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Welcome to todays diary entry! There wasn’t anything particularly dramatic about today. No shows. No major meltdowns. No unexpected van issues or toddler chaos (well, aside from the usual snack-based negotiations). But my head’s been somewhere else all day. That quiet kind of reflective mood that sneaks in when everything around you goes a bit still.
We’re now just one working day away from our holiday. And it’s funny, because we already live on the road, but the idea of this break feels different. Not just another stop on the map – it’s a chance to pause. To breathe. To shift into a slower gear.
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And today, in the middle of all the prep and the packing and the general ticking-off of tasks, I found myself thinking a lot about how we live. About how much has changed.
Most people, when they talk about winter, they talk about the cold. The darkness. The damp. Scraping ice off the car at 6am with fingers that don’t quite work yet. Commuting to jobs they might not love. Counting down the months until the sun reappears like it’s some mythical beast.
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But for us? Winter has become something completely different.
This past one was our third in Morocco – and I honestly don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling slightly giddy about that. While the UK was battling through storms and central heating debates, we were walking barefoot along the beach in Agadir. Eating tagines in tiny roadside cafés. Watching Rory chase wild kittens through dusty courtyards while the call to prayer rolled out across the hills like poetry.
It sounds dreamy – and sometimes it was. But it wasn’t always easy. Travelling through Morocco in a motorhome isn’t all desert sunsets and mint tea. There were the endless potholes, the unexpected breakdowns, the language barriers, the iffy Wi-Fi, and the nights where we weren’t sure if we were parked somewhere totally safe. Living off-grid is freeing – but it’s also relentless. There’s no back-up generator for your mood when the solar doesn’t top up and the toddler’s overtired and the loo’s full and it’s 34 degrees by 9am.
But even so – I’d do it all again. And we probably will.
Because when I look back at those months – I remember the colours. The freedom. The simplicity. I remember watching Rory learn about the world not from books or classrooms, but by being in it. Feeding camels. Bargaining (badly) in souks. Dancing with locals at beach bonfires. He’s two years old and already has a more adventurous passport than I had by 30.
And yet… I also love the UK. Not the grey drizzle for 17 days straight version, but the rolling hills, the wild coastlines, the tucked-away camping spots where you wake up to mist over the moors and bacon sandwiches on the gas hob. There’s something grounding about coming home – even when your “home” has wheels.
So today, I worked. I got stuff done. I charged batteries, emptied inboxes, made lists, crossed things off. But more than that, I found myself smiling at the life we’ve built. The mess of it. The beauty of it. The fact that we made a choice to live a little differently – and we stuck to it, even when it got hard.
We’re not just taking a holiday. We’re celebrating a season of hard work, of risk, of tiny wins and huge memories. And I’m proud of us for that.
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