I’m writing this from my Mum’s sofa, in the front room of a red brick Edwardian terraced house, in the market town of Frome, Somerset, England.
Lewis is out walking Digby, at the meadow just behind her house: an open expanse of green, bordered by a river and trees and wildflowers. We must have walked its circumference a thousand times over the years; a thousand dog walks. The hours I’ve spent there in wet weather gear, throwing mud-caked tennis balls, dreaming of sunshine somewhere far away.
Yet after fifteen years spent trying to escape my home town, it’s where we’ve finally decided to stay. Because, for us, no matter how far travel takes us, it always brings us back home. How much we love the sunshine, we always miss the seasons. How much we crave new culture, we feel most content in familiarity.
The smell of my Mum’s perfume. The crunch of her homemade ginger biscuits. The sound of our cat’s meow. The red wine stain on the rug. My Nan’s mirror above the fireplace. Cups of tea in my favourite mug. My dressing gown. My slippers. My safe place.
Home is something different for everyone. And I’ve spent a long time fighting the fact that my version of it was right here, all along.
That said, it’s summer. You should probably ask me again in February how I’m feeling.
Plus, the conclusion of our journey from France to the UK was the final straw for us and travel. We’ve had enough to last us a lifetime. Or at least until February.
Luckily our time spent in Spain was the epitome of a European summer. Long, lazy days. Reading and resting. Card games and coffees. Beer, BBQs, bliss.
It was also the first time we’d seen Lewis’ sister in two and a half years. After graduating as a physiotherapist and working for the NHS throughout the pandemic, she finally followed in her big brother’s footsteps and is living the dream Down Under.1
It was also the first time she had met Digby. When we took her to Heathrow2 back in March 2022, it was Humphrey who was asleep on her lap during the car journey, Humphrey next to us in the airport family photos.
Lewis’ Mum has spent more time with Digby over the past year but he isn’t her dog like Humphrey was. Humphrey was everyone’s. A testament to his time as a puppy in the midst of the worst of Lewis’ cancer treatment, brought up equally by each and every member of our family, whilst Lewis and I were in and out of various oncology wards.
Whereas Digby is ours. Through and through. 24 hours a day, seven days a week. But that week in Spain, we were able to see Digby through their eyes.
The sweet boy who started so unsure of them, but ended up sleeping in their rooms. The nonchalant boy who wouldn’t greet them, but ended up pining when they walked away. The indifferent boy who ignored their commands, but ended up coming every time they called.
The boy whose pack grew by two that week, accepting two of the most special women in our lives, right into his.
Our week was spent in rural central Spain, around an hour north of Madrid. Lewis’ Mum and sister collected us from the airport and we arrived to our rental property by sundown, greeted by our host who lived in the local pueblo.3 I had agonised over choosing it, adamant to find somewhere perfect and desperate for somewhere safe and secure for Digby to roam free. I so nearly picked another, lesser option in favour of a larger fence, higher walls. But we needn’t have worried.
Digby was never far from our side. Pottering around the pool, running around the rope swing, digging in the dirt. We only had to call his name once or twice and he would come charging; panting, grinning from ear to ear.
The property was perfect, and the only casualties of the week were a lone sunflower in Digby’s flight path, and a shoe he brought over from the neighbouring property…
Unfortunately our idyllic week was over far too fast, and there was another flight hanging over us all. This time, Lewis’ sister’s return to Australia: 16 hours north, where we had begun our own trip six months previous. Paris Charles de Gaulle.4
We split the long car journey and stayed a weekend on the Basque coast, just north of Biarritz, so Lewis could catch some waves with his little sister. Our accommodation was the polar opposite to our isolated villa: a chalet on a campsite, surrounded by children.
We had grand plans of bike rides and boules and beach walks but after a pizza picnic to celebrate one day’s driving complete, Lewis’ Mum went flying in the pitch black car park. Quickly surrounded by Digby attempting to lick her, and Frenchmen attempting to help her, she was out of action for 24 hours out of 72, hobbling to coffee shops for the remainder of our time there.
Fiona’s5 choice for her final night before flying was to stay somewhere Digby could run free. After seven hours in the backseat, piled high with at least seventeen suitcases, we arrived to a gîte6 in the Loire Valley. The garden must have been at least three acres, and at the bottom: like something out of The Wind in the Willows7. The river was golden, and our Golden was straight in it.
The five of us didn’t get much sleep that night: cheese, cured meats, coffees and cards until late, and a movie curled up together on the sofa bed until the early hours. My immediate family were limited until I met Lewis and one of the things I’m most grateful for is that his are now mine.
The next day was bittersweet: stopping for lunch at Versailles8 where we ate frites9 and drank Aperols whilst listening to an orchestra playing in the distance from the palace. Our hearts were as heavy as our tummies when we finally dragged ourselves to the airport.
I think a true sign of having special people in your life, is how hard it is to say goodbye to them. How lucky we are to have someone who we will miss every day until we see her again.
If you ever read these Fi, we love you.
Our journey home went downhill pretty quickly after that. We spent the night at an Airbnb by the airport, stopped for coffee and croissants in the torrential rain the next morning, and were denied boarding for our Eurotunnel booking that afternoon. If you’ve read about our journey home from Ecuador, you couldn’t write it could you?
Turns out, Digby’s EU animal health certificate for entry to Spain from South America, that the French vet had confirmed was A-okay for our journey to the UK, was definitely not. Twelve pointless pages, one tiny detail: country of entry was Spain, not England.
We spent the rest of the day trawling through the local vets. An hour at the first only to be told they couldn’t supply the certificate. Two hours at the second to find out Digby’s microchip number didn’t match his paperwork. Three hours sat with my head in my hands, wondering how we were in this sort of situation again, and what the hell we were going to do next.
It turned out we had been given incorrect paperwork by two vets: the wrong microchip number recorded in Ecuador could have resulted in Digby being refused entry to Colombia and Spain, and the incorrect confirmation in France (that our paperwork was correct when it wasn’t) was costing us our passage back to the UK.
Another health certificate, another tapeworm treatment, another two days until we could get home: expensive, unnecessary, insanely frustrating.
Funnily enough, we weren’t the only ones having issues and a recommendation from someone else in a similar situation led us to having a vaguely positive phone conversation with another vet nearly an hour away. His English with an accent was hard to understand, my non-existent French was even harder, but with just two hours until all vets closed for the night: we gave our third option a shot.
One hour drive and just ten minutes with the sweetest elderly monsieur10, and we were walking out with an EU pet passport. Animal health certificates = obsolete forever. Digby can officially travel within Europe without ever needing new (incredibly ridiculous and expensive) paperwork ever again.
Moral of the story: Vétérinaire Remi Ducrot is the only French vet you will ever need.
We were on the Eurotunnel within two hours, and back to Portsmouth just as Lewis’ sister was arriving in Brisbane.
And our plans now?
Lewis is the newest member of a private school estate’s maintenance team: a position he interviewed for at a hotel in central Colombia, and offered the job on the spot.
My own interviews are upcoming, writing tinkering away in the background, and some other online opportunities in the pipeline.
Whilst Digby stayed curled up in our bed until midday this morning, right next to our ancient (but gorgeous) Burmese cat. We think an afternoon of blackberry picking wore him out yesterday. We think he likes it back in England.
Travel might be on the back burner for us for a while, but we’ve got some adventures of a different kind coming up.
See you next week.
Down Under is a colloquialism to refer to Australia and New Zealand.
Heathrow Airport is London’s main international airline.
Pueblo = town
Paris Charles de Gaulle is Paris’ main international airline.
Fiona = Lewis’ sister
Gîte is a French cottage
The Wind in the Willows is a classic children's novel by the British novelist Kenneth Grahame that is set by a river
The Palace of Versailles is a former royal residence commissioned by King Louis XIV
Frites = fries
Monsieur = a title or form of address used for a French-speaking man, meaning Mr or sir
I seriously get lost in your writing - could read for hours. Can't wait for a future book! Excited for the upcoming adventures for you both. And thanks for the French vet tip... it always seems there is one vet in each country that truly goes above and beyond to make these crazy travel stories end up working out. We've had the same experience in Panama trying to fly to Brazil during a full country shutdown.
Aaaw loved reading this. I've missed you. Come see me and the fam please 😁😍