Roots = Routes?

The first time I ever went to Greece I was 13 years old. I went there with my dad, who'd been longing to go ever since he studied Classical Greek at university.

This was a long time ago, and Hersonisos, Crete, was a simple fishing village with the odd tourist added. We were adding to that!

As soon as I set foot on Crete - literally - I felt so exhileratingly happy! As if I'd been homesick all my life and finally had made my way back to my roots. You can see from this photo comment how I felt about it all...

Needless to say, it wasn't mine - or our - last trip. The other photo is from the following summer, taken on the boat going to Chora Sfakion from Agia Roumeli, where we ended up having walked down the Samaria Gorge. Again. (Daddy's girl, me...?)

I've only experienced the same homecoming feeling one other place. Not at home. But the first - and so far only - time I went to Dublin, the exact same feeling set in when I stepped out of the plane. The fog, the rain, the customs manager waving me past as an EU citizen although I insisted I wasn't (I came on a plane from England) - it meant nothing, I was home.

Go rabh maith agat and ευχαριστώ πάρα πολύ!

My kids sometimes ask where they were before I met their dad. I have settled for "in God's heart". But perhaps, more accurately, they were hopping between Greece and Ireland too?