans”. I heard myself saying it and felt surprised.
My German identity seems to be replacing the British one, slowly but surely. My family are all still in England, but I don’t think of it as home. I find myself even forgetting words in English. At times I can hardly string a sentence together in my mother tongue. In fact, I appear to now speak English with a German accent. I don’t feel like I fit in the UK any more. A gap has slowly built over the time I’ve been here. Brexit, I think, pulled it into focus. We were all European before Brexit. Now I’m not so sure how to describe myself.
Brexit barely figures in my daily life. But what’s sad to me is that other young Brits won’t have the opportunities I’ve had – to live and travel freely, to open now firmly shut doors. I could take a chance without worrying about complex paperwork, logistics and the future.
Micheala Bailey, 36, postal worker – Pirkanmaa, Finland
I met my partner in Los Angeles in 2013 and we did the long-distance thing: me in London, her in Helsinki. Then we lived in Glasgow for five years or so. Around 2018, my partner became increasingly homesick; new nieces and nephews felt so far away. We left the UK in December 2019.
At first I filled in a single form for EU citizens wanting a right to remain in Finland. If Brexit hadn’t happened, I’d have been set for ever. Instead, once the transition period was over, I went for an appointment, and because my partner is Finnish I had to provide proof about our relationship. It wasn’t difficult.
In the UK, I was a trained social worker, and worked in a residential children’s home, but my Finnish isn’t quite good enough for me to work in that sector yet. Here I’m employed by the postal service. The winters are harsh, but summer morning rounds are dreamlike: sunrise is at 2.30am, and I’m out in nature, alone with all sorts of wildlife.
I had a huge amount of support – when it came to the end of the transition period, it was made clear if I needed more hours, guidance, help with paperwork or anything else, it was always available. Somehow I can’t imagine the British state being quite as accommodating and helpful to non-UK citizens. From over here, it looks like life in the UK is getting harder and harder.
I earn half my old UK salary here, but my quality of life is incomparable. I could afford to buy a house here, but back in the UK I couldn’t. Even on the NHS, IVF treatment costs in the UK can rack up, and the wait times are huge. Here we were seen in three months. Annually the most we’d ever be asked to contribute would be €600.
On our Brits in Finland Facebook group, people ask how to move to Finland. But those options aren’t really there any more. You might need to find an Irish grandparent and apply for an EU passport that way. Or I’d highly recommend marrying a Finn.
Chris Weston, 61, business consultant – Warsaw, Poland
I made the move in 1991, before Poland was even in the EU. I remember the days pre-freedom of movement: to settle here required all sorts of paperwork. Then in 2004, with Poland’s accession, movement became smoother. I was always baffled by how, back in the UK, certain corners bemoaned Polish people moving to Britain to work. Here I was, doing the same thing with no bother. For a few decades, things were simple. I became a company chief financial officer at one stage and had to apply for what’s called a Stay card. But I moved jobs and forgot all about it.
Having been here for so long, I couldn’t even vote in the Brexit referendum. Still, I followed the vote closely. A family member on the phone cited immigration as a reason for him voting leave. My response was simple: “You know I’m an immigrant, too?” Everyone here seemed to think it was all rather eccentric.
After Brexit, I needed to regularise my situation. I decided it made sense to become a Polish citizen. Frankly, returning to the UK seemed so tricky. With all the talk of minimum income requirements for migrants, it felt there was a real risk my wife might not be let in. We have a young son still in school – why would we move him?
Obtaining citizenship here was a fairly straightforward affair – the Polish authorities were helpful and efficient. But not everything was plain sailing. I’m still riled up about the debacle with my UK bank. A customer since the age of 18, I had my credit card cancelled two weeks before Christmas in 2020, even though I was assured there’d be no issue. My accounts were frozen because I was in post-Brexit Poland. It took a long time to fix that mess. And losing access to BritBox TV was a gut punch.
I rarely think about the UK these days. My parents have both passed away. There’s little to pull me back there. Over the last four years, my connection to the UK has faded, and Poland feels as if it was a good move.
Lynda Rae, 64, hospitality – Jávea, Spain
The Costa Blanca coast feels a long way from Lincolnshire, where I’d spent the previous 20 years of my adult life.
I moved here seven years ago as part of a plan my husband and I had to retire abroad. The problem was that my husband – Richard, five years younger than me – wasn’t ready to retire. He’s a cricket commentator for a local BBC radio station, meaning seven months a year he’s tied to Leicester.
Around 2013 we started looking for the ideal place to plot the next chapter of our lives. On a visit in 2014, we found this beautiful building, a total wreck, in Jávea, and decided to buy it. In April 2015, while Richard carried on working in England, I started to split my time in the UK and over here to oversee the renovations.
It wasn’t easy going. The house is listed – there was a lot of paperwork and permissions – but by 2016 work kicked off. I thought the complicated logistics were over, then the referendum happened. To help pay the bills in those first months here, I took a job with a local estate agent, helping to deal with their British clients. Post-referendum, all the interest dried up. Given what I was about to go through, I’d say those customers not ready to move right away made the correct call. But we’d already committed to Spain. And it was too late to turn back: we’d poured all our savings into this house, and could hardly abandon it.
Brexit saw our plans come crashing down. Before, settling here had seemed so easy. We worked out that if, for five years, I spent half my time in Spain, I could apply for residency. The problem was, Richard wasn’t able to. Now that the UK has left the EU, he can only spend 90 days in Europe before taking a three-month break, under Schengen rules. EU nationals can visit the UK for 180 days all at once. In short, it means after 32 years of marriage we’re forced apart for long periods. My husband isn’t allowed to live in his own home.
We put the house up for sale two years ago, realising our hopes were no longer viable, then the sale fell through. For now I’m still here, but by the end of this year I think we’ll try to sell again. I’ll come back to the UK full time, not really out of choice. I’ve built a community here, a whole new life. Now our dreams for the next stage of our lives have been completely ruined. I’m exhausted. Emotionally and financially, we’ve paid a high price already.
