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There’s no place like home.

That’s how the saying goes, right? That you could be anywhere in the world, be on the most extravagant adventure or lavish holiday of your dreams, but when it really boils down to it, home is where it’s at.

And why is that? Because of our loved ones? Because it’s familiar, comfortable? Because the people there speak your language, share your culture or in other words, just ‘get’ you? Because as dire as they say your food is, nothing actually beats a jacket potato with baked beans (topped with Red Leicester, a good friend of mine would argue).

Home has been so many places for me. First it was the south of England where we can’t decide if it’s scone or scone (I say scone, jam first) and which inevitably shaped me into the unequivocal Briton I am today. So yes, I will apologise for you being in my way, I will respect the line before myself, I will comment on the weather to avoid an awkward silence and then proceed to be socially awkward anyway, I will default to ‘not bad’ when you ask how anything above par is going and ‘alright’ when actually it’s bloody awful, I will tell you that I’ll definitely bear it in mind (I won’t), I will laugh at your misfortunes but I will also poke fun at my own. And of course, I will always fancy a cuppa to dunk my digestives in, and Bob really is my uncle.

However, ‘home’ for most of my adult life has been Northern Ireland and if I tapped my red heels together, that’s likely where I’d end up. It’s where my partner, his family and the nicest people in the world are from, it’s where I got my first proper job, it’s where I studied and made lifelong friends, it’s where I learnt about wit and banter and started saying ‘yous’ and asking for ‘a chip’ instead of ‘a bag of chips’. And it’s been so long that often I’m not sure if an expression or word I’m using is Southern English or Northern Irish.

Apart from my family and friends back in England, I never really missed much about my first home. Being part of the UK and an English-speaking country, Northern Ireland is culturally very similar to England. In fact, depending on where you are and when, it can feel more British than Great Britain itself. But then in other places at other times, it’s as if you were in the very heart of Ireland. And it’s home because it’s the place I chose and where I grew into the independent woman I am today. Just hearing the accent reminds me of all that.

And then there’s Spain. Much to my partner’s dismay, I chose two of the rainiest places there to live: Asturias and Galicia. But I wasn’t thinking about the rain; for me, it was all about the green landscapes, the cool weather and living by the sea, just like in Northern Ireland.

Of course, there were many occasions when I missed ‘home’. Like when the shops closed between 2 – 5pm and the only thing to do was go for a siesta or have a café con leche. Or when people actually told you what they thought instead of keeping it to themselves and pretending everything was fine. How I missed British etiquette and false niceties! I think I overcompensated with my sorries to make up for the lack of them, but that only made it look like the situation was actually my fault.

When we live abroad, we naturally pick up and reject different customs, habits and even gestures. Indirect communication is one of the many interesting features of British culture. It’s subtle yet prevalent and is definitely what contributed to my biggest obstacles living abroad. But eventually, I developed a respect for Spanish directness – much like I did for olives which I’d sworn I would always despise – and found it helped me to be more honest and open with people. I think at my core I will always be British, but that hasn’t stopped me from adapting to and adopting other ways of being.

So it comes at no surprise that there are many things I’ve fallen in love with in Colombia which I already know I’m going to miss when I leave. Being a big foodie, I’m very quick to develop obsessions with new snacks and meals and there are plenty here in Colombia that have found their way to my heart. I’ll miss the dancing culture, when the radio will be playing any pick from salsa, salsa choke, merengue, bachata, vallenato, cumbia and more, and people will know exactly what genre it is, how to dance to it and will invite you to the floor. To a certain extent, and especially on my lazy days, I’ll miss the slower pace of life. And perhaps what I’ll miss most are the vast mountainous views which are so breathtakingly beautiful that if the outside world realised what they were truly missing out on, they wouldn’t hesitate to come see it for themselves.

In this way, living abroad becomes a blessing and a curse: from then on, no matter where you are, you’ll always be missing something.

Right now, it’s winter at home. And though my loved ones are grumbling about it, sometimes, I can’t help but miss that glorious feeling of getting inside from the freezing cold, popping the kettle on, changing into my pyjamas, dressing gown, fluffy socks, and snuggling down with a hot water bottle and a thick blanket, safe in the knowledge that I’ll not be going outside again for the rest of that day. Sometimes, I miss being able to make a slice of toast (thick, soft white Hovis, of course) with some salted butter and a bit of marmite to satiate those peckish moments at midnight. Sometimes I miss that first house, making up songs and plays with my sisters and waking up together on the 25th to find Father Christmas had most definitely come by. Sometimes I miss school and having sleepovers at my best friend’s house – a place where I’ve always felt safe and happy – and saving both our silliest and most serious conversations for the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes I miss going for long, woodland walks and charity shop hopping and laughing over that thing your man said the other day – awk sure, you’d know him to see. Sometimes I miss walking through the wet, autumnal leaves on campus, loaded down with library books and full of inspiration. Sometimes I miss sitting in a beer garden on a warm summer evening, pint in hand, talking about everything and nothing. Or in the local caferería with a good novel and you just nod to the waiter with a smile because he knows you and he knows your order. Sometimes I miss walking barefoot along the most beautiful beach, being greeted by every breed of dog under the sun. Sometimes I miss going out for dinner at 10pm and everyone is being so loud that you can’t hear your thoughts but the food is good and the company is even better and nobody wants to take the last piece because a vergoña do galego. Sometimes I miss the nicknames I had and the way people pronounced my name wrong which became little identities of mine in their own right. And sometimes I just miss cuddling on the sofa in my old house and binge-watching a series that was so long I thought those times would never end.

All of these moments come from different times and places, and yet all of them feel like home to me. A myriad of sounds, smells, people and memories, as if there were pieces of me scattered about the world, swapped for pieces from those very places. A colourful, patchwork heart. Because when we uproot our home and move abroad, no matter how uneven or dry or compact the terrain may be, we’ll always find a way to settle and thrive again. And we’ll take as we grow and give back as we flower, becoming a part of the land and the land a part of us. If home is where the heart is, then it’s no wonder I’m always longing to return to more than one place.

So it’s true – there really is no place like home. And how lucky am I to have so many places that I can call just that.