Wordery have launched another new campaign recently about embracing local history and encouraging people to explore their roots. If you want to check that out you can swing by here. Now, I’m going to talk about Home.
Home, for me, is South Wales. I was born here, and I grew up here. Even though my welsh isn’t fluent like many of my friends, Wales is pretty much ingrained into my soul now. Home is described as the place where one lives permanently, but as a university student I spend more time in Chester than I do in Wales. Sure, I have a soft spot for Chester and I may digress into that in another post, but my little Welsh town will always be home.
To other people, Wales is a novelty. It’s unheard of, or only known by TV programmes like Gavin and Stacey. Also if I had a pound for every sheep related joke I had heard, I’d be able to pay off mine and my friends’ student loans. There’s mountains and fields everywhere, and my friends I went to school with are there. My friends’ pets are also there. Darcy is there.
I know where everything is at home. I know where my nearest shop is. I know how long it takes to get to the station, I know how long it takes to go to my best friend’s house, or to get on the train to visit my boyfriend. I can see my Grandparents in minutes and I know good cheap places to hang out with my friends. I also know Arriva Trains Wales can be absolutely awful even if it does get you from A to B.
I reminisce a lot when I’m home. I used to walk to college and pass the park where I practiced for a talent show in year five, where I attended Sports Days, and where we drank terrible 35p energy drinks in the bandstand one summer. It’s comforting when you’ve lived in the same place for 18 years.
The singing is wonderful, the atmosphere at the rugby is incredible, you feel the cold and you embrace the rain when it pours.
That is the thing about home.