France.

I couldn’t go this year it was cancelled.

I miss the sound of the breeze in the trees as I pass the lake at the end of the track, when I wake up and walk out the door each morning for ten glorious days, placing my bare feet onto the cold decking, that hums gently of positivity beneath my feet with a coffee and a croissant in hand and I just know it’s going to be a beautiful day.

Something about the place feels so much like home and I don’t think that it has sunk in that it isn’t till next April that I will be back there, feeling that breeze and tasting that coffee and smelling the flowers in the air.

This is the worst year I’ve possibly ever had and we are only half way through.