Admitting that you’re ready to head home feels like sacrilege when you travel. Why would we want to leave these incredible, beautiful, hospitable countries and return to regularity, predictability and not knowing when the next adventure will happen?
Well, as blasphemous as it may be, after five months of travelling, thirteen countries, and more hostels and buses than I could possibly remember, I’m excited to be home. It’s been a week since I landed at Gatwick, my backpack emptied of belongings but stuffed with souvenirs and presents. I have thrown myself straight into work (a small price to pay for galavanting around Central and South America for months) and studying (I begin my Masters degree in a few short weeks). The routine is familiar, and it almost feels like I have never been away. Except I have so many months of memories and experiences, hundreds of photographs to reminisce over in the months to come, friends and family to catch up with and trips to be planned for at least the next decade.
And when you arrive home to find a three-tiered, three-flavoured cake of your trip, complete with blue-footed boobies, a mini-me snorkelling amongst the fish and a Mexican man in a sombrero asleep under a cactus, England seems pretty good.