August is a dangerous time to be back in London, when the city smells so much better than New York. For the past week my children and I have been enjoying the 20F drop in temperature with zero humidity, while playing a game of Better in England. The bread is better. Ditto the cheese. Clearly the weather is better and, since a version of Paw Patrol has been dubbed by English-accented children, everyone’s interest in the show has revived. The only hard call is the news: Brexit v Trump, which is the more depressing background condition?

It was hard to watch the rusty carousel go round and stop oneself muttering about EU safety regulations

Brexit seems worse. I recently watched Peter Jackson’s documentary about the first world war, and the folly of breaking with Europe screamed from every shot. Donald Trump is a more acute menace than any of his British pretenders – but even this, from certain angles, seems depressing. Admittedly, the choice between a charmless idiot nakedly appealing to racists and a highly polished opportunist whose only quality is charm is a tough one, but there are times when the former seems preferable. They have the original; we have the shopsoiled knock-off. We can’t even lean in to our own ruin with any conviction.

Still, there are things to be grateful for. Superficially at least, the UK is a gentler political environment, although this can lend a veneer of civility and good humour to policies as punitive as any in the US. It was strange to wander around London and try to detach it from the idea of Europe – to recognise, as Michael Heseltine memorably put it, the delusions of the role of a medium-sized economy. A country whose charm is partly premised on its willingness to celebrate its own limitations doesn’t sit well in this new schema, replaced simply with a feeling of appearing ridiculous.

The trees seemed older and prettier in London than any of their equivalents in New York. The rudeness of the woman behind the desk at the local leisure centre was world-class in a way that triggered my national pride. In a town outside London, we had lunch at an American-styled diner where (apologies to any Americans reading this) they put chilli con carne on a breakfast waffle and then did something insane with the gravy.

'Something resembling hell': how does the rest of the world view the UK? Read more

These were the kinds of things – Britain’s occasional daffy desire to mimic the US, and its ineffable ability to get it wrong – that used to be charming, but in the context of Brexit feel sad and small. We went to a fair in a field where union jacks fluttered at the top of every ride, and the rusting gear looked as if it had been on tour since the 80s. It was hard to watch the carousel go around without muttering about EU safety regulations.

There were Roman ruins in the distance. The pub we passed on the way home dated from the 14th century. The abbey had one of the longest naves in the country, and while I have no idea what that means, it still felt good to consider it. We’re amazing, I thought: the trees; the ruins; the bread; the nave; the fact that, at Heathrow, you can use the toilet before you go through immigration. And, for a moment, I enjoyed a surge of sentiment wholly divorced from political reality. A place from which to start, not to end.

• Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist based in New York