I have just returned from a magical holiday in the Scottish Highlands. It was the ultimate road trip complete with never-ending snacks, Matthew McConaughey’s lilting voice as he read his new book ‘Greenlights,’ perfect weather and views to die for. The Isle of Skye was utterly awe-inspiring and forced me to question why I am always so keen to jump on an aeroplane for pastures new when such epic beauty exists within Britain itself. I guess that has been the one benefit of the pandemic; with overseas travel a risky venture many people are rediscovering their own backyards. Last year I fell in love with the Yorkshire Dales and have since returned twice and this summer has led me to explore Cornwall and Scotland; both incredibly beautiful places that I feel privileged to have been able to visit. In fact, this very weekend was meant to be the weekend that we flew to Iceland for a breath-taking week-long road trip, discovering the land of fire and ice (a belated 50th birthday surprise for Nick). Alas, that will now have to wait until next year but I am so happy I chose to put on the walking boots and enjoy Scotland instead. It certainly did not disappoint!
But this post isn’t about the joy of holidays and the dreams they inspire, this post is about the simple act of coming home. That feeling of walking wearily through the door with a bag full of dirty laundry and breathing in that musty empty house smell. The feeling of collapsing back into your bed, soaking in the tub, cooking a meal that doesn’t involve chips and vegging on the sofa. Simple pleasures that make returning home so lovely.
And maybe that’s ultimately the allure of holidays; not only do they provide us with a change of scene, an adventure, a story to tell, memories to hold on to but more importantly they allow us to fully appreciate where we are when we finally arrive home. Don’t get me wrong, my house is far from perfect. It’s never as clean as I’d like it to be probably because I would rather crochet a jumper than conduct a deep clean (sorry mum). There are always walls that need painting, mail that needs sorting, corners that need hoovering and cupboards that need tidying. But all of that really doesn’t matter because it’s HOME. And as we all know, home is where the heart is.
So as I grow older I still thoroughly enjoy seeing new places, experiencing new things and spending a week or two eating copious amounts of hot chips. But after each journey, I can’t help but feel incredibly grateful when I walk through my front door and breathe in the place that makes me most happy. The place where I work, eat, sleep, laugh, cry and love.
Travel opens my heart so my heart can find its way back home. ❤️
I have missed your blog. Welcome home!