As they wrestled with the window to maximize the breeze on the back of their necks, I was cherishing my grandpa’s cashmere cast-offs and turning up the radiators. As my Dad took great delight in reminding me, this time they were the ones hot and sticky in an internet café in a far flung corner of the world.

Roughly once a week for the ten months I was away, it was me making the pilgrimage to a place where I could call home. Finding an internet café with a good enough connection was up there on the list of priorities with finding a cheap laundrette with a same-day service.

Skype made the separation from my family bearable and I don’t know what I would have done without it. When I chanced upon the holy trinity of a) a decent internet connection, b) Skype already installed on the machines AND c) headphones that worked, it worked like a dream. But the process was rarely without hitches.

Here is my list of the ‘Joys of Skype’ (…and internet caffs)

• When my mum used to confuse the camera with the microphone. This meant I had a full screen’s-worth of her mouth and chin as she asked ‘can you hear me ok?’

• The novelty of webcams and seeing yourself on screen seems to means you spend most of the time watching yourself, rather than focusing on the person you’re talking to. In my case, it used to mean thinking how sunburned my nose was. In my mum’s case (once she’d got the hang of the camera/microphone dynamic), this often meant adjusting her hair. In my dad’s, it meant contorting his face into strange positions for his own amusement. We’re all different I suppose…

• The fact food and drink is nearly always banned in internet cafes. Why are they even called ‘cafes’ anyway?

• The pointlessness of a hostel with a free internet connection but a 15 minute time limit. I did appreciate the sentiment but 15 minutes is precisely useless when you are so far from home and have so many long emails to write and Skype conversations to conduct.

• That moment, mid-conversation, when you realize there is a colony of mosquitoes happily buzzing around beneath the desks, feasting on your feet and ankles.

• The weird and wonderful characters you have to sit next to. First an example of the weirdly wonderful; I started frequenting an internet cafe when I was in Buenos Aires and there was always a fantastic transvestite, sitting in the window at the same machine. He/she would be staring intently at the screen, oblivious to me (and others) who were fascinated by his/her crazy outfits. He/she would sport a half-hearted get-up of trainers, a long flowing skirt and blouse, topped off by straggly grey hair, sweatband around the forehead, painted nails, jangling jewelry.

• And now an example of the just-plain-weird; more than once I encountered men (I never saw a woman doing this) who thought it was acceptable to view inappropriate material in a busy internet café. They were never tucked away in a corner, they always sat next where other people could see. Maybe that was part of the appeal? I don’t wish to spend another moment thinking about it.

• The bitter-sweetness of an internet café that offered ‘juegos de red’. This meant they had a connection fast enough to allow you to play computer games. While the fast connection was excellent news for Skyping, it often meant you’d be seated next to a young Latin American teenage boy, grunting and thrashing about as he slayed dragons and battled with demons. (actually, it often looked much more violent and sophisticated than that)

• The other Skypers who liked the sound of their own voice too much and drowned out your conversation. Being English makes this even more frustrating because tutting and giving them disapproving looks is all your nationality will allow. My Dutch friend would give them a good old fashioned telling-off (before proceeding to Skype her friends and talk even louder).

The snowy beach at Scarborough, Yorkshire 23/12/09

1. Which was your favourite country?

2. Are you finding it hard to be back home?

3. Have you got the travel bug now?

Just in case you’re interested, the first two questions are easily answered; Mexico and no, not at all. The third is an interesting one. I suppose what people mean is ‘are you itching to pack up and go off again?’ I sort of think there’d be something wrong in life if the answer was yes. I felt that at 25, I’d not made the decision to go travelling lightly. It was a choice born of a very specific set of circumstances. It wasn’t a knee-jerk post-school or post-uni plan, it involved giving up a well paid job and a nice flat and all my family and friends. I can’t deny that preparing to come home was a breeze; it did take some serious mental preparation. But there comes a point when you have to say, ‘ok, this is wonderful but it is time to be sensible now.’ I really felt like when I flew home, I’d left the party on a high and that it was now time for a different but equally exciting chapter to begin. (And let’s be honest, how could I justify another 10 months gallivanting? And where would I get the ££?!)

View of the bay from The Grand Hotel, Scarborough

Travelling was very good at showing me a middle ground. I settled into a healthy pattern of early nights, early starts and not too much drinking (all very easily done when you don’t have the stress and/or boredom of a job to contend with.) And as a result, I had the time and energy to explore and have adventures. Added to this was the fact that when you are so far from home and everyone who knows you, you can shed the old-you a bit. I found myself trying new things without wondering what everyone would say (or more accurately, how hard everyone would laugh in the case of me going hiking and caving)

The Futurist Cinema, Scarborough

So, armed with this new thirst for adventure but impeded by a lack of funds, I find myself turning to Britain. But this is by no means a last resort, born of necessity. Quite the opposite. Being away reminded me of how much this country has to offer. And I should know, being the daughter of a man who is a staunch believer in holidaying in Britain. Whether it was walking in the Lake District, sunning ourselves in Cornwall or sailing up Loch Ness on a little boat, for my Dad, summertime has always been about enjoying what our native lands have to offer.

I could therefore, answer quite comprehensively fellow travellers’ questions about what my country was like. And when I encountered those who had been, it was with great pride that I listened to praise of my home country; a place that is all too easy to take for granted.

The sun rises over the sea at Scarborough, Yorkshire

Peru
The national drink is the Pisco Sour, a concontion of Pisco (a sort of grape spirit), lemon juice and frothed egg-white. Yummy but risky. One of these is a strong contender for being the source of my parasite.

Bolivia
Not sure, still struggling with the after-effects of the Peruvian Pisco Sour

Chile
This was the first place I went to where it was more or less safe to drink the water. Aside from water, I drank the first decent coffee of the trip and the odd glass of nice wine. All in all, still very restrained thanks to the parasite.

Yerba section in a Buenos Aires supermarket

Uruguay
Mate is equally popular in Uruguay. Alcohol-wise, the tipples of choice are Clerico (fruit juice mixed with wine) or Medio y medio (sparkling wine mixed with white wine). Rather like Sangria; both are easy to gulp and therefore quite lethal.

Brazil
We drank Skol beer; known in the UK as being something akin to tramp juice. Its much smoother in Brazil. But the king of Brazilian booze has to be Cachaça; the sugar cane spirit that goes into Caipirinhas. According to wikipedia, Brazilians quaff 1.5 billion litres of the stuff each year. Caipirinhas are pretty potent and contain no mixer; just lime juice and sugar. I heard stories of even the hardiest foreign drinkers being rushed to hospital to have their stomachs pumped after just 3 or 4. I did not become one of these statistics but I did sustain and injury of sorts, much to everyone’s amusement. I noticed a white patch of skin on my chin and when I asked the doctor he diagnosed Phytophotodermatitis, caused by sun reacting with lime juice. My boyfriend refers to this as my booze stain. Cringe.

Guatemala
Guatemala was not a fancy-cocktail sort of place. Gallo was the tipple of choice; a lovely crisp smooth beer.

A Panty-Ripper in a Belikin glass

Honduras
We didn’t get to find out thanks to the coup.

El Salvador
Pilsener was the beer of choice here. There was a moonshine called ‘Chaparro’ that is popular in El Salvador but I’m afraid I didn’t partake

Nicaragua
Flor de Cana rum was very popular and drunk, in quite British fashion, by the bottle with an ice bucket for acompaniment. Not suprisingly, this did result in some Alka Seltzer therapy.

Costa Rica
The beers of choice here were Imperial and Bavaria. The bizarre non-alcoholic drink of choice was Horchata; a sort of milky fruit drink made with rice flour and cinnamon. Didn’t do much for me, I have to say.

Panama
Beers here were forgettable. So much so, I’ve forgotten them.

A Tequila-based cocktail, enjoyed at the Sauza distillery

It feels like it has been quite some time since I had a hangover. In fact, it was probably Christmas party season 2008 that I last suffered. You see, in the intervening months I was traveling around Latin America where drunkeness just wasn’t the done thing.

Before I went, I thought I was heading to the continent of bacchanalian excess. I was heading to Bolivia where cocaine was piled up on the bar, everywhere you went, I was going to Chile and Argentina where surely, they drink Malbec like orange squash and to Brazil, ahhh Brazil, where life is one caipirinha carnival after another-and Mexico-don’t forget Mexico! Where everyone is permanently downing shots of tequila.

I realise now, that these preconceptions were uniquely British. You see, my trip has confirmed to me that we do have a most unusual relationship with alcohol.

I suppose it all begins as a teenager. I had the normal teenage experience of there not being much to do where I lived (and in Hull there is even less to do than in most places) So, until we could get served in pubs, the main source of entertainment were house parties. Some naïve person would wait until their parents were away for the weekend and then everyone, their mate, and their mate’s mate would descend on the house armed with cheap beer, Lambrini and Bacardi Breezers. The outcome was always the same; someone being sick in the kitchen sink, a police and/or ambulance visit and very wrecked carpets.

At university, there was more of the same but now as a student, it was expected of you; you had a reputation to uphold. With plenty of free time and student pubs fighting to serve you the cheapest pint, the only restriction was how much boozing you could afford to do.

Then you graduate and start working. Responsiblity, less free time; you’d think it’d add up to a more civilized attitude to alcohol. But my first job was at a newspaper and we all know that journalist can even drink students under the table. Again, it was expected of you and when under the extreme pressures of a manic newsroom, and you’ve finished work at gone 10pm, how does everyone let off steam? You guessed it; down the pub. Even in subsequent jobs, alcohol was variously used a tool for reward, for bonding, for, dare I say it, easing boredom.

So, with what I now realise was my warped British attitude to booze, I was quite shocked to see how other nations do it; and I’m not just talking about the people of Latin America. It was other travelers, from Europe, who first opened my eyes to it. On meeting me, they almost seemed poised to witness some good old British binge-drinking from me. Even Peruvian cabbies, on hearing I was from Inglaterra, did the knocking-back-a-pint mime. How embarrassing.

At first I put it down to the unfortunate, international PR service that football hooligans provide. But as time went on, I realized it was as much the behaviour of British travelers; whether backpackers or tourists, who stick out like a sore thumb by drinking as they do at home.

Near the start of my trip, I spent two months living in Buenos Aires, which gave me plenty of time to observe the native species and to appreciate a different attitude to alcohol.

One night, my Argentinean housemate, Maribel, announced she was having a house party in our postage-stamp sized flat with her university friends. My heart sank a bit, especially since Gary (our other housemate) and I didn’t appear to be invited. As the twelve or so guests assembled I assessed their booze stash for the night. They had a couple of bottles of wine and maybe four litre bottles of beer.

In a similar scenario with twelve students in Britain; there would be mild panic if this was all that had been assembled. There would definitely have to be a supermarket-run to buy more. And food to soak it up? Maybe a few bags of crisps or takeaway pizzas. At Maribels’ party, the revellers were actually making their own homemade pizzas; dough and all. By 2am, the party was still going strong but there were no drinking games or puking; it was so civilised; they were talking and laughing and were still making that booze last.

I think it helps that Argentina is a country known for its fine wines. It is a point of national pride and because the good stuff is inexpensive, it is accessible, so even students seem to know one good Malbec from the next. When I was a student, we were too busy scouring Co-op for special offers on beer and paint stripper spirits to peruse the wine aisle. If we did buy wine it was a case of buying the cheapest; we never weighed up the relative merits of two types of grape. The taste and quality of what we imbibed was very low down the list of priorities.

Whichever country I found myself in, it seemed that going out for a drink meant exactly that; not bingeing but savouring and appreciating a fine wine or sipping a rare tequila. The company, the food and the environment is as, if not more important and despite alcohol being so cheap, the only obviously drunk people I saw ( if they weren’t fellow Brits) were tramps.

Compare this to last thursday night as I traveled through the City of London on a bus around kicking-out time; the streets were awash with expensively suited men and women, of all ages, staggering around the streets like purposeful crabs; with that drunken look of denial on their faces. (‘drunk? Me? No, I’ve only had 5 pints’). But why is this? Maybe it’s because we work more hours that many other nations. One of my Dutch friends reckoned it is because we’re so repressed. Who knows.

I will not pretend that I have had a booze free year; far from it, I probably had a drink most days but I drank like the locals which means one or two drinks with a meal. It meant that I never woke up feeling foggy-headed, if anything, I went to bed and woke up earlier and as a consequence, I never felt healthier. I am pleased to have continued in this fashion since getting home. (Not that my wallet could fund any heavy drinking) Let’s see how long my good intentions last.

Julien was especially good company, declaring himself early on, to be ‘a Bo-Bo’ (for those philistines who are unfamiliar, like I was, with this social catergorisation, Bo-Bo is short for Bohemian Bourgeosie). He seemed to have absorbed the Buenos Aires guidebooks, Rainman-fashion and was an expert on fine dining and nightlife in the city. This knowledge, combined with his significant height, fantastically accented English, languid mannerisms and penchant for a spot of gossip, made him quite excellent company.

He despaired a little, I think, at my poor Spanish and would sigh with dismay whenever I brought a book or magazine home in English. And while he shopped the boutiques of fashionable Palermo, he giggled at my vintage knick-kancks. Most memorably, he declared one night that my (what I considered to be jaunty) scarf made me look like a ‘bisquit’. Me and the others scratched our heads for a while until he described what he meant; ‘You know, is like the cluub for the boys, when they camp and make the knots’. We eventually dissolved into laughter as we realized that our resident Swiss style expert was comparing my ensemble to a Boy Scout’s.

In short, Julien was exactly the sort of glamorous friend I imagined meeting while I was traveling. However, it just so happened that the person I bonded with best was Gary, from my own county of Yorkshire.

Explorations in Once, Buenos Aires

Luckily for me, I was more or less tolerated since I was a good washer-upper and I was mates with ‘Gaaaarrry’ who she had a serious soft spot for.

Maribel insisted on speaking to us in Spanish and would only very briefly switch to English if the conversation reached an impasse. This had the effect of striking me dumb in her presence, while Gary’s Spanish advanced rapidly (the added incentive being that in English, most of the Europeans in our gang struggled with his dulcet West Yorkshire tones).

Gary and I quickly became firm friends when we discovered a shared love of cooking. We would dream up delicious dinners before pottering round the corner to our local Chinese supermarket (only to have them thwarted). Sometimes, our dedication to good grub would send us to far flung corners of the metro to buy coriander for Ceviche in the Chinese barrio (neighbourhood) or to the posh delis of Palermo to score a tin of black beans. If she graced us with her presence, Maribel would dip a spoon into the pot to give her verdict on our strange English cooking. She was wryly amused at our pancakes on Shrove Tuesday (a tradition that does not exist in Argentina) and another time shocked into submission by Gary’s Thai chicken curry (spicy food does not exist in Argentina).

When we weren’t hanging out in the kitchen or escaping the heat on the postage stamp sized roof terrace, Gary and I loved exploring the city. Armed with a great little book of city walks, we would pound the pavements for hours, drinking in as many of the sights, smells and sounds as we could possibly manage. We explored what was once the English barrio, Barracas. We explored Retiro and the Antiguo Hotel de Inmigrantes where thousands of immigrants from Europe were first housed and processed. We investigated the Jewish barrio of Once (pronounced on-say) with shops selling a wild array of goods from shop dummies to wedding dresses. We barely left a stone unturned.

It was then, with great excitement that I battled through horizontal London rain last week to meet my long lost BA chum. We met in the basement of my favourite Vietnamese restaurant and reminisced over Summer Rolls and Swimming Crab. We had a super night sharing tales of our post-BA adventures, comparing notes on coming home and describing the things we missed most.

On the bus home, I thought about something Gary had said about how it was difficult to talk to friends about his trip and how they are unable to relate to the experiences he’d had.

Thinking about it, some of my closest friendships have been forged during quite specific time periods in my life. There’s my best friend from school who I shared the tedium of sixth form with. There is my friend from university who worked with me behind the bar of a raucous East End pub. And there are the friends I met at work who I laugh with about nightmare bosses or bonkers colleagues.

Often, its memories of shared experiences that make a friendship special. For that reason, I will always look forward to a Vietnamese with Gary. We are lucky enough to share memories of a pocket of time in our lives, spent far away from home, having adventures in a magical city.

To read the story of where I learned to make this, go to the post ‘You say Wahaca, I say Oaxaca’ or click here.

Seves 4

6 egg yolks
1 vanilla pod
1L milk (I use whole milk)
4 tablespoons sugar (unrefined cane sugar is best)
1 thumb of a stick of cinnamon (I’m not a fan so I miss this out)
4 tablespoons of cornflour
A few shavings of good quality chocolate

Split the vanilla pot down the middle and scrape out the ‘caviar’. Put this and the husk into a pan with the milk, together with the cinnamon and heat on a low heat.

In a separate bowl, whisk the egg yolks with the sugar and add the cornstarch. There is a risk of this going lumpy so I recommend adding and mixing in the cornstarch gradually.

Once the milk is hot (but not bubbling), add it gradually (to avoid further risk of lumps) to the egg mixture and then, once it is all added, pour everything back into the pan.

Continue heating on a low heat, stirring continuously until it becomes the texture of smooth custard.

At this point, take it off the heat and pour into bowls. A grating of good quality chocolate finishes it off nicely.

Oaxacan Natilla, N16 style

We ate like kings everywhere in Mexico. For me, it was the culinary highlight of Latin America, but the undisputed number one spot goes to Oaxaca. This place first popped up on my radar way before I decided to go traveling thanks to Wahaca, a restaurant in London named after the phonetic spelling of Oaxaca. Anyone who lives in London and appreciates good grub, knows that Wahaca serves up some of the best Mexican food going. It is inventive, fresh, flavoursome and in the spirit of the motherland; it is reasonably priced (for London at least).

Restaurante El Naranjo, Oaxaca

But just as we were about the turn on our heels, the chef appeared to introduce himself and to explain the menu. His name was Andrew and he had moved from Connecticut to Oaxaca, to immerse himself in what is often considered to be the capital of the Mexican culinary scene.

To cut a long story short, we had a fabulous meal and we were so wooed by Andrew’s delicious Calabaza blossoms stuffed with Oaxacan string cheese that when he mentioned he gave cooking lessons, we signed up without a pause for consideration.

Stall belonging to the spice queen of Oaxaca

First stop was a butchers stall, where Andrew bought some chorizo for our soup. The stall heaved with piles of beef; cut into huge wafer-thin pieces so that they lay on the counter like folded bedsheets and hung from the ceiling like curtains, which had to be parted by the cashier in order to give and receive change.

From here, we dived deep into the heart of Mercado Benito Juarez to buy spices. The stall Andrew took us to was owned by a lady he described as being something of a demigod; worshipped by many a disciple of Mexican cuisine. She presided over the biggest selection of chillies I had ever seen; there must have been close to 40 different types of every imaginable size, shape and strength. Andrew raved about the Mexican vanilla she sold and we duly bought a fistful of pods to smuggle home in our backpacks. (I have just checked online and Waitrose charges £4.29 for 2. We paid about that for 15)

Chapulines, surprisingly tasty fried grasshoppers

The next and final stop was Mercado 20 de Noviembre, where Andrew’s favourite cheese seller had a stall. Oaxaca is famous for its string cheese which tastes like a cross between halloumi and mozzarella and is produced in bandage sized widths and wrapped up into neat bundles the size of bowling balls.

A ball of Oaxacan string cheese

The final thing Andrew demonstrated was a ‘Natilla’ a vanilla custard dessert, before we all sat down in the courtyard to enjoy the feast he had prepared. Needless to say it was magnificent and the crowning glory to a very special afternoon. The cooking lesson was a definite highlight of my time away and quite the finest souvenir money could buy; I learned something, it weighed nothing and it has the power to transport me back to that special afternoon, as soon as the smells begin to fill my kitchen.

It is not my place to share Andrew’s recipes; they have been whispered into his ear, in good faith by the great characters of Oaxaca’s culinary scene. But I have Googled Natilla and there are many recipes that follow the same principles. So click here, have a go yourself and enjoy the flavour of Oaxaca.

I used to live in Stepney Green, East London and I lost count of the number of stories I was told about the Krays. One of my neighbours claimed that the pub on the corner of our street had been the venue of Ronnie’s wake and that she’d seen Barbara Windsor, WITH HER OWN EYES, tottering along the pavement outside. Cabbies of a certain age were the worst offenders; almost without fail, they would tell you their auntie babysat for the twins or that their wife’s cousin used to drink in the same pub as them.

From February to April of this year, I spent 10 weeks living in Buenos Aires, once home to folk heroine extraordinaire, Eva Perón. Affectionately known as ‘Evita’ (little Eva) and even Santa Evita, she is as ‘Buenos Aires’ as tango and steak.

In my second week of language school, I was assigned a teacher called Marcela. She was less of the textbook-school-of-teaching and more of the chatting-school-of-teaching, which suited me just fine. She was mesmerising to watch and would gesticulate in a slow, exotic way, tossing her hair and smoothing down her clothes as she talked to us in her perfectly enunciated Spanish. She was the Nigella Lawson of Spanish teachers (just less annoying).

The lesson would begin with us opening our textbooks; a token gesture that was soon overridden by Marcela’s enthusiastic recommendation of a Tango hall that we simply must visit or stories of what it was like to be a schoolgirl during the dictatorship.

Flowers left on Evita's grave, Recoleta Cemetery

On hearing this, Marcela very deliberately removed her glasses, placed her palms flat on the desk in front of her and with a toss of her glossy mane, she said in her peculiarly theatrical way; ‘I don’t know if that is true but I can tell you a story of my family.’

Marcela explained that her mother grew up in the poorest neighbourhood of the city, La Boca, in a flat in a tenement building that she shared with her many brothers and sisters. It was coming up to her Bat Mitzvah and she wrote to the Eva Perón Foundation to say she did not have a dress to wear for the occasion, and would it be possible to send her money to buy one? The morning of her Bat Mitzvah arrived and she had heard nothing. But as she was playing on the pavement outside her house, a big, black, sleek car pulled up alongside her. The driver wound down the window and handed her a box; explaining it was ‘from Eva’. Inside was the most incredible dress, to which this day, Marcela’s mum still has and treasures.

Did it really happen? Or is it just sentimental Chinese whispers, that have got out of control? Personally, I couldn’t give a fig. This sort of story is so illustrative about the place Evita holds in the hearts of the people of Buenos Aires, that I think it has its own intrinsic value. And anyway, it’s much more fun to believe, isn’t it?

The Recoleta skyline

You see, in Recoleta, a simple headstone just won’t do. No, no, no. In Recoleta, the dead are buried in walk-in tombs, on two levels, constructed in a wide variety of architectural styles with clock towers, vaulted ceilings, sculptures and stained glass windows. Some look like mini-chapels and I heard that some even have lifts. And in what appears to be a sort of keeping-up-with-the-Mendezes charade, no two are the same. Each one seems to be even more outlandish and elaborate than the next.

Each told their own story; some were well maintained, freshly swept, with a clean rug on the floor and fresh flowers on display. Some even had photographs of the deceased and a few of their favourite things dotted around. Others were forlorn and forgotten, with smashed windowpanes and collapsed skylights.

Some of the plaques on the tombs were touching. One revealed that the man buried within was so popular at his place of work that his colleagues had clubbed together to fund the tomb. Others were even amusing and there was one, which housed a husband and wife, who late in life, did not get on. Even in death, they are immortalised in marble with their backs turned to one another.

A miserable marriage, immortalised in marble

As any guidebook worth its salt will tell you, Recoleta is home to some pretty famous residents; scientists and soldiers, poets and presidents, are all sardined alongside one another. Perhaps the most famous of these is Eva Peron. Her tomb is a surprisingly sober affair, made of black marble, but is easily the cemetery’s biggest draw. What is less surprising is the number of stories that surround Eva’s burial. As well as gruesome rumours of necrophilia, the whereabouts of her corpse was unknown for 16 years. It was eventually traced to a grave in Milan, and when the Peronists regained power, the corpse was eventually returned to Buenos Aires and laid to rest at Recoleta in 1976.

This is Buenos Aires folklore at its best and returns us neatly to my point about how a cemetery can reveal a lot about a culture. This ghostly city-within-a-city houses the people who have shaped the Argentinean Capital into what it is today and serves up a heady cocktail of death, sex and politics, with generous measures of pomp and high drama thrown in. It’s almost as intoxicating as the city itself…

Apart from the obvious benefits of being in Latin America, (the weather, great grub and cheap, cold beer) I had become almost addicted to the sensory overload of travelling. From the taste of a bizarre fruit I had never heard of, to the sound of a pop song in Spanish, I collected these new experiences with a greedy enthusiasm. I had developed a serious case of FOMO (fear of missing out).

As well as all this, moving around from place to place had become my new routine, my normality. It never felt like I was on holiday, just that I was living my life albeit a new, mobile and fantastically exciting one. But of course, all good things must come to an end. It was time to come home and get stuck back into London.

Don’t get me wrong, I love London and have done since I was a little girl. I arrived at the age of 18, having never lived anywhere other than my family home in East Yorkshire and despite not knowing a single person in the capital, I absolutely knew that it was the place for me. It thought it was the land of opportunity and in very many respects, it has indeed delivered.

But when you’re feeling a bit sorry for yourself, the combination of bendy buses, estate agents, exorbitant prices (of, well, everything) and the all-round relentlessness of London, can do very little to improve your state of mind.

But after ten months of travel, and adventures across fifteen countries, it was time to face the music. To cushion the blow, I’d had two blissful weeks of acclimatization at my parent’s house, but yesterday, the day had arrived to head back down south.

As we approached the North Circular on the M1, familiar butterflies started to flutter. To my huge relief, it’s a feeling that has never gone away for me. On all those Sunday nights, after a weekend at home, I used to feel excited as the train rattled its way through Doncaster, Grantham and Stevenage,. Even that dread of Monday morning was always overcome, by the joy of arriving back into the Capital.

Last night was no exception and as we drove through North London, I became disproportionately enthusiastic about the beauty of Holloway Road and it’s Christmas lights. The road closures, the bus lanes, the white vans; none of it could dampen my spirit. I even looked on in fondness at the man staggering along the pavement, can in hand, talking to himself.

How far I’d come since this time last year, when I was busily packing my flat into boxes, saying goodbye to friends and thanking my lucky stars that I was leaving it all behind.

It feels like a new chapter, a fresh start and as I sit and watch the weather perform that peculiarly British feat of driving rain one minute and blue skies and watery sun the next, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I’m home.