What begins as an obligation, a polite “yes, of course I’ll come” slowly turns into something you protect fiercely in your calendar. For me, that tradition is my annual trip to Leicester.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Leicester? Of all the glamorous destinations I’ve written about? Stay with me.
When I was at university in Birmingham, I didn’t go home very often. Distance, money, you know life the usual student excuses. I also didn’t have any immediate family nearby, which meant one thing: once a year, I was “encouraged” (read: lovingly instructed) to visit extended family in Leicester for a weekend.
As someone who has always leaned more solitary than social, the idea of staying with relatives I didn’t really know felt less like a getaway and more like a group project I hadn’t signed up for. Small talk. Shared bathrooms. Structured mealtimes. It sounded exhausting.
But something unexpected happened.
What started as a slightly awkward obligation slowly turned into belonging.
Over time, I somehow became the favourite “bonus child” of a second family. I’m not sure how, she I suspect strategic dishwashing and a well-timed compliment here and there but I’ll take it. Suddenly, Leicester wasn’t a duty. It was familiar. Warm. Easy.
It became the place where I could experience the chaos and comfort of family life that distance often prevented with my own. Shared dinners. Inside jokes. Being told off for not eating enough. Being told off for eating too much. The full experience.
And then came the evolution of the tradition.
At some point, our once-simple visits turned into an annual pilgrimage to Bicester Village. A dangerous, glittering outlet haven where self-control goes to die. Each year I would confidently announce, “Right. I am not spending much this time.” Each year I would leave with the most shopping bags and the emptiest bank account.
It became a running joke. I’d blame the “discounts.” They’d blame my lack of restraint. We’d laugh about it over coffee while I quietly calculated how many meals I’d need to skip to recover financially.
But it was never really about the shopping. It was about the drive down together. The music in the car. The arguments over where to park. The shared excitement over a “bargain” that was still, somehow, wildly expensive. It was about creating memories that layered year upon year until the tradition felt unshakeable.
Thirteen years later, no matter where I’ve lived in the UK: London, Manchester, elsewhere that Leicester weekend has remained in the calendar. Flights have changed. Jobs have changed. Relationships have changed. That trip hasn’t.
I talk a lot about solo travel being therapeutic. About the clarity that comes from exploring alone. And it is. There’s something powerful about navigating the world on your own terms.
But this tradition reminds me of something equally important: travelling to be with family can be just as healing.
It grounds you. It reminds you that no matter how independent you become, no matter how far you roam, there are people who see you not as a carefully curated version of yourself, but as you. The slightly dramatic, occasionally irresponsible, always-hungry version.
Leicester may not be a tropical island. There are no infinity pools or beach sunsets. But it offers something just as valuable: connection.
And in a world where I often chase growth, movement, and the next destination, that yearly trip quietly reminds me that I’m not alone.
Sometimes the most meaningful journeys aren’t the ones that take you far away.
They’re the ones that bring you home even if “home” is somewhere you never expected it to be.
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