There is something about making travel such an important piece of your life that the wrench of leaving a place only becomes harder to bear.
It’s not necessarily about the weather, although please don’t get me wrong, that helps immensely. One look out of the window today at the collection of armbands, rubber rings and swimming floats sitting in a neat but redundant pile beside the pool, abandoned thanks to the rain that aids to top it up everso slightly, accompanied by the grey skies hanging over us.
It isn’t even about falling in love with a place, because just like with people, falling in love requires a special something that not everywhere has.
It’s the returning home I find difficult. Home is where routine takes over once more. Where the close proximity of everyone and everything in England in comparison to the space and privacy we relish whilst away creates a domestic claustrophobia that, with the end of each set of travels, makes it harder and harder to return to and endure.
Discovering first-hand the new places and people, each with stories and surroundings that are far removed from our own cocoons, is an experience far removed from that which any book or documentery can convey. Incomparable, in fact.
It is hard to believe that in less than a week we will be leaving Greece and travelling back up through Europe over the following ten days. No doubt, we will still have plenty of memories to make, places to see and people to meet, but still, we all have that same thought…
If only we could just keep going…
Does anyone else find themselves feeling the same way?
One thought on “The Problem With Travel…”
Always! I know what you mean about the space when you’re overseas. Britain feels like a very crowded island sometimes.