OF all the truisms that abound within the English language, perhaps none is more clichéd than the eight-word proclamation that “all good things must come to an end.” But when it comes to telling the story of British journalist Dave Chapman, who recently returned home to the UK after more than two years’ living and working in Shanghai, never has such an adage been more apt.

“To say I was reluctant to leave would be an understatement,” the 51-year-old tells me between sips of Americano (“with just a splash of milk”) in a well-lit, though otherwise uninspiring branch of a popular coffeehouse chain.

“I loved Shanghai. Still do. It’s such a vibrant and cosmopolitan place to live,” he says.

“For example, one day not long before I left, I met a Chinese workmate for breakfast, a French friend for lunch and an American buddy for dinner. That’s just what it’s like there. I can’t even remember what we had to eat, but I bet it was delicious.”

Since leaving the city “upon the sea” in June, Chapman — which is not his real name, but rather a pseudonym he says he uses “in the interests of anonymity” — has been living in Runcorn, a town of about 60,000 people in the northwest of England.

“I was born and raised in Runcorn, and I still have friends and family here, so I sort of feel at home,” he says.

“But when you’ve come from a city of more than 23 million people that not only ranks among the world’s leading financial centers, but also hosts one of the finest theme parks on the planet, it’s bound to take time to adjust.”

Dressed in dark blue jeans and a gingham short-sleeved shirt buttoned tight at the neck ­— both by Ben Sherman, his favorite clothing brand — Chapman could easily pass for 48 or 49. As he recounts another well-rehearsed tale from his former life in the east China metropolis a smile grows across his face, giving him the appearance of a man months younger still.

“I used to love chatting to the local taxi drivers,” he says. “One time, this guy wanted to practice his English, so each time we came to a junction he’d announce the maneuver he was about to make. ‘Turn right,’ he said confidently at the traffic lights on Weihai Road. ‘Go straight,’ he said at the next. Unfortunately, he must have missed a lesson or two, because when we came to Shaanxi Road — where I wanted him to turn left — he boldly declared, ‘Turn soft.’ It was so funny. We both laughed like hyenas when I explained to him what he’d said.”

So was Chapman able to make himself understood in Mandarin or even the notoriously tricky Shanghai dialect?

“Well, I’m no linguist, but I got by. Since coming back to the UK I’ve forgotten a lot of words because all the taxi drivers here speak English. At least to a fashion,” he adds with a chuckle.

While there is a degree of ethnic diversity in Runcorn, he says, it’s “unfair” to compare it to Shanghai.

“There’s a bloke who plays the piano accordion outside the Co-op (a popular retail food chain) who I think is from eastern Europe and I’ve got a mate called Russian Rob, but that’s only because he used to work in Moscow. Everyone else I know is just a regular Brit.”

“In Shanghai, the captain of my pool team was one-eighth Cherokee! It’s a different world,” he says.

“There are some Chinese people in Runcorn, but the only ones I have any interaction with work in fish-and-chip shops, and I think they’re mostly second- and third-generation immigrants from Hong Kong. I once said ‘xie xie’ to a guy in a takeaway after he gave me my chicken chow mein, but I don’t think he understood. He just looked at me as if I was a bit strange.”

So is it easy to get Chinese food in Runcorn?

“Not really,” he says, “Not the authentic stuff, but then most people here are used to eating Anglicized versions of Cantonese classics. Then again, even in Shanghai I preferred Yunnan cuisine. A bloke I worked with — he was the image of Harry Potter, only Chinese — was always trying to get me to eat local dishes he knew I’d hate. I think he just wanted to laugh at me when I pulled a funny face. But I didn’t really mind.”

Chapman says he keeps in touch with his friends and former work colleagues in Shanghai via WeChat and email, “but it’s not the same as being there.”

As loquacious as he is about the things he misses about Shanghai — riding his bike along the Huangpu River near the former World Expo site, watching the dancers in Fuxing Park, and haggling over the price of Chinese celery at the local wet market — Chapman quickly becomes reticent when I ask him why he chose to leave.

The smile fades from his face as he mumbles something about “a heart condition” and “elderly parents,” but it’s clear he doesn’t like to be pressed on the issue.

“What’s done is done,” he concedes. “I don’t like to get bogged down worrying about things that are beyond my control.”

Instead, Chapman says he looks for the similarities that exist between Runcorn and Shanghai.

“They’re not always obvious, but they’re there,” he says.

“For example, both places were built on rivers (Runcorn stands on the south bank of the Mersey and is connected to its illustrious neighbor Liverpool via the Silver Jubilee Bridge, the longest steel-arch span in western Europe); they both have good infrastructure links (the M56 and M6 motorways are easily accessible from the English town, and its main railway station is on the Liverpool-London line); and they each have great cultural facilities (despite its modest size, Runcorn boasts two libraries and a theater, The Brindley).”

There’s a hint of self-deception in the way Chapman describes the relative merits of his new life, but it quickly evaporates as he changes tack to talk about Runcorn Hill, a local nature reserve that facilitates panoramic views across the Mersey estuary to Liverpool and the Snowdonia Mountains of Wales beyond.

“Most people go to the hill to walk their dogs, but I don’t have a dog anymore, so I just go there to think. Sometimes when I’m looking out across the water I imagine I can see the Oriental Pearl TV Tower and all the other great buildings that make up the majestic Pudong skyline. But I know they’re just in my mind,” he says.

“I vaguely remember a song by John Denver about the breeze in Shanghai, and how the lovers in the story could feel the same wind on their faces even though they were thousands of miles apart. I feel a bit like that when I’m standing on Runcorn Hill on a blustery day, wondering if I’ll ever return to the city I love and used to call home.

“I guess, like Nobel prize winner Bob Dylan once said, the answer is blowin’ in the wind.”