Notes to Home

I think there’s a hyper-specific feeling you get when something is meant to be.

It’s different from the “warm fuzzies” you hear about in movies. It’s more of a “rooted to the ground, overcome with an unrelenting desire to follow your head and heart” kind of emotion. 

That’s how I feel about travelling (and writing, for that matter).

Travel is a funny thing. 

I believe there is a bit of restlessness and wanderlust in all of us. It doesn’t matter where you’ve been, whether you’ve travelled near or far or lived vicariously through social media and magazines. There’s an unspoken desire to push boundaries amongst all of us. To get lost in undiscovered lands, explore different cuisines, meet new people and chase the unknown. 

I was raised in a family with more than their fair share of wanderlust. Travel became the norm, not the exception. And for that I feel so privileged.

Cool English summers were spent in the Lake District, Wales, or Dorset, having family dinners around vast oak tables, mountain climbing, touring castles and being told by your grandmother for the 64th time to “stop running around the kitchen” whilst she was trying to take Sunday lunch out of the oven. We’d run around outside and pretend to be intrepid explorers, discovering never-before-seen corners of the world. 

I spent much of my childhood perched on the kitchen counter, listening to stories about my parent’s time travelling the world. They met as high school sweethearts (queue the love birds!) and, following their wedding, spent time globetrotting. 

I’ve heard stories about kayaking down croc-infested waters, seeing the jaw-dropping sights of Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park, backpacking through Dehli, working for board in WA and drinking more Mcdonald’s chocolate milkshakes whilst road-tripping across America than they can count. It set a fire ablaze inside me and made me wonder: were these adventures out there for me too?

Between stints at home, we travelled the world. From England and Europe to South Africa, Barbados and New Zealand. My parents took us to see it all. 

My little old family of five. 

We’ve always been a tight-knit family. I’ve never known differently. We would spend our weekends together exploring our back garden, never missing a Sunday family dinner. They’re my best friends, and I can’t imagine living another way. 

I think much of that comes from the way we were raised. Mum and Dad always made a conscious, calculated effort to remind us that even though we were six, ten or fifteen, they would treat us like adults. We were best friends first, and children and parents second, which is what made travelling together so much fun. It felt like five people going away, exhilarated and ready to experience a whole host of firsts together. 

I grew as a person and created an identity. And it wasn’t through the four walls of a classroom, but around the four corners of our dinner table and within hotel rooms, listening to debates and secrets, planning adventures and learning how to go after what you want. I valued being treated as an “adult”, even though I was only eleven, and my biggest worry was how I would get to the cinema at 5 pm the next day. 

You learn so much about yourself and your family by taking risks and throwing yourself into an adventure. 

They held my hands and showed me the world, and I learnt how they wanted me to grow up. To be kind, curious, genuine, loyal and courageous. To say yes to adventure and opportunity. To work hard and remain humble, even if the most outrageous opportunities presented themselves. 

I learnt to appreciate my parent’s carefree, spirited nature as we flew down waterslides in South Africa. I learnt that I love warm climates and that my younger brother doesn’t cope well with jet lag (and will fall asleep eating dinner) in Barbados. I learnt the value of experiences over material items. And that made saving to travel the length of Vietnam and Cambodia at age fifteen so much more appealing than the latest iPhone. 

I learnt that food is better abroad, to try new languages and that every time is an opportune time for a picnic. I learnt that sandwiches taste better when eaten on the beach and that few things in life compare to the smell of freshly baked bread outside a boulangerie in the South of France. 

I learnt to trust my intuition whilst solo travelling Europe. And that same trip taught me the value of one’s own company and that you can find solace in silence. 

I learnt to push myself out of my comfort zone whilst walking across Great Barrier Island and through the Marlborough Sounds and that the human body is far more capable than your mind may believe. 

I learnt about my parent’s constant and relentless drive to go after what you want and chase a life that excites you.

And that brings us to our final day’s road tripping across New Zealand in 2008. We spent just under six weeks pacing the uneven, broken roads that covered Aotearoa, listening to Matinée by Jack Peñate on repeat. 

I remember driving through the countryside, watching a land I would one day call home zoom past, thinking how awe-inspiring my parents were for taking a risk and bringing our family to explore a country that seemed impossibly far away.

Chargrilled corn on the cob still reminds me of warm summer nights BBQ-ing outside with nothing but the sound of cicadas to keep you company. And the song “Spit at Stars” became synonymous with adventure: a love letter to a family holiday I will remember forever. I still listen to it today when I want a taste of nostalgia.

I learnt how to be brave as I watched my parents grapple with the prospect of having to return to England after a glorious 6 weeks, promising we would come back as they loaded our luggage onto a conveyer belt at Christchurch Airport. 

They stayed true to their word, and my nine-year-old brain just about exploded when they told us only ten months later that we were packing up our lives and immigrating. I’m besotted with this funny little country that I call home. 

But above all, travelling taught me that family is everything. Whether blood-related or chosen, nothing compares to the feeling of home; and home, for that matter, isn’t a place but a person. 

I hope one day to take them to see views they’re yet to set their sights on and to share more memories (and perhaps find a new travel soundtrack) together. Travelling with my family is undoubtedly one part of my life I wouldn’t change for all the money in the world. 

And now, at age 24, I’m getting ready to jet-set on my next adventure. I’m looking forward to learning more about myself and our world. But most of all, I long for the day my children are perched on our kitchen counter, listening eagerly as I tell them stories of my travels. And I hope I can instil in them the same passion for life that my parents gave me.