We landed with a thump into Madrid airport just as the sun was beginning to poke its head above the horizon.

Tired, slightly dishevelled and a little grumpy—as per normal after a long-haul flight—we stumbled off the plane looking like people who had spent the night sleeping in a chair.

Which, technically, we had.

Neither of us had slept. Instead, we had entertained ourselves by watching movies, eating whatever vaguely edible thing was handed to us by the airline crew, and occasionally looking out the window at the endless darkness over the Atlantic while wondering exactly how much longer this journey could possibly take.

It does not matter how many times I do long-haul flights (and as an Australian, just about every international flight is a long-haul flight), I will never get used to them.

There is something slightly ridiculous about voluntarily putting yourself into a metal tube for hours on end, crossing oceans and time zones, only to arrive feeling like you have been awake for three days and have forgotten what day it actually is.

Bleary-eyed, we made our way through immigration, where we received the usual suspicious stare from the border guards as we presented our French residency cards along with our passports.

This happens every single time and I have no idea why.

Perhaps there is something about our travel-worn appearance that screams “we may have a complicated story”, or perhaps they are simply wondering why two people who clearly look exhausted are presenting documents from multiple countries.

Either way, we passed the test and shuffled onwards.

Next came the COVID check area, where someone glanced at our test documents, waved a digital thermometer vaguely in our direction (I am still not entirely convinced it was actually aimed at me), and sent us on our way.

Another pandemic-era travel ritual completed—another strange little moment in the history of international travel.

Then it was onto baggage collection, which, as usual in European airports, took forever.

This is something I will never understand.

Why, oh why, do bags take so long to arrive?

In Asia, the bags are often already circling the carousel by the time you reach the baggage area. You barely have time to check the carousel number before your luggage appears, and you are on your way.

Here in Western Europe, baggage collection often feels like a test of patience. You stand there staring hopefully at an empty conveyor belt while the airport slowly considers whether delivering your bag is really necessary.

Eventually, after what feels like a small geological period, the backpacks appear—usually just as you have started wondering if they have decided to take a separate holiday without you.

Finally reunited with our backpacks, we headed out into Madrid.

This time we had made a sensible travel decision.

Rather than immediately rushing onwards after the long flight, we had decided to spend a couple of nights in Madrid.

After a journey like that, I highly recommend it.

Arriving somewhere new is exciting, but arriving exhausted and then immediately trying to continue onwards is a special kind of self-inflicted punishment. We have done it before, and while we always survive, it rarely feels like our most intelligent travel decision.

Madrid was our chance to stop, breathe and remember what day it was.

Our accommodation was a tiny apartment tucked away in the attic of an old building, just a hop, skip and a jump from Madrid’s main square, Plaza Mayor.

It was small, slightly quirky and full of character. The sort of place where you could imagine generations of people living their lives above the noise of the city below.

The stairs were narrow, the ceilings were low and nothing about it suggested luxury.

But after months away from home, it was perfect.

There is something wonderful about old European buildings. They are rarely practical, never perfectly straight and often come with their own collection of strange noises and quirks. But they have history, and I would take character over a bland modern apartment any day.

We only had two nights in Madrid and really only one full day to enjoy the city.

After four months travelling through Mexico, we were not interested in racing around trying to see everything. We had already done plenty of exploring.

Instead, we needed a pause.

And so we did what we do best.

We sat.

Our one full day was spent in Plaza Mayor, drinking spritz, eating good food and watching the world go by.

Locals met friends, tourists wandered around clutching maps, street performers appeared and disappeared, and the city carried on around us.

There is something wonderfully underrated about simply sitting somewhere and observing.

After years of travelling, I have realised that you often learn more about a place by watching everyday life unfold than by rushing from one attraction to another with a checklist in hand.

So while I would love to say we spent our precious day exploring every museum, visiting every famous landmark and immersing ourselves deeply in Spanish history, the reality is we drank coffee, ate, enjoyed a few drinks and watched Madrid happen around us.

And honestly, it was exactly what we needed.

A couple of days later, with our backpacks repacked, we headed to the station for the next stage of the journey.

Girona.

The journey itself was very much part of the experience. We boarded the bus and settled in as Spain unfolded outside the window.

This is one of the reasons we love travelling overland. You get to watch a country change slowly rather than simply appearing at your destination.

Leaving Madrid behind, the city gradually gave way to wide open landscapes. Dry plains stretched towards the horizon, distant mountains appeared and disappeared, and small villages sat quietly amongst the countryside.

Spain is an enormous country, and travelling through it by road gives you a real sense of its scale.

Hours passed watching the scenery change outside the window. Occasionally we stopped at roadside stations, grabbed something to eat and stretched our legs before continuing north.

Eventually we reached Barcelona, where we changed from bus to train for the final part of the journey to Girona.

By this stage we had been away for four months.

We were not exhausted from rushing around—quite the opposite. We travel slowly. We like to rent apartments, settle into neighbourhoods, find favourite cafés and experience what it feels like to actually live somewhere rather than simply pass through.

But even slow travel has its own kind of tiredness.

After months away from home, constantly adapting to new surroundings, navigating unfamiliar systems, making decisions every day and carrying your life around in a backpack, the batteries do eventually start to run a little low.

It is a good tiredness.

The kind that comes from experiences you would not trade, places you have loved and memories you know you will keep.

But it is still tired.

As the train carried us towards Girona, we were looking forward to somewhere familiar.

We have stayed in Girona many times, and arriving felt a little like coming home.

After months of discovering new places, there is something wonderfully comforting about streets you recognise, restaurants you remember and knowing where you want to go.

Normally, we would happily walk the couple of kilometres from the station to our apartment with our backpacks. Walking is simply part of how we travel.

But this time we decided to make an exception.

After four months on the road, and being absolutely starving, we decided we had earned a small indulgence.

A taxi.

Sometimes even budget travellers have their limits.

We arrived at the apartment, dropped our backpacks and immediately headed out in search of food.

Across the road was a restaurant, and it seemed like the perfect solution.

We sat down, ordered a proper meal, drank wine and enjoyed the simple pleasure of not having to think about where we were going next.

After months away, it felt wonderful.

We ate well, drank wine and returned to the apartment very happy with life.

We were only in Girona for a few days.

This was not about discovering somewhere new. We have visited many times before, and on this occasion Girona was simply a pause—a chance to recover, enjoy some excellent food and spend time somewhere we genuinely love before returning home to France.

Sometimes travel is not about finding somewhere new.

Sometimes it is about returning to places that feel familiar. Places where you know the streets, know where to eat and can slow down for a while before the next chapter begins.

Soon enough, it was time to head back to the train station—walking this time—and board the train back to France.

Our four-month journey through Mexico was over.

The backpacks were unpacked, the washing machine was about to get a serious workout, and our own bed was waiting.