Having only moved down to London six months ago, the capital is shaping up to be wildly different from my home in the Yorkshire hills just outside Huddersfield.
From nobody ever saying thank you, to the general grumpy face every commuter has on their face while riding the underground, the move has been a steep learning curve and is something that thousands of ex-Yorkshire-pats struggle to get used to.
While the capital has plenty to offer and is a place where getting bored simply isn't an option, whenever I go home I realise the things I miss the most.
After boarding an LNER train from Wakefield Westgate destined for the capital after a recent trip home, I came to reflect on the strange things in Yorkshire I miss the most.
While family, friends, and your own bed are something everyone misses when they move away, it's the little things you don't realise that make home, home. So looking back at my roots, here are the three surprising things I miss from life in God's Own Country.
Now, this might seem a bizarre choice but for anyone who has lived in London, and sampled its tap water, you'll definitely understand.
London tap water is extremely hard and battling with the limey liquid is a fight you don't realise the pain of until you find a thin film of limescale-scum floating on every cup of tea, which even gold label Yorkshire Tea can't fix.
Not only does it taste disgusting but it's a nightmare to clean. The days of a clear shower screen are a thing of the past, wine glasses - crusty, and don't even get me started on the damage it does to a kettle.
Meanwhile a refreshing, crisp glass of Yorkshire tap water might as well be an endless supply of Evian. Being nestled in West Yorkshire just on the outskirts of the Pennines, the endless supply of reservoirs have raised my standards too high - so next time I go home I'll be sure to bring a jerry can with me
Having the Peak District a short drive away, and the county's rolling hills as the backdrop to grow up in, you become accustomed to having the moors marking the horizon.
Having also lived in Norfolk, it was my first trip back from the flatlands of East Anglia that truly made me realise how much I missed the hills. There is something eerie and bleak about the endless flat, and although London has some gentle inclines, nothing compares to the Pennines or the Dales.
Simply having hills building up the horizon is something you don't quite appreciate when you become so used to them but taking a Londoner for a trip-up to the top of Holme Moss, they will quickly understand what I'm talking about.
Melton Mowbray may have a monopoly over the pork pie game, but if that means we can keep some of the fantastic pies made in the county, I don't think anyone is complaining.
Now I may have lost my accent and sold my soul to the South, but one stereotypically northern thing that will always remain deep-rooted inside of me is my love for a pie.
Growing up a stone's throw away from Denby Dale, the village that took the crown for making the world's biggest pie at a stomach-rumbling 40-feet-long, perhaps it's in my blood but nothing beats a local butcher's pork, apple and stuffing.
Whether it's hot or cold, with beans or mushy peas, the rich history of pie-making in Yorkshire is unmatched elsewhere in the country and whatever the generation of butchers have been doing to perfect the recipes over the generations has clearly paid off.
