Time to re-visit somewhere that means something to you

Jet lag really is quite rough. One minute I’m hugging my parents, saying see you soon, wrapped up in the excitement of eating more spicy noodles on Singapore Airlines, then all of a sudden, I’m 17,000km away, awake in the kitchen at 3am, hovering over the hob, swaying between timezones.

When it lifts, it is a relief. It is also grounding; the last remnants of a trip to the UK, France, and Switzerland, disappear and I am truly back in Sydney.

There is a plus side to this medium-term uncertainty of living neither permanently in Australia, nor in the UK. Everything feels new, and at the same time, there is either a growing sense of familiarity, or a deep sense of connection.

On landing at Heathrow, I looked at the English sky and smiled, comforted by the mass of grey, its streaks of blue and purple, the orange of a creeping sunrise. And during those thirty metres between plane and terminal, on the slightly-bouncy- passageway, I was reminded of the English air again, so bland compared to the intensity of the last eleven months.

My trip was stacked with evocative feelings like these. My brain’s senses working to the effect of: haven’t felt that one in a while, that’s decent. Heightened stimulation for every routine interaction.

The greens of the leaves, crowding one another in late summer bloom. The platform announcements of a delayed Great Western Rail service. The first San Miguel at the re-opened local pub in the village. Running in the woods, the silence of the countryside, and birdsong. All in the first twenty-four hours.

It is such an incredibly rich experience to re-visit somewhere. That feeling of association with a place brings about a flood of memories. And it is difficult to avoid comparing then and now, and confronting the different versions of yourself that existed in both, that is, if there is any difference at all.

Quite a reflective process I guess, and I don’t mind it. Step back a little, stop thinking in terms of weeks and months, and consider thoughts, developments, and changes within longer length cycles. Perspective, is what I think they call it.

I felt this way about visiting Annecy. And up in the Peak District for a few days, similar feelings struck again. The timeline of various iterations of this place. I’ve seen the Sheffield sign from car windows, during journeys up and down from long, sleepless weekends in Leeds. Years later, I’ve seen it from the saddle too, stretching my legs across the Derbyshire countryside, fixated by the accomplishment of long distance cycling races. Now my experience is more muted: a 10km walk up Mam Tor, a pork pie at the top, and a pint of Wainwrights at the bottom. My parents are ten years older, we all play different roles now, we discuss anything and everything, and these are special days.

Although there is one thing that remains unchanged, locked in forever, as inevitable as fate. Dad has the 2025 AA Road Atlas, and neither Waze nor the command of Audi navigation get a look in.

Wouldn’t want it any other way.