I'd always thought of myself as the person who didn't want to travel. Reading posts about how people who don't spend more than two weeks outside of their own country having 'not lived' always seemed kind of patronising to me, and I was a big believer in the fact that I didn't have to go travelling to lead a happy and enriching life.
Oh, how wrong I was.
Don't get me wrong, I've always been a fan of the 'I'll do me, you do you' philosophy, but having recently caught the travelling bug 'doing me' now involves packing my life into a bag and jumping on a plane. Having never travelling further than Paris before, last month I travelled from London to Paris, through Germany and then onto Denmark in the space of 3 days.
It was the best weekend of my life.
I'm leaving for my next trip on April 17th. I'm starting off interrailing, then plan on settling somewhere for a few months to rest and get some cash together and then move on again after that. I have absolutely no idea when or if I'll be back, and the excitement is bubbling inside me faster than the Sanderson sisters' cauldron.
The next chapter of my life is about to start. And I Can. Not. Wait!