A Song to Bring You Home
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England is such a small island, that may be why there is such a yearning to escape.
For as long as I can remember, our family has always been on the road. At twenty years old, we travelled all over Europe, Asia, South and North America. Back home, in England, there are no canyons, no Salars, no geysers or mountains, no volcanoes or deserts, nor any of Mother Nature’s other whims we encountered around the globe. The changing of the seasons here happens with a little less passion than abroad, where the metamorphosis from autumn to winter is stoic and full of drama. In England, there are only nuances. In summer just like in winter, the whole country is embalmed in mist and fine rain lace.
But beauty is elsewhere. It’s found in the little things. The smell of earth and the campfires, ducking for apples and warm cider, the arabesques of hedgerows, the bluish mist hanging from the mornings. In foreign lands, nature is bold and defying; in England, it is fertile and full of enigmas. The morning dew forms pearl necklaces amongst the spider webs, a ray of sunlight brings euphoria, the melancholy of winter hangs around all year round. It’s the true maternal land, a wild world where we abandon ourselves unrestrainedly because we know it to never be too harsh or thwarting. It’s childhood and the love of being home. The rest of the world has its summers and oceans, but this bohemian, here, is my all.
