Sunday’s make me miss Oxford. The vibrancy, the history. Walking through those streets, where everyone was Christmas shopping, and dressed exquisitely. It was such a mix of old and new, the cobblestone streets, the sand stone walls juxtaposed by shops and rappers busking for money. I got from Oxford what I expected but also what I didn’t expect. I remember at first disliking it, craving to go back to the bustle of London where everything seems glistening and fantastic. But I grew to love it in such a short time I feel. Walking through the grounds where thousands of people have walked before me, some of them my idols, is astonishing. On Sunday’s I miss that spirit, I miss the Sunday Roast at that pub down the lane, I miss the atmosphere, I miss the street lamps, I miss the cold, I miss the feeling of England and that I had somehow made my way home.
As I make my way through life each day there is always a trigger for Europe: a smell brings me back to that tiny boutique hotel in Paris, an image brings me back to that brick wall coffee looking up at Westminster. Today, it is Oxford. And it has been so much stronger lately, I have just felt an innermost pull that can’t be fulfilled and it is in someways sickening. Sydney seems melancholic as winter is lived in my mind.