I love travel. I never thought I’d be the travelling type, but ever since that first trip to New Zealand I’ve been hooked. I love the excitement of exploring new places, or revisiting somewhere I really love. As someone who lives alone spending a month or two abroad with a group, having company for dinner or going sight-seeing together, makes a nice change, and I enjoy building friendships with people I may otherwise never meet.
But there is something special about coming home. Even though in the moment I am usually sad to have come to the end of another amazing experience, coming home reminds me how grateful I am for the constants in a way of life that often lacks routine. A big hug from my dad in arrivals at the airport, eating Mam’s amazing Sunday roast, spending quality time with my sister, catching up with other family and friends, makes me realise how much I value these people in my life, and how much I’ve missed them while I’ve been away.
My house is my little haven, where I can relax and recharge my batteries ready for my next trip. Being on my own means I don’t have to worry about disturbing anyone when jet lag keeps me awake at all hours of the night (it’s 4am as I’m writing this!). I can unpack my suitcase in the living room and leave piles of washing around without annoying anyone, and go smoothie crazy because I’m so fed up of fries, pizza and chicken and rice! People wonder why I bother having my own place when I’m away so much, but I appreciate it so much more than I would if I was here every day.
Travelling the world is amazing, but home is where the heart is, and absence really does make the heart grow fonder. ❤️