Ted sits up, startled and bolt upright, he claps his hands loudly and starts shooing something away. The commotion wakes me with a start from my deep sleep. I’m confused. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask as my eyes adjust to the light of the early morning witching hour, ‘There was a pig’ he says in return. Still confused, all I can think is that I really hope there isn’t a pig – mum really wouldn’t appreciate a pig in the attic bedroom! Ted brings his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes and exhales a long slow breath, calming himself. I turn over and hug him tight. He’d been dreaming. We were no longer in the tent, no longer on the road, no longer cycling around the world. We were at home, well, my family home, and already life on the road, living on the bikes was only a reality in our dreams – Did we really do it?

We had cycled from the ferry port in Hull to our hometown of Scarborough under glorious blue skies, it was a perfect final day of cycling. We were accompanied by Ted’s brother who came to join us as a surprise, so the chatter and smiles never stopped. As we drew closer, the streets gradually became more and more familiar, the places we passed through were no longer face-less but instead were the sparks that lit up memories. A video reel appeared behind my sunglasses – the primary school playing fields became daisy chain making and the smell of freshly cut grass; the house with the grand front door and pillars turned into teenage house parties and left me wondering whether the snooker table was still in the basement; the uphill roundabout transformed me into that shy, bookish college student trying not to stall the engine in my driving lesson. These were no longer just streets we would pass through, these were our places, the places that came with memories so deep they were now part of our unconscious, places that delivered raw emotion on sight, these were the places that had made us. As we stood at the view point on the South Cliff, and stopped for a moment to take in the familiar scene of the vast blue sea, the sweeping sands of holidaymakers and the castle on the headland, I had to fight back the tears brimming in my eyes. We had made it.

My glassy eyes soon became smiles and laughter as we were met at the seafront by Ted’s family, who were all riding bikes, waving flags and holding banners – much to the bewilderment of elderly locals who thought they were protesting! We cycled home all together, the short and steep climb to get out of the North Bay proving that the Robinson’s strong-and-fast athletic genes run generations deep. And as we finally approached my family home, the final climb up the hill became a sprint towards the red finish line ribbon, cheered on by gathered friends and family, the sound of clanging cowbells and clapping hands was as welcoming and overwhelming as the emotions we were both feeling.

The whole weekend will forever be etched in my memory. Having both of our families all back in our hometown at once is a very rare occurrence, it felt like a second wedding for us, albeit without the fancy clothes. But as Sunday afternoon melted into early evening – the children over-tired from too much sugar and excitement, the adults reluctantly turning their minds to the working week ahead – those we love peeled away. One-by-one, to catch a train, to pack up the car, to face the inevitability of the long journey home they said their goodbyes. I wasn’t ready yet, after so long without them all, I greedily wanted them all to stay. But as the calm settled, so too did I, as I realised how exhausted I was, the familiar feeling of riding-around-the-world-bone-deep fatigue reminding me just why we were all gathered here together in the first place.

A few days later and we were on the final approach to our own home in the Peak District. We had cycled from Sheffield train station, making sure we stopped to enjoy a coffee and pastry from our old favourite Danish bakery (the final one for the road). The heather on the moors was in full purple bloom, but the colours were muted under the grey August skies, there was nothing dramatic about it today, just quiet tones – still beautiful though – and perfectly reflecting my mood . As we took in the view we’ve admired countless times, the view that is the selling point for the Peak District, the view that, for us, is home, the look on Ted’s face said it all, ‘How lucky are we?’.

As we turned the last corner onto our road, my stomach was beating with butterflies, I was so filled with the mixing of excitement and nervousness that the physical sensation started stretching up into my lungs, catching my breath. But finally, there it was, after all this time, our own front door. A door that was a little plastic-y looking and outdated, a door that didn’t really suit the house, a door that let in all the drafts every winter, but a door that was ours. There were no crowds of gathered friends and family this time, just the two of us and our trusty two-wheeled companions. It felt right, that after everything we had been through, we were returning to our home just the two of us, still together – side by side – echoing the way we had left and locked the door two years earlier.

We stood and took in the scene; the overgrown garden, the table and benches Ted had made were now weathered and aged, the patio we dug out and laid together during the covid years now in need of a little care, the coals we’d left in the fire-pit after a night with friends still there, untouched – It felt like everything had been frozen in time, except the greenery that was slowly taking it back. We scrambled to find the key, unsure where, or if, we even had one. But after digging about amongst the dust and debris at the bottom of my frame-bag, I found it – the key that had travelled thousands of miles just to end up back where it started.

The house still had that same distinct smell, so familiar and yet so undefinable. And just like the outside of the house, the inside too felt like nothing had changed, it was just a little dusty, a little older, a little more worn – but then so too were we. We hugged, unable to process the enormity of it all, but smiling. Ted unlocked the attic hatch, recovered the kettle from the mound of boxes and unceremoniously plonked it on the hob – we were back.