It’s early morning, the car is packed, our legs are crammed into the back seat, and we’re headed south for the yearly summer holiday. It’s like it always is, yet the familiarity doesn’t overshadow the feeling of excitement that comes with crossing borders, being under new skies. The long drive is romanticised by the awaiting destination with its crystal clear azure waters and slightly better weather than the Danish summer (wink wink).
There are, like always, the feelings of uncertainty—what is the house like, will the beach live up to our year-long built-up expectations, how will the days go—but the serenity of the holiday has cast a daze over us, and we sit in the car, anticipating.
After 7, 12, 19 hours on the road, the impatience kicks in, bringing the destination somehow further, but the eagerness to just be there keeps us in check.
This year, Rabac, Croatia, is where google maps is leading us, and I can’t wait to listen to the calming waves while the sun warms my d-vitamin-deprived skin and the laughter and murmur of other beach-goers play as the background noise.
No matter the place, certain things will always remind me of the reoccurring family summer getaways.
Cicadas singing every evening, invisible in the trees, is a sound that always brings my mind back to countless terraces where dinner has been served, cards have been played, beers have been drunk, talks have been held. They remind me of the freedom summer somehow gives. They bring me a sense of liberation from the everyday hamster wheel. As annoying as they also are, they are undoubtedly the orchestra of summer evenings in the south.
The crackling on stones and the scent of fur when we walk through forests and wilderness to get to the secluded beaches, where the water is clear, the sand is clean, and the swim will surely be refreshing and cooling under the bright sun.
When it occasionally rains, the smell of wet, warm tarmac is mesmerising. I love that smell. It’s greasy and heavy yet fresh and uplifting. It’s grounding and relaxing but is still evidence of the changeable weather in the sacred south.
The sounds of the pan, frizzling, the knife, cutting, and the smell of freshly picked rosemary finding its way out to the terrace where the sun is slowly setting and the breeze dances through the beach towels drying—dinner is being prepared. Dinner as we eat it on holidays; simple, local.
Salty and sun-dried hair and sunscreen skin. Music from the local plaza. Sandwiches on the beach. Breathtaking views from a hike under the burning midday sun. Languages from every corner of the globe, sometimes recognisable, other times completely foreign. Morning fruit and coffee. 100-year-old olive trees that shadow the running trail. Tanned travellers and peaceful souls.
I like adventures; I like to see new places and experience the thrill of discovering unknown paths, but the aforementioned sensations will always be the sounds, smells, sights of my childhood travels. Something that will forever remind me of southern summer nights, that brings memories of sand in shoes, that makes my eyes squint against the sun that is longer here.
These are recollections of my childhood travels.
Reply