The need to see the open road is a slowly growing ache. Some people call it wanderlust, some claustrophobia, I just think we are meant to keep moving. Gypsy souls taught to remain in the same place, to put down roots and a fence to keep us in place. I don’t talk much about travelling anymore, it’s not on my list of priorities because it doesn’t tug at my heart in the same way that wanting a child does, but it’s there. It keeps seeking me out and following me around like a shadow. It gives me a backache and keeps me from sleeping at night. For weeks I’ve imagined getting in my car and not stopping until the feeling goes away. I’m homesick. I long for cobblestones under my feet and the smell of seaweed in the early morning. I miss the energy of history penetrating hands run across stone walls and ancient altars. I miss the old wells and the graveyard and purple heather growing wild. I miss my sister’s sleepy eyes in our parent’s kitchen and sandy beaches for miles. I miss the horizon at my fingertips and countless airport announcements while sleeping against a backpack. Will I ever learn to stop chasing the sun? Will I ever wake from the aching, excruciating need to watch the world from a train window? Hopefully not. And if all the stars align in our favour and the gods and goddesses conspire and work their magic we might just be able to go to Sweden this summer.