So I’ve never really been a homebird, I’ve never experienced homesickness, but now I’ve found myself sat on my lonely bottom bunk crying into my laptop screen listening to really shit, depressing pop songs.
I miss my dog. I miss the beach, I miss the summer.
This outburst comes after spending my evening off dealing with a broken cooker in a chalet that caters for 15 and then walking through the blizzard that is the French Alps right now.
I’m fragile, needy, cold and I am in need of warmth & canine attention.
like, seriously, my heart physically hurts when I look at pictures of her….
When I first announced that I was going to complete a ski season at the dinner table (which is the home of many of my announcements) my parent’s faces displayed looks of shock, disbelief, concern and mild boredom – they are pretty used to me making various announcements at said dinner table.
“Aren’t you more keen on spending six months somewhere slightly…. warmer?” Admittedly, I am a beach bum, beginner surfer, absolute sun-worshipper and keen coastal photographer. So, naturally, the thought of me spending six months in the cold, inland mountains worried my parents a lot – but how I do love to prove people wrong.
I still wouldn’t say I’m a homebird, (cue loud out-of-tune singing of Nelly Furtado’s I’MMM LIKE A BIRRRRDDD I’LL ONLY FLY AWAYYYYY) but there are certain things I need in life to keep me sane, being predominantly warmth, sand, sea & dogs. Don’t get me wrong, I feel alive, free and amazing up here in the mountains – but not so much when the blizzard closes in and the sky is nothing but a mass of grey-white, heavy nothingness. I find myself dreaming of hot days where my hair gets bleached by the sun and my skin turns brown, being able to walk around barefoot and barely clothed.
I also miss driving – I complain about it enough when I’m at home and petrol literally sucks the money from my bank account but it’s generally the feeling of freedom, I am a lover of the open road, a lover of travelling to wherever it takes me. Happiness for me is on the road, windows down, dog in the passenger seat, with sand between my toes and my hair wild, with only a map and a vague idea of where I want to end up.
I guess that’s the good thing about transfer days – it gets me out of resort onto the open road for a few hours, and stops me from going Jack-Nicholson-batshit-crazy in this snowstorm.