There is something to be said about one’s own country. Five months ago I was shivering in England, riding a push bike in the middle of winter and living in what Poms understand to be a house. You have to forgive them that misconception. All that tea has gone to their heads.
For the most part I went with the flow of life in the Queen’s country and didn’t get on the soap box of comparatives. I was as mad as a hatter to be there, but it was something I had to do so I did it.
After several months of negotiating Norwich traffic, wearing ski pants like a fashion accessory, and shaking my head at the Pom’s appalling grammar, I flew back home. To me, Sydney had never looked so utterly beautiful. That’s from a girl who has city claustrophobia.
I never considered myself patriotic until that moment. Seven months under the grey skies of Pom land and it was official. I loved my country.
I was remind of that moment this weekend. The boss and I had the work van loaded up to the max and a seven hour drive down the coast for a roof job in Sydney. The highway took me on a journey of forestry, farmland, rivers and mountain ranges. And I drank it in. When I wasn’t snoring my head off due to a little case of sleep deprovation.
Between driving duty and counting sheep, I managed to snap some dubious photos of my homeland from the car window.
Seriously. Forget racing around Europe, fighting the human ques to see yet another big old building. Come to Australia and breath in the bush and blue skies.