For I don't know how long, I had deep pangs of longing to visit the country of those same "lobsterbacks." In May and June of this year, my friend gave me an incredible gift and made it possible for me to visit England.
Completely groundless worries from day 1.
|Gorgeous Scarborough, with a Great Hall outline to boot.|
|Tower of London (which is really a ginormous castle).|
Since getting back, suddenly Study Abroad programs in colleges has slipped from the forefront of my mind to something of an afterthought, and though I talk pretty seriously about what I'll do when I go back (visit Lincoln Castle, longer in Nottingham, Oxford...), I hadn't really felt the pang at all.
It's not gone.
I don't understand. Why do I love this country so much? Sure, loads of great authors are from there, the history is amazing (I teared up in the first 800yo church I went into), they have Doctor Who (ha), awesome accents, Robin Hood, etc., but this longing?
I don't get it. I can't explain it. I like to be able to explain why I love and what I love. And I can explain some of the why.
But not why it's so intense.
Why it hurts.
I imagine it's God-given at this point, but I don't know why, or what I'm supposed to do with it. I'm sure it's not just heading back to tour every year or so (I wish). It's all mixed up with what I want to do with my life, after four years of college learning. What job I want. Where I'm going.
I don't know. I simply don't know. But I hope it involves minding the gap and ancient rocks (aka castles. It's an inside joke, sorry).