On my return from Australia in July 2015, a decision that in hindsight I wish I’d thought more about, my burning, itchy feet had barely touched the ground before I knew I had to up and leave again. With financial woes preventing me from embarking on another trip of a lifetime so soon after returning to the fray of modern life in Britain, my only choices were to explore the villages, towns and cities of my own country; the backyard of my soul.
A day trip to Harrogate in August was followed by a three day exploration of southern counties in September, taking in Coventry, Bath, Weston-Super-Mare, Stonehenge and Cheltenham. Arriving home I felt fulfilled and invigorated, only to be left bereft as the shine started to wear off a few days later. The pursuit of a stunning landscape; the allure of cultural heritage; and the dream of walking round new and foreign lands never fails to satisfy my craving for adventure but having to wait two months to set off on another road trip felt like far too long, with my urges and desires scratching at the forefront of my travelling persona; the inner traveller, bootlegger, nomad, and wanderer keen to get out, keen to stay out and keen to explore.
The two months from September to November were crammed with article writing, job hunting, family feuds, family make-ups and time spent with friends; but still, the soles of my shoes remained half-way out the door: restless, unsatisfied and in need of stimulation. Agitation and neuroticism had crept their way into my personality and needed to be banished.
That’s why, as we near the end of November, I see my third Daytrippin’ instalment about to begin, and it couldn’t have come at a more poignant and perfectly-timed moment; any longer and I fear a full-blown fanatical breakdown could’ve been on the cards: a cry for help from a soul that is trapped and disengaged from the world it is temporarily inhabiting.
As I prepare to leave for November’s chosen destinations, I feel my passions reigniting; my passion for putting pen to paper to use the written word as a form of expressing my desires has awoken again; my passion for travel hangs in my throat, poised to spill out of my mouth; my passion for taking photographs (badly) sits and waits patiently, like my camera does when on charge; my passion for life, freedom and liberation spring from my fingertips, like a ray of sunshine casting light upon an otherwise bleak situation.
On the horizon, Nottingham, Lincoln, Grimsby, The Peak District and Manchester await. And although these destinations may seem slight to you; unimportant, boring and unexciting, to me, at this moment, at this time of need, when without them I’d shrivel into self-hibernation, holed-up in a fixation on my own flaws and failings, with a deep longing for change, they’re satisfying my itchy feet; they’re my everything: they’re my mecca.
Chasing Amy-Lou 