I guess it was time to go home.
We stood on the quay, looking across the narrow waters to Spain with mixed emotions. For a year it had just been the two of us. We had gone where we wanted, done whatever took our fancy and responsibilities seemed far away. It would be so easy to turn around and head south to the Sahara or central Africa. Turning right and heading for the Middle East would be so easy. It was all there, waiting our arrival. There remain so many places we want to explore, so much of the world still to experience and so much of nature’s magic we have yet to touch. To move on again suddenly seemed so simple
There was an anxiety about going home. We had enjoyed our time together, learnt to spend every day in each other’s company in happy and loving harmony. We had looked out and after each other in a way that meant we didn’t have to worry about ourselves individually. We hadn’t needed anyone else. The reintroduction of people into our relationship would bring demands of time and attention that might force a wedge between our close bond.
But we have missed family and friends. We need to reconnect with children, parents, dear friends and dogs. We cannot duck life’s other responsibilities for ever but, I hope all the nasty ones have forgotten I exist. I miss Sundays in the comfortable familiarity of home: late breakfasts, reading the papers over countless cups of fresh coffee, walking the dogs, having the kids over for Sunday roast and slobbing in front of the telly. Debbie wants to shed the ‘utility clothes’ in which she has existed for over a year and be elegant again (though she doesn’t realise that she always looks gorgeous). She wants to bin most of the contents of her backpack, to wear beautiful dresses and shoes that don’t resemble an old tyre track held together by laces.
So we stepped on board Koala and shrugged off our backpacks for the last time.
It is time to go home.