Dawn Punter

As I touched down at Heathrow after seven months of backpacking through Central America, I reached for my hand luggage sized backpack. It contained little more than a couple of items of clothing, worn well beyond recognition. At the bottom, grains of sand and scuff marks told the story of the floors of my beloved chicken buses. Somewhere along the way I had salvaged two T shirts, deemed respectable enough for the journey back and onwards to Spain.
It was a grey, misty but mild August morning as we made our way to the National Express bus station, bound for Gatwick and then on to rural Sussex, where my mother in law was waiting for us. Before we had left, we had stored another rucksack of clothes, and our camping gear was still in the car, parked in the private access lane out back. Whether anyone had remembered to start the engine during our seven month absence remained to be seen.
The plan was simple enough. We would spend a couple of weeks with my husband’s mother and other family members, then camp our way back to Spain via France, arriving in our village towards the end of September. We had rented the house out for the summer as usual, which meant an extra four week adventure layered on top of our travels. At the time, it felt like nothing more than a bonus. I had become a wanderer. I no longer felt anchored to the idea of home. In my mind, I was a glossy travel magazine version of myself, part National Geographic adventurer, wise, fearless, and vaguely heroic. In reality, I was a slightly wiser forty year old who had celebrated her birthday on a beach in Costa Rica, and returned a stone lighter, courtesy of my new parasitic companions.
Those two weeks passed quickly, as such weeks always do. Meals, conversations, catching up, gentle goodbyes. Then suddenly it was time to leave again. Our trusty Ford Mondeo had survived seven months of neglect and a miserable UK winter, and she seemed almost eager to be on the move. We packed up, pointed her south, and began the familiar journey back towards Spain.
Before we left, there had been conversations about Christmas. I felt the familiar knot tighten, the dread of yet another year spent dividing myself between different houses, sleeping on blow up mattresses. In over thirty years together, my husband and I had only spent a handful of Christmases together, and never just the two of us.
Camping across France went smoothly. The Mondeo purred contentedly as she carried us purposefully onwards, flying along the autoroutes past fields of fading sunflowers. Perhaps I was projecting, but the car and I felt in tune, united in our need to get back to Spain as quickly as possible. Somewhere along the long miles, the conversations shifted. What next? What if? Another long trip perhaps. Asia this time. Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, Bali. Maybe Myanmar. Or Sri Lanka. Surely we needed another six months to work out what we were doing with our lives.
Then a thought arrived quietly and began to circle my head, refusing to leave.
What if we left in December. Before Christmas.
What if, for once, we spent Christmas on our own.
We arrived back in our Spanish village at the beginning of September. Life slipped into its familiar rhythms, but the question lingered. And then, almost without ceremony, it became a plan.
Fast forward a couple of months and two new backpacks sat on the bed. This time thirty litres. Having spent seven months dressed in coral and muted neutrals, I rebelled. I chose a turquoise capsule wardrobe this time. Fewer items, more interchangeable pieces. I could not face another viral peach combination. Not for 6 months solid. It was to take me years, before I could wear peach and coral again.
December arrived quickly.
On the first of the month, I found myself back at Heathrow. It felt as though only days had passed since we had last stood there. We said goodbye to family once more, they were disappointed that we would not be around for Christmas, but mostly understanding, wishing us well as always.
And once again, I walked towards departures, this time in new blue sandals. Don’t forget, the last pair were drifting somewhere down a river in Costa Rica. Who knows, perhaps they had already reached the ocean by now.