As I walked the footpath that leads to the disused railway line, I felt oddly at home. It is odd, partly, because I certainly don't look like I am at home. And it is odd because I have not lived anywhere this lovely in such a long time that I can't help but think I must be on vacation. Finally, it is odd because I am from somewhere that doesn't look remotely like the North of England.
And yet there's that sunshine--strange as it is for Durham--coupled with the cooling breeze. If weather were my only guide, I might guess I was back home in Manhattan Beach (in which case the seagull I spotted this morning would have served as evidence as well). The landscape says otherwise, of course. There are no sheep-strewn fields in my hometown, or stone-built houses; there were no Roman ruins to visit on a Saturday, and not a single medieval abbey or castle to see.
No, this is definitely not 'home', not in the exterior particulars. Fair skin and nothern accents, hedgerows and good, thick mud, tea shops and newsagents--all these things tell me I am somewhere I don't belong. Not really. But then, a short girl with curly-crazy brown hair and poor volleyball skills didn't seem like a Manhattan Beach native--I have been told I don't 'look' like I am from California. But I liked it there, and I like it here, and I suppose that's what really matters.
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