We Did England Wrong

But it was oh, so right.

I’m home! I’m in that ideal end-of-vacation space where I simultaneously am glad to be back yet also miss where I was. This is a new feeling for me, since I’ve never taken much of a vacation before.

In two weeks, I opened my computer three times. I rarely checked email. I barely posted on social media. Except for days when we had to be somewhere, I woke up when I wanted to (which was still unbearably early for many people, but worked for me).

I journaled, some. I didn’t write. I took notes. Hundreds of pictures. Maybe even thousands. Walked for miles on the streets of London. Drank a hand-pulled pint every single day. Ate bread and biscuits and scones with jam and clotted cream and managed to lose weight. Had Korean barbecue on my birthday. Sang along with locals in a pub in the West Midlands on Jim’s. Bought a book on Welsh folktales in Wales. Rode a boat on the Thames to stand in two time zones.

We met an artisan from The Repair Shop and went to where the show’s filmed. One of those was planned; the other wasn’t. A woman named Lisa gave us the best hugs after filling us in on her boss, the knight, who’d recently had lunch with the king.

We soaked in the golden hour illuminating the River Wye before turning around to catch a double rainbow.

This is what vacations are like? This is what’s possible?

I’m blessed to call travel my job. I’ve seen more than many in my frequent travels, but I’ve never approached a trip purely for pleasure. Even during our honeymoon and our one-year anniversary trips, the last time I actually took vacations, I had one eye on what I would post for The Local Tourist. It’s not a bad thing, and my profession has afforded us countless opportunities, but this was different.

This was magical.

The thing is, I knew the entire time I’d end up writing about our experiences because I’m a storyteller. I’m a writer. That’s what I do. I want to share these adventures. I want to take you along with me, metaphorically speaking, as I wander the cobblestones of Oxford and try not to get blown off the hill of Old Sarum.

But it’s different to experience a place while being completely in the moment, paying attention only to what we’re doing and who I’m with, not worrying about making sure I get a photo of that and that and that and interviewing people because I’m here, so why not, and wouldn’t that make a great story.

Yes, it would. I know this. And what also makes a great story is our lived experiences, our fully-present attention to driving two-lane roads the width of one in a car with the steering wheel on the opposite side of what I’m used to. Of silly moments like deciding that the word bucolic meant that sheep had to be present, so every place we saw sheep instantly became such. And believe me, we saw a lot of bucolic places… (There are sheep everywhere!)

Of squealing “Horsies” at almost every bend, when I could see them through the wall of hedgerows. Of walking a town absolutely stuffed with second-hand bookshops and, at the end of the day, climbing steep narrow stairs to fall asleep in a building older than my country.

We didn’t plan much. We didn’t see nearly as much as we could have. We didn’t go see a show in London, despite staying on a street crowded with theaters. We didn’t have afternoon tea or visit the Tower of London or Parliament or watch the changing of the guard. We stayed in Salisbury without entering the cathedral.

Some might think we did England wrong.

We know we did it absolutely right.

I miss it. I miss the language, the towel warmers, the “You alright?” greeting at nearly every entrance.

And I’m also glad to be home, with my computer open, writing. I’m glad to be catching up on my email, which is a bit of a sticky wicket since I never set up my out-of-office responder. I’m finishing up my Kickstarter fulfillment and awaiting copies of Trouble on the Tracks, my seventh novel, which I completed shortly before we left.

I’ve recovered from jet lag, and I’m fighting my tendency to do all the things and leave no time for reading and relaxing. For being present. Because that was one thing I told myself I wouldn’t do—I would not return to my sixteen-hour days and my constant habit of over-committing and creating arbitrary deadlines that push me too hard and allow no time to simply be.

Will I be writing about this trip? Definitely. I want you to experience all of the above.

I will take my time. I’m not committing to a post a week or anything like that. I’m still in the liminal space between being there and being here, and I want to hold onto that for as long as I can. Of course, writing about it brings me right back there, which will be delightful and, probably, slightly melancholy.

The stories will come. In the meantime, I’m going to go for a walk, say hello to my favorite tree, check in with my mastermind group this afternoon, walk with my husband to the neighbor’s for this summer’s first Drinks on the Drive.

And in between, I’ll do the things that made this trip possible in the first place, with love, gratitude, and joy.

Happy reading,

Theresa

On the streets of Canterbury, where we also did not visit the cathedral, but did visit an ancient abbey and ate delicious tapas in a place Charles Dickens stayed.

p.s. Trouble on the Tracks is now available directly through me! Live on retailers May 31, 2026, but why wait? (She says cheekily, because she’s English now.)