After months chasing waves down through France, Spain, Portugal and Morocco, coming home was never as simple as it sounded.
There’s a particular kind of disorientation that comes from stepping out of van life and back into everyday Britain — the cold showers, the endless improvisation, the total freedom of not knowing where you’d sleep each night, replaced almost overnight by walls, routines, and other people’s expectations.
This post looks back at what it actually felt like to return from one of those long winter surf trips: the relief of a proper bed, the strange flatness of familiar streets, and the restlessness that, more often than not, was already quietly plotting the next trip south.
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