Well,  those feet are itching again,  and it is now confirmed that I will be moving again, this time to New Zealand,  after 12 - 18 months in Scotland to deal with the red tape and paperwork of setting up my business there.  It is a bittersweet thing, saying goodbye to a country you have called home.  I am at once filled with a sense of loss at leaving, and excitement at exploring new lands.  And a hefty burden of a mile long 'things to do' list.

You see,  I don't travel light.  I do not belong to the backpack brigade.  I have always both dreaded and admired the concept of 'if it doesn't fit in, you don't take it' travelling.  But for that matter, I don't really consider myself a traveller.  More of a 'serial emmigrator'.  When I move to a new place, I explore, I put down roots,  I settle down and wait to see my new life will bring me.

Ever since I spent a gap year abroad I have always been stumped by why anyone would spend just long enough in one place to make friends and find their feet before packing up and leaving it all behind, with no more than a quick exchange of email addresses and a cry of 'So long and thanks for all the memories' before starting all over again in a new place. 

If I move, I move home.  And I tend to take all of my worldy possessions with me.

Yet while moving is always stressful,  I have never felt fear or even trepidation about upping sticks to relocate to somewhere new. 

We recently announced our move in our local pub,  and I have to admit to being totally overwhelmed by the response as people gaped in awe and started gushing admiration.  I felt totally undeserving and a bit taken aback.   I replayed my sentence in my head:  I had said I was moving to New Zealand, right?  Any way that could have been interpreted as 'I have decided to spend a year in Tibet,  learning to find the meaning of Zen while using the power of my words to fight for the cause of the noble and persecuted monks.'  No, didn't think so.   Yet I was relieved to escape before they started arranging leaving parties, or heaven help me, some kind of shrine to my courage to follow my dreams.

It is something I have never understood:  why people believe it takes more courage to follow your dreams than not follow your dreams.  What do you have to lose, that wouldn't be worth losing if it meant even getting one step closer to a dream, and at least living the rest of your days knowing that you tried?  Isn't that a better story for the grandkids than 'Yes, well,  I always wanted to [insert dream here] but [insert excuse here]'

Staying put, accepting status quo, slipping into the nine to five coma of a job I hate while dreaming of better things and far away places, are all things that have filled me with enough terror to motivate me to make a change.  Have I had opportunities?  Yes.  They came with instructions that said swallow with courage and a sense of fun.  Have I had adversities? Yes.  They came neatly packaged with Kleenex, a bottle of cheap red wine and a resolution to face the next day armed with new knowledge and hope.  Have I made compromises?  I may not have wanted to work 14 hours a day for minimum wage, but you can bet that I did just to pay for something I needed to further my goals.

So off we go again,  me, the cat, the dog, my have-home-will-travel belongings and this time, with a lovely partner to share the experience with.  Oh, and you can bet that he is fearless too.