Lying on the beach, costume wet from jumping the waves, digging my feet into the softest of sands, grains clinging everywhere; which I know is going to mildly irritate later when I walk back to the hotel, I finally relax. This is utter bliss. The temperature is a warm thirty degrees, a wind coming off the sea cooling my skin. Later, mild discomfort from the sand aside, we’ll be back at the hotel, maybe having a coffee by the pool, listening to music on my iPad (thanks to the brilliance of Spotify and decent wifi) then walking down to the local town during the evening for a pizza, a glass of cava and a raspberry ice cream from the parlour.
I’m sighing as I write that. Oh to have one week out of fifty two that doesn’t involve the school run, cleaning out chicken houses, clearing up after mucky ducks, cutting the grass, deadlines, the ongoing and never-ending admin…It’s, well, weird. Relaxing, joyful, wonderful. But weird. It takes a few days to fully relax and by the time I am fully relaxed it’s time to pack the suitcases to head back home.
But you know what? I’m ready to go home. Those eight days were amazing. But I missed home.
Yes, I missed the animals. Their noisy morning clucks when they’ve laid an egg, the way the ducks try and charge me when my back is turned, my dog’s wet nose nuzzling my hand, and the cat coming to sit on my bed during the evening (she’s here purring away on the edge of the bed as I type). I missed the green. The bird song. The distant fields changing colour.
Going away on holiday is fantastic. Returning home, seeing everything we’ve worked hard on through fresh eyes, is joyful.