Our trip to the Alps was beautiful views. Hikes through the mountains. Trips on cable cars. Cheering on the Brits. Drinking lots of vin mousseux. Sitting in a hot tub until prune-like and wrinkled. Floor to ceiling views of the mountains. Meals enjoyed on the sun-drenched balcony. Terrible coffee in little cafes. Edelweiss hunting with no success. Marmoset hunting with no success. Eating camembert that had melted in a rucksack.
Our trip to Bruges was walks through the warm evenings over ancient bridges. The smell of chocolate wafting through the streets. Our first ever go on a tandem. A boat ride on the canal. Eating warm waffles with whipped cream. Living in a 17th century house with an uneven staircase. Moules et frites (with mayonnaise, of course) in a cobbled square. Watching people tango in an ancient fish market. Beer, beer and more beer. Lots of swearing in Irish accents.
Today marks exactly a year since we set out on our Awfully Big Adventure. This time last year, I was boarding our plane at Heathrow, getting excited about an upgrade to premium economy and loving wearing my new purple hoody which I’d bought especially for the trip. We were full of plans, full of excitement, unsure of what lay ahead but knowing it was going to be so much fun to find out together.
One year on, we’re home again and we’ve slotted back very easily into our life here. We’ve got new jobs, sure, but everything else is the same (except Olivia and I both have a few grey hairs now). This past twelve months have skimmed by so quickly; it actually scares me how fast things pass me by now. Has anyone else been finding this, as you get older, that a month has gone before you’ve even realised it?