September has long been one of my favourite months.

When we lived in the northern hemisphere it was the most beautiful threshold between summer and autumn, full of soft light and turning leaves. Now in the south, it marks the beginning of spring. The windy season, for sure, but also the start of longer, lighter days, and those occasional moments when the sun is warm enough to bare our pale arms to the air again.

It also seems to be a month of big events, running on a six-year cycle. In September 2001, I started at Edinburgh University. In September 2007, DorkyDad and I got married. In September 2013, we moved to Tasmania. In September 2019… well nothing major happened, but perhaps that was the universe giving me a break knowing what was to come the following year.

Anyway, that history means that September is always full of anniversaries and ‘remember when…’ conversations.

I am a nostalgic little creature. Always looking for patterns and coincidences. When I realised that the date we were due to fly out of Tasmania for our recent UK visit was ten years to the day since we had flown out of Heathrow to move here, I was delighted. Not only that, but the weekend we were due to spend in Edinburgh marked 22 years exactly since I first arrived at Pollock Halls as a Fresher.

All in all, it felt like the signs boded well for a good trip back to Scotland.

*

Has going on holiday always involved so much work? I don’t think so.

Back in 2001, in that glorious gap between the end of exams and the start of university, I went to Crete for a week with two pals. We booked it last minute via an ad on Teletext just a couple of days before the flights out. We all threw some books, bikinis and flip-flops in a bag, promised to call home when we’d arrived safely, and off we went.

It is a different story these days. Our three weeks in the UK involved literally months of preparation. Meals and museums booked in advance, flights and hotels carefully co-ordinated to spread the cost, a thorough house clean and several pages of notes for the dogsitter, and many long hours at the desk to clear my work list before we went.

Perhaps that’s why when we finally sat down on the long-haul flights, I didn’t watch a single movie. Didn’t turn on the screen, or even contemplate opening a book. I just sat there in stunned, tired silence, for eight hours, and then for another fourteen. Finally, we were on the way.

Before those long flights with Singapore Airlines (which DorkySon has blogged about here), we had a night in Melbourne – and were slightly horrified to realise that our 20ish hours based at the Ovolo Laneways was the first time DorkySon had actually been into the city, rather than just transiting through the airport.

He loved Melbourne (as do we!). He loved a quick walk down by the river and a few hours exploring the CBD. He loved the free candy station in the lobby of the hotel; he loved dinner at nearby barbecue joint Fancy Hanks; and he loved breakfast at Bowery to Williamsburg. He even loved the chatty Italian cabby who drove us from the hotel to the airport, talking excitedly for the entire journey about his impending retirement to the Sunshine Coast.

Less than a day away from home and we were already realising that a) we need to get out of Tasmania and travel more often and b) DorkySon needs to spend more time in Melbourne.

The flights were a blur, as they always are. We had a two-hour late-night connection at Changi, during which I picked up a message from one self-catering host letting me know to expect a broken toilet seat, and a message from another letting me know they’d double booked us for the last two nights of our stay. But at that stage there was nothing to do except keep moving forwards.

By the time we reached Heathrow, landing at 5am, we had been awake for around 35 hours. DorkyDad and I were saved by several large coffees, while DorkySon took a heap of plane photos out of a nearby window, and then we geared up for the final flight up to Edinburgh.

*

The voice of a stern-sounding woman crackles over the tannoy at Edinburgh airport.

“COULD THE GENTLEMAN HIDING UNDER THE STAIRS PLEASE GET OUT OF THERE.”

DorkySon starts laughing, as we continue trying to push our way past various stag and hen parties and make our way to baggage reclaim.

A few minutes later, the same woman is back on the tannoy, reminding travellers not to try and bring batons or knuckledusters through security.

DorkySon laughs again, and immediately taps into the free airport wifi to let his friends back in Tassie know that we have arrived.

The three of us lean, exhausted, against the Irn Bru vending machine, and wait for our suitcases to show up.

Welcome (back) to Scotland.