Between the pages of a book is a lovely place to be

By the time the weekend arrives, it's easy to feel as though we should make the most of it.

There's always another café to try. Another exhibition to see. Another picturesque street to wander through. We collect lists of places worth visiting, hoping that somewhere among them we'll find the evening we're looking for. And I enjoy those days as much as anyone.

But every now and then, I find myself choosing a different destination. Instead of putting on my shoes, I make a cup of tea. Instead of checking directions, I pull a blanket over my knees. Instead of heading out the front door, I open a book.

It never feels like choosing less. It feels like travelling farther. I've spent evenings in a library that only appears at midnight. I've crossed oceans that don't exist on any atlas. I've walked through villages whose inhabitants felt more familiar than some people I've met in real life. And when I eventually look up, an hour or two has disappeared. The tea is cold and the blanket has slipped onto the floor. Outside, nothing much has happened but inside, I've been somewhere extraordinary.

Books remind me that not every journey requires a reservation or a destination. Some of the places I've returned to most often don't exist anywhere except between the two covers of a book, yet they've stayed with me longer than many cities I've actually visited.

I've begun to think that home has its own kind of departure lounge. It's my favorite corner of the sofa with a blanket that's become softer with every winter. A warm lamp and a book waiting to open another door.

There will always be weekends for road trips, restaurants, and discovering somewhere new. But there are also evenings when the place I most want to visit is already within arm's reach.

Between the pages of a book is a lovely place to be.

I designed the blanket I'd want to take with me. Find it in my Redbubble shop.