Essay: Neither here, nor there.

On homesickness and home, wherever that might be.

I’ve been home, back to Eryri (Snowdonia). It’s always overwhelming to be reunited with the landscape that shaped me. Though I take great pleasure in the vast open spaces, quiet roads and the untouched parts of my motherland.

Frequently, when I encounter a TikTok that shows my secret places to the world, I worry that they will become overrun with footsteps that don’t know or appreciate the significance of my hallowed ground. Don’t touch that.

But Wales is not mine alone, and no land really belongs to anyone. Still, I’m protective of the peaceful places I’ve found through cave tunnels, forests and little-known corners. The times I’ve spent skinny dipping in oceans, lakes and rivers have been nothing short of a tonic to the city life I am electrified by.

When I am here, I dream of the biggest life I could have, while wanting nothing more than to be rooted in the soil beneath me. To be planted and to grow. I like to think of the moss that would cover my body and the birds that would nest in my arms. How I could fade and be nothing but a bystander to the hectic, fast-paced lives we’re encouraged to lead.

Then I get restless for cocktail bars and dancing and realise I’m less treelike than I think.

I want to go to New York, Brooklyn and LA. I want to see more. I want to be more.