When the plane back from Kuala Lumpur landed at Heathrow this morning the temperature was exactly forty degrees cooler than it had been on that longest day of our cycling in Thailand almost two weeks ago. I’ve been told by a number of people that I have missed the spring while I have been away but for me the hottest English summer day will never reach my expectations so spring might as well go and whistle.
I’ve returned from a brilliant trip spent with a brilliant group of people in three beautiful South East Asian countries. But the better the trip the harder it is coming back to the dullness and greyness of the dreary land in which I was born. One day I won’t come back. Wherever it is that I don’t come back from is unlikely to become my permanent home as I always become unsettled if I stay in one place too long. I don’t know yet where that place will be but I do know that I spend far too much time in England and I need to do something about it fairly soon.
So it’s Sunday night, I’m back at work tomorrow after sixteen days off, I haven’t got another big trip booked (yet!), my local Tesco Express doesn’t sell frog, eel, snake or even spring rolls so I’ve had nowt for my tea, and I’m listening to my hauntingly lovely Rough Guide to the Music of Vietnam CD, feeling homesick and waiting for the snow that has been forecast to start falling.
I’m going to Hungary seven weeks on Saturday. It won’t be tropical there but it should be spring. So roll on Hungary, roll on spring and roll on my next spring roll.
My Mekong mates.