Intermission
Breaking news: I'm back in the UK.
I flew back from Tirana, because travelling overland would have been next to impossible, not to mention rather foolish. The flight was early evening, and through a beautifully clear sky. We followed the Adriatic coast, which I know well from having spent literally weeks of my life bussing up and down it. Over the Alps, which were grandiose and snow-capped. France was quite flat and boring, but still very clear. The Channel had lots of boats on it. And then we approached a wall of grey, obscuring all beneath it. Aha, this must be England. We descended, and dark churning clouds on the horizon, backed by a red sunset, was a burning apocalyptic vision. Outside the airport the sky haphazardly threw handfuls of cold water at anyone unfortunate enough to be standing under it. I put on a jacket for the first time in months. And felt... welcomed.
Lots of people have said they're happy I'm back (maybe they're just being nice), but I'm quite sad about it. I'm back for specific and worthwhile reasons, but as I posted the last of my Albania photos this afternoon, while looking out at a mostly grim, overcast sky, I wondered if I have made a terrible mistake. I haven't. I'm not back, it's just an intermission. I'm confident that the nomadic life across continental Europe I love will resume sometime next year, albeit limited by the pandemic and brexit.
The next few months are uncertain in new ways. I don't really know where I'll be for the bulk of my time here yet.
But in the meantime, I will be spending precisely the last two weeks of my twenties in government-mandated isolation in rural Lincolnshire. Gorging on vegan cheese.
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