Appendix

In 2025, I decided to revisit and rewrite these journals, giving them a more in-depth and personal perspective. Much of this came from rediscovering old notes and photographs—fragments of memory that brought the trip vividly back to life.

Reflections, Twelve Years On

This reflection isn’t just about nostalgia; it’s also about possibility. We still hope to return to San Francisco one day, even though our travel logistics have changed dramatically in the intervening years. Back in 2013, we couldn’t have imagined how this city would shape our future journeys—how it would inspire us to explore other U.S. cities and eventually draw us back for repeat visits.

Some say San Francisco is an expensive city to visit, but to be honest, I didn’t find it any pricier than New York. Sure, the restaurants can be steep, but fine dining and fancy hotels have never been our thing. We’re more at home in places where the tables and chairs are bolted to the floor than where napkins come folded in wine glasses.

Like most places, you can’t do everything in one trip. For some, ticking off the main tourist attractions is enough. But for us, it’s always been about taking things at a more leisurely pace—trying to experience the city like locals do, while still soaking in the iconic sights. That balance between exploration and ease has become a hallmark of how we travel now.

Extra Stories & Insights

Back in 2013, a visitor passport for Muni cost $28. Now, in 2025, it’s $41. I suppose someone has to pay for all those shiny new buses. One thing that’s always struck me as odd: for a city known as a global tech hub—with Silicon Valley less than forty miles away—San Francisco’s everyday tech often feels surprisingly outdated.

Take the bus passes, for example. They used to be scratchcard-style tickets, and even now, with the introduction of the Clipper Card, the old ones are still in circulation. In shops, you’d sign for card payments using a stylus on a screen—signatures that never looked remotely like your own, not that anyone ever checked.

We didn’t know it at the time, but the Pickwick Hotel would become a favourite of ours. There’s just something about it that appealed to us. Maybe it’s the constant soundtrack of fire trucks passing every hour, day and night. Or maybe it’s the location—perfect for transport links and surrounded by cheap, no-frills places to eat. It’s not glamorous, but it’s ours.

Travel & Accessibility

Visiting New York taught us a lot, and we’ve continued learning with every trip since. This San Francisco journey in 2013 would be our last without the use of a wheelchair. Jane’s mobility wasn’t improving, and the next logical step was to embrace whatever tools could help us keep travelling—together.

The wheelchair made a real difference. Airports, for one, can be a trek even for the able-bodied, and having the chair helped us navigate them with far less stress. More importantly, it allowed us to reach places quicker and with less strain. But it’s not without its own challenges.

Uneven pavements, potholes, and unexpected dips are constant obstacles. Even the slightest slope—especially those that tilt sideways—can make pushing a wheelchair hard work. You think you’re going in a straight line, but the terrain has other ideas. And let’s be honest: I’m not getting any younger.

Still, adapting has become part of the journey. We’ve learned to plan better, ask questions, and find joy in the places that welcome us with thoughtfulness and care. Accessibility isn’t just about ramps and lifts—it’s about dignity, ease, and the freedom to keep exploring.

The Changing Skyline

Unlike New York, San Francisco evolves at a slower, more deliberate pace. There isn’t the constant construction noise around every corner, nor the endless scaffolding tunnels stretching along the pavements. But like all cities, it doesn’t stand still.

One change that hit close to home: John's Ocean Beach Café is no more. The land was sold to a developer, and a new block now stands where the café once welcomed locals and travellers alike. All the old memorabilia that hung on the walls was sold off to the public—so if you were lucky, you could still own a little piece of its history.

Some things, though, remain surprisingly good value. The Academy of Sciences Museum now charges $55 for entry, up from $35 back in 2013. Even with the price hike, I still think it’s worth it. It’s one of those places that leaves a lasting impression.

Over the years, I’ve kept track of the city through local news and social media posts—watching it evolve from afar. Landmark projects have come and gone, like the Salesforce Transit Center, which might just be the most expensive bus station in the world. At $4 billion, it’s a staggering investment—but it does have a rooftop park and garden that spans seven city blocks. That’s San Francisco for you: extravagant, surprising, and somehow still grounded.

The Bay Bridge light show is gone for now, but there’s hope. A revival is planned for 2025—Bay Lights 360—which will double the number of LEDs to 50,000 and wrap the cables so the display can be seen from even more vantage points, including Oakland, Alameda, and Berkeley. A city that glows, even in its quietest moments.

And then there’s the Great Highway. A two-mile stretch of the Upper Great Highway is now permanently closed to vehicle traffic. In November 2024, voters approved Proposition K, transforming the section between Lincoln Way and Sloat Boulevard into a public park for walking, biking, and recreation. No more playing Frogger to cross the road—just open space and fresh air.

Rediscovering Memories, Reflections & Takeaways

Going back through these photographs feels like a lifetime ago one minute, and the next—like it was just yesterday. For me, they’re not just pictures. They’re emotions. That might sound strange, but I’ve come to realise that every photo carries a feeling with it. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the greatest photographer, but it’s not about the framing—it’s about the memory that clings to each image. That’s what I’ve tried to capture by rewriting these journals.

When I first drafted this journal, I didn’t have the skills to word things the way I wanted. And to some extent, I still don’t. But with the advent of AI to help, that’s changed. I now feel I can express myself more clearly, more honestly. One of the things I’ve always struggled with is getting my thoughts down in a coherent order—what I want to say, how I want it to sound. Having help with spelling, grammar, and structure has made a massive difference. It’s not just about polishing—it’s about finding my voice.

From these rewritten journals, I’ll also update the blog on Blogger, and maybe even build a new website. Whatever happens, these journals will live on. They’ll be here whenever we want to revisit the places we’ve been, the moments we’ve shared. They’ll always be at our fingertips.

“We travel not just to see the world, but to remember who we were when we first saw it.”

Jane & Con – 2015

Afterword

Reflections from the Journey

Looking back now, we really did have a fantastic time away. Sure, the beggars could be a bit of a pain—there were so many of them—and some of the main shopping areas could do with a good clean and a proper rubbish sweep. But in other parts of the city, there wasn’t a scrap of litter. It’s a city of contrasts, and somehow that made it feel more real.

No complaints about the weather. In the 13 days we spent there, not a single drop of rain. Most days were over 20 degrees, with clear blue skies and brilliant sunshine. Honestly, it would’ve been worth the money just to escape the cold, wet British Christmas. But we got far more than just a break from the weather.

We both thoroughly enjoyed our time in San Francisco. We saw spectacular sights—from natural landscapes and formal gardens to iconic man-made structures and unexpected glimpses of local wildlife. There’s something surreal about standing outside places you’ve seen countless times in films or on TV. Even though some of those films were made years ago, nothing seems to have changed. That timelessness is part of the magic.

Some of the best days we had were the ones where we didn’t do much at all. Like the afternoon we spent sitting on the wall overlooking Ocean Beach—just watching the surfers and soaking in the peace. Although we didn’t see everything we’d hoped to, we got through most of it. In the year or so I’d spent planning the trip, I’d prepared for all kinds of weather—rain, cold, fog—but the sunshine changed our plans in the best possible way. Some places we deliberately skipped, simply because it was too nice to be indoors.

And then there were the unexpected moments—the big fire trucks parked outside the hotel one night, just as I was coming back from the pub. False alarm, thankfully. We also had a great view of the San Francisco Chronicle offices and the Old Mint, right across the road from where we stayed. Little details that made the city feel like ours, if only for a while.

So where to next time?

That’s a stamp in the passport still waiting to be made.

At home, thoughts on vacation

We’re into the following morning now, still soaring through the sky at about 500 miles an hour. It’s starting to feel like this flight is never going to end. I’ve switched to UK time now—the end is in sight, but the hours are dragging.

12:00 GMT

We’ve just had lunch, and the cabin has settled into that familiar final-flight limbo. Everyone looks bored. People are wandering up one aisle and back down the other, me included. I spent a while standing near the door, where you get an incredible view as we passed over southern Ireland and then Cornwall. It’s a bit like looking at Google Maps, but with clouds and motion—real, yet distant.

The approach over London always makes it look like an ideal place from up here. At around 10,000 feet, the city spreads out like a model village. But then you see the Thames—brown, winding, a streak of mud cutting through the middle of it. It’s a reminder that beauty from above doesn’t always hold up on the ground.

There’s a strange mix of anticipation and reluctance now. The trip is truly ending. The descent isn’t just physical—it’s emotional. The shift from Californian sunshine to British winter, from exploration to routine. But there’s comfort in the familiar too. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll carry a bit of that San Francisco warmth with us.

Arrival – Back on British Soil

We landed on time, smooth and uneventful. Then came the long trek to immigration—always a bit of a shuffle, but it’s quicker when you’re returning home. Familiar faces, familiar signage, and that unmistakable Heathrow hum.

Another long walk led us to baggage reclaim. This part always stresses me out: the carousel starts spinning, bags tumble out in waves, and somehow ours are never among the first. You watch everyone else grab theirs and disappear, while yours remain elusive. Luckily, today wasn’t too bad. We didn’t wait long before we were dragging them off and heading toward customs.

Customs always feels like a psychological game. They stare at you just long enough to make you nervous, as if daring you to flinch so they can tip out your bags and delay you further. But today, they left us alone—no questions, no rummaging, just a nod and a wave through.

And just like that, we were back. The journey ends not with a bang, but with the quiet clunk of suitcase wheels on British tile.

Journey Home – The Final Stretch

We had a taxi pre-booked this time—much better than last time, when we braved the coach home, bleary-eyed and cramped. For £150 round trip, it was money well spent. Comfort has its price, and after a long-haul flight, it’s worth every penny.

The ride home took around 90 minutes, but I think we were both asleep within the first twenty. I know I was. That deep, post-travel sleep—the kind where your body finally gives in and your mind stops cataloguing every detail. I only woke up when we were about ten minutes from home, groggy but grateful.

There’s something surreal about that final leg. You’re technically back, but not quite. The world outside the window looks familiar, but you’re still wrapped in the haze of the journey. Then the taxi slows, the streets become recognisable, and suddenly you’re home.

We Arrive Home

Five o’clock—we were home. But the day wasn’t quite done. We didn’t have any shopping in, and being Sunday, all the supermarkets were shut. It’s one of those moments where you realise just how spoiled we were over there. In San Francisco, Sunday trading laws don’t get in the way—supermarkets stay open until around 10 at night. Here, it’s back to the old routine.

After a quick trip to the Co-op, it was finally time to sit down. The holiday was over.

This is always the hardest part of any trip—the moment when reality settles in. When the bags are unpacked, the washing pile begins, and the warmth of California starts to feel like a dream. It might be months, maybe even a year or two, before we can start our next adventure.

But that doesn’t stop us planning.

Goodbye SF

We didn’t get up till about 9:30 this morning. There wasn’t much point—we weren’t planning on going anywhere, just packing a few last things into the bags and making sure we hadn’t left anything in the drawers.

This has to be the worst part of a holiday: when it’s time to leave. And it felt even heavier this time because we’d had such a fantastic trip. Two weeks gone in a blur, filled with warmth, discovery, and moments we’ll be talking about for years. Now the reality of a cold, wet British winter wasn’t far away, and the contrast couldn’t be sharper.

Check-Out Time

We didn’t have to check out of the hotel until midday, and with our flight home not scheduled until 7:30 in the evening, there was no rush. We ended up leaving around 11:30, just a short walk to the BART station.

By the time Jane had successfully beaten the evil train ticket vending machine into submission, it was still only midday. There’s not much point in me trying to tackle the tickets—I’m hopeless with those sorts of things. We always seem to have problems with them, no matter how many times we use them. That said, I don’t think they were quite as bad as the ones in New York City. At least here there were only two types to choose from.

To the Airport

The BART station sits beneath the Westfield, tucked under the Muni, and thankfully all the lifts were working. Accessibility with the BART trains is excellent—there’s barely any gap between the platform and the train, which makes boarding smooth and stress-free.

Soaking up the Sunshine at SFO

After a 20-minute wait, we were on our way to the airport. It’s only about a 35-minute journey, so we knew we’d have a few hours to kill before checking the bags in. We ended up sitting outside the front of the airport for an hour or so, soaking up the last of the Californian sunshine. It was yet another gloriously sunny day, with temperatures in the mid-twenties—a final gift before heading back to winter.

The station drops you right inside the departures terminal, so there’s very little walking once you arrive. It’s one of those rare travel transitions that actually feels easy.

Killing Time Before Departure

Now seemed like a good time to get stamps for the postcards—this time, I was determined to get the right ones so they wouldn’t take months to arrive. Unlike our visit to NYC, where I bought local stamps and the cards eventually turned up about six months after we got back, this time I played it safe.

Beer Time

After checking in the bags, we headed through security, setting off the metal detector as usual, followed by the customary public groping. Then it was into the terminal to spend the next five hours waiting. It sounds like a long stretch, but once you factor in the walk to the gate and boarding time, it’s really only about three to four hours.

There weren’t many shops—just two, along with two bars. After grabbing something to eat, we settled into one of the pubs for a drink. I did wonder later if there was a way to access another terminal with more shops, though we wouldn’t have bought any duty-free anyway. Prices seem about the same as back home, so there’s not much point.

Still, it passed the time. They had free Wi-Fi too, and there’s nothing quite like the internet for making hours disappear. This was only the second time we’d waited for a flight in the afternoon, and it felt surprisingly quiet compared to other departures.

I’ve always loved watching aircraft take off. There’s something so graceful about it—how something so massive can climb effortlessly into the sky never fails to amaze me.

Departure & Flight

Our Ride Home

I’d hoped that a few beers before take-off might lull me into sleep, but the reality was far less forgiving. Sleep never came. They called our flight around 6:30 p.m., and for once, boarding was calm—no bun fight, no elbows. Maybe we’d just slipped in early and missed the usual chaos. The gate area was oddly quiet, though the flight was nearly full. I still wonder where everyone had been hiding. Perhaps they’d discovered some secret shopping enclave tucked away in the terminal.

We departed on time at 7:30 p.m. for the ten-hour flight home. With the eight-hour time difference, we wouldn’t land until 2:30 p.m. the following day. What follows are fragments of thought from a sleepless night spent drifting above the world.

21:00 PDT – Pacific Daylight Time

The evening meal has been served, the cabin lights dimmed. Most passengers are either absorbed in their screens or somehow already asleep. I sit here wide awake, wrapped in the hush of altitude. Jane’s beside me, curled up and peaceful. I’m grateful she’s resting—she deserves it after everything we’ve navigated together. Her comfort is always the first thing I think about, even before my own. I think we’re somewhere over eastern Canada now—not that you’d see any lights from 37,000 feet. It’s in this quiet, suspended moment that the trip begins to replay in my mind. The places we visited, the people we met, the small victories of accessibility and spontaneity. It’s strange how reflection always finds you in the dark.

02:00 PDT

Still awake. I think I’m the only one now, apart from the usual suspects—pilot, co-pilot, maybe a flight attendant or two. I’ve lost count of how many films I’ve watched, each one a distraction from the creeping awareness that we’re heading home. We’re somewhere over the Atlantic now, with the nearest land probably a thousand miles away. That distance feels symbolic. A quiet sadness begins to settle in. The holiday is over. And oddly, San Francisco had started to feel like home. Not just a place we visited, but a place we belonged to, even if just for a while. Jane had said something similar—how the rhythm of the city suited us, how it felt welcoming in ways we hadn’t expected. That stayed with me.

03:00 PDT

That was the shortest night I’ve ever known. Flying west to east in winter means chasing the sunrise at 500 miles an hour. The darkness barely has time to settle before it’s swept away. It’s a strange contradiction—long winter nights on the ground, but up here, the night is fleeting. Breakfast is being served now, with a gentle reminder not to open all the window blinds at once. At 38,000 feet, there are no clouds to soften the sun, and the light can be blinding. They don’t want everyone’s eyes to pop out of their heads at the same time.

Jane stirs beside me, and I feel that familiar mix of relief and tenderness. We’re heading home, yes—but we’re also carrying something back with us. Memories, moments, and a quiet pride in having done it together. That matters more than the destination.

Fort Point

There’s something quietly profound about the last full day of a trip. You feel the tug of home, the weight of suitcases waiting to be packed, and yet—there’s still time. Time for one more wander, one more discovery. Today was that day.

Jane wanted to browse the shops and begin the gentle ritual of packing, and I wanted to chase down a few places that had lingered on my list—those out-of-the-way spots that don’t demand hours, just curiosity. We split the day, not out of distance, but out of respect for each other’s rhythms. It was a mutual nod: “Go do your thing.”

And what a brilliant day it turned out to be.

Me Day

There’s a special kind of joy in solo exploration. No compromises, no clock-watching. Just me, the city, and the quiet thrill of ticking off places that had waited patiently. I wandered, lingered, took photos I’ll probably never post, and felt that rare sense of being completely present.

It wasn’t about grand sights or dramatic moments—it was about reclaiming a little space, a little silence, before the journey ends. And knowing Jane was doing the same in her own way made it all the more meaningful.

Tomorrow we leave, but today was ours. Separately, together.

Little Italy exploring 

First of all, it was a walk up through Union Square to catch the number 30 for the 15-minute ride down to Washington Square Park.

Church of Saints Peter and Paul

From here you are at the bottom end of Little Italy, so there are plenty of places to grab a large coffee and sit in the park for a while admiring the old buildings and the Church of Saints Peter and Paul that is across the road, and just wander around the side streets looking in some of the shops that you never see anywhere else. From here you get some excellent views up to Coit Tower and the surrounding roads that go up the steepest hills I've ever seen. I'm surprised most of the cars make it up the hills, let alone the buses. This was also where the opening scene from the movie Dirty Harry was filmed.

After spending about an hour and a half around Little Italy, it was time to get on the bus. It was still going to be a long walk when I got off at the Palace of Fine Arts, where we went a few days before, but that was the nearest stop to Fort Point, which is underneath the Golden Gate Bridge.

Straight to the Point

Fort Point Under the Golden Gate Bridge

There’s a couple of ways to get to the fort. Unfortunately, if you get the bus to the top of the bridge, the walk down isn’t as far but is really steep, so after spending the best part of an hour walking along Golden Gate Promenade on a lovely warm clear day, I finally arrived at Fort Point.

It’s very similar to the forts around Portsmouth but a lot bigger. It always amazes me how these places were constructed in the first place. It's free to go in, and there are a few exhibits in the old officer's quarters. Spread over four floors and being directly under the Golden Gate Bridge, you get a different perspective of the bridge. When you get out onto the very top floor, there are some brilliant views across the bay.

Inside the Fort

During the War of 1812, the British landed in Chesapeake Bay and marched straight into the nation’s capital.

To prevent future embarrassments, President Madison ordered a new system of forts (known as the Third System) to guard the nation’s seaports. Completed in 1861 at a cost of $2.8 million, Fort Point was the only “Third System” fort built on the Pacific Coast. During the Civil War, 140 soldiers manned Fort Point, which was armed with 65 heavy artillery cannons, four flank howitzers, five coehorn mortars, and six siege mortars. Although the fort was never attacked, its walls could have theoretically withstood the impact of 10,000 cannonballs before giving way.

Lower Ranking Quarters

However, the invention of rifled cannons capable of breaching brick walls rendered the structure vulnerable. After the Civil War, Fort Point was intermittently garrisoned and saw its last active duty in World War II. They still do re-enactments which are amusing—especially about loading cannons using only one arm, just in case it went off while you were doing it you would still have at least one left if you survived.

The only downside to being here was that even though it was 20°C or so on the walk up, it must have only been about 8 degrees inside. After spending two or three hours in there, I was absolutely frozen, so it was time to walk back along the shore from the fort and watch the sea lions swimming out in the bay.

Warm Up in the Warming Hut

The Warming Hut, Everyone has a Coat On

It was going to be a long walk back to the bus stop, so it was time to go in the aptly named Warming Hut about halfway back to grab a coffee. It’s a shame there are no seats inside, so I had to find a spot in the sun to sit and warm up while admiring the view over the Bay on a day with no wind. The famous San Francisco microclimate had struck again, it would seem.

In the past, all these areas and buildings were part of the vast military base that covered all of The Presidio. It was a Spanish fort originally, then Mexican, before becoming a major U.S. Army post from 1846 until 1994. The buildings reflect this rich history and the architectural trends of the periods when they were constructed by the U.S. Army.

One of many on Crissy Field

There’s also a dark side to this area. During the war, an executive order was given by President Franklin D. Roosevelt in February 1942, shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. This order led to the forced relocation and incarceration of approximately 120,000 Japanese Americans, two-thirds of whom were U.S. citizens, from the West Coast into internment camps—often called "relocation centres"—in remote, isolated areas of the interior U.S. This was one of those locations.

The profound irony and injustice of this period is that while the families of the Japanese American soldiers being trained at Crissy Field's secret language school were being forcibly removed from their homes and incarcerated in these internment camps, these very soldiers were dedicating themselves to serving the United States. Many of these Nisei soldiers faced immense emotional hardship, knowing their loved ones were behind barbed wire, even as they wore the U.S. uniform and prepared to fight for the country. The MIS school itself was eventually relocated inland to Minnesota due to the prevailing anti-Japanese sentiment and paranoia on the West Coast.

Me Warming up at Crissy Field Beach

After soaking up the afternoon sun and drinking my coffee, it was time to set off on the long walk back to the Marina District—but this time via Crissy Field. This route takes you through the nature reserve with spectacular views across the bay, but this is more of a gravel pathway, so at almost a two-mile walk it would take more effort than planned.

Slow Crawl Back

By now the traffic had come to a standstill around most parts of this area, so rather than sit on the bus, I thought it would be quicker to get on one of the cable cars instead. I’m not sure if it was any better

Massive Queue for the Cable Car at Powell St.

doing it that way, as the queue was massive, so I had to walk up a couple of stops and get on one there. People tend to congregate at the ends of the route, and when each one leaves they’re not full, so anyone waiting at the stops in between can get on. This turned out to be a solid plan—once I was on it, I was back near the hotel in about 20 minutes.

I dropped into the pub for a well-earned sit down with a couple of beers.

Jane had had a good day going round the shops; when I got back, it was time for a sleep for an hour or so. By the time I woke up, it was around 9:30, and we were both hungry, so it was time for a trip up to Uncle Vito's again for a large pizza between us and my nighttime exercise up the hill. Then it was time for bed, as tomorrow we were heading back home, and that was going to be a very long day.

Reflection on the Day: Distance and Depth

Our final full day in San Francisco unfolded like a well-paced farewell—no rush, no pressure, just a gentle parting with the city on our own terms. Jane took to the shops, easing into the rhythm of departure, while I set off on a solo mission to explore the places that had lingered on my list. It was a day of quiet understanding: we each had our own version of closure to find.

Little Italy offered charm and cinematic trivia, with coffee in Washington Square Park and views up to Coit Tower that defied gravity. From there, the walk to Fort Point was long but rewarding—sunshine on the Golden Gate Promenade, history layered beneath the bridge, and echoes of Portsmouth in the fort’s architecture. The re-enactments were both amusing and sobering, a reminder of how war leaves its mark in unexpected ways.

The Warming Hut lived up to its name, even if the warmth came more from the sun than the building itself. Sitting outside with coffee, I soaked in the view and the weight of history—both the grandeur of The Presidio and the darker chapters of internment and injustice. Crissy Field’s gravel path made the walk back slower, but the views across the bay made every step worthwhile.

The day ended with a slow crawl through traffic, a clever cable car detour, and a well-earned pint. Jane had had a good day too, and by the time we reunited, it felt like we’d both made peace with leaving. One last pizza at Uncle Vito’s, one last climb up the hill, and then it was time to rest.

Tomorrow, we go home. But today was a gift—personal, historical, and quietly profound.

Ocean Beach & Sutro Baths

Jane was feeling a bit better today, so we decided to head out for a proper all-American breakfast. There’s no shortage of places to eat in this city—diners, cafés, and corner joints all within a stone’s throw of our hotel. But we didn’t want to just follow the crowd. Why settle for what everyone else has probably done countless times before?

I’d come across a place during my trip research that had stuck with me. It wasn’t far, but it had character—one of those spots that felt like it had stories baked into the walls. It had made our to-do list early on.

All American Breakfast 

We’d passed this place the other day on our way to the zoo, but I’d forgotten it was closed on Mondays. So today, with Jane feeling better and the morning wide open, we jumped on the L Taraval tram for the 30-minute ride down to John's Ocean Beach Café, tucked away on Sloat Boulevard.

This place is straight out of a 1950s time capsule—not a theme restaurant, just untouched by modern trends. Walking in felt like stepping into a black-and-white TV show. Formica tables, imitation leather booths, and those classic counter stools that spin with a satisfying squeak. The walls were plastered with signed posters of jazz musicians from decades past, and tucked in the corner was an original jukebox that still plays vinyl records. And yes—it still works.

The café’s surprisingly spacious, probably seats fifty or sixty, but that morning it was quiet. Just half a dozen people scattered around, so we snagged a booth—normally reserved for three or more, but the waitress didn’t bat an eye. She was friendly, quick with the coffee, and handed us menus that looked like they hadn’t changed in years. The sheer number of options was staggering, especially for a place that only opens from 7:30 to 3:30.

We both went for the scrambled eggs, which came with two slices of toast and a generous pile of pan-fried potato chunks—crispy on the outside, soft in the middle, and seasoned just right. It took some eating, but the endless coffee refills helped it down. All this for around $20, tax and tip included. Best of all? They only take good old-fashioned cash.

It was more than just breakfast—it was a slice of Americana, served hot with a side of nostalgia.

Peace, Man

Peace at Ocean Beach

After that mountain of breakfast, we needed a walk—if only to avoid falling asleep in the booth. It was just a short stroll, maybe five minutes, to Ocean Beach, once we’d managed to cross the Great Highway. That road’s a beast—wide, fast-moving, and not exactly pedestrian-friendly, even with the crossings. It felt a bit like trying to cross a motorway back home. You keep your eyes peeled and hope the traffic gods are feeling generous.

We picked our way across the tiny sand dunes that pile up along the pavements here, then crossed over to the beach. Jane couldn’t get all the way onto the sand—her crutches would’ve sunk in too easily—so we found a spot on the low wall by the car park overlooking the ocean. We sat there for over an hour, just watching the surfers carve through the waves.

Surf's Up

And the waves, those waves were massive. Easily ten feet, maybe more. It was hypnotic, watching them rise and crash, the surfers dancing between power and precision. The sun was warm, the sky clear, and the whole scene felt like something out of a film. Jane had missed the beach yesterday, but today she got a taste of California’s coastal magic. It was another defining moment of the trip. That feeling of peace and tranquillity—just sitting, watching, breathing—it’s something I’ll carry with me.

Eventually, Jane decided she wanted to head back to the city and then to the hotel. She wasn’t feeling great again, so I went with her to make sure she got back okay.

But there was still one more thing I wanted to do.

Time for a Paddle

After making sure Jane was okay, I still had plans down at the beach. It’s not all sand and surf down there—there’s a whole stretch of coastline that feels like it belongs to the locals. So I caught the N Judah tram to its western terminus at Ocean Beach, a couple of miles up from where we’d been earlier in the day.

Beach to the Golden Gate Bridge

From there, I started walking north along the sand. To hell with it, I thought—time for a paddle. I took off my shoes and stepped into the Pacific. Cold, refreshing, and exactly what I needed. The water hit my feet like a wake-up call, but the sun was warm—mid-20s at least—so I stuffed my coat into my bag and waded in a little deeper.

I never would’ve imagined I’d be paddling in the Pacific wearing just a T-shirt and my jeans rolled up on Boxing Day—or should I say non-Boxing Day. They don’t have it here. Just Christmas Day, then it’s back to work for most people. The beach was quiet but not empty—locals walking dogs, a few brave swimmers, and the occasional jogger kicking up sand.

By now, I was even starting to get a slight tan on my arms. When you reach the northern end of Ocean Beach, the cliffs jut out over the sand and the tide starts to press in, so I dried off and climbed up to the top via the road. From there, the view south is breathtaking—miles upon miles of beach stretching into the distance, the waves rolling in like clockwork. A truly incredible sight.

Cliff House

All that Remains of Sutro Baths

Just a short walk further north, the landscape shifts again—this time to something more dramatic. Perched on the rugged western edge of San Francisco is the Cliff House, and just below it, the haunting ruins of the Sutro Baths.

It’s hard to believe that these concrete remnants once formed the world’s largest indoor swimming complex. In 1896, Adolph Sutro—entrepreneur, engineer, and former mayor—opened his grand vision to the public. The Sutro Baths were a marvel: seven pools (six saltwater, one freshwater), a museum of curiosities, a concert hall, and seating for 8,000. At one point, there was even an ice rink. Ocean water surged in naturally at high tide, and a turbine pump—housed in the Cliff House itself—could refill the tanks in just five hours at low tide.

People Exploring

Serviced by the Ferries and Cliff House Railroad, the baths were a popular escape, but their operating costs were immense. In 1966, while the building was being demolished, a fire destroyed what remained. Now, only the skeletal walls, blocked-off staircases, and tunnels remain—a ghost of grandeur.

Looking down from the top of the cliff, the view is staggering. The Pacific stretches endlessly, and the ruins below seem almost mythic. You can imagine the laughter, the splashing, the spectacle. It must have been idyllic at any time of year. Today, the Cliff House and Sutro Baths are preserved as part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, a tribute to San Francisco’s eccentric and ambitious past.

Exploring the Ruins

Sutro baths & Cliff House in the Distance

Unfortunately, when you get down into the ruins and start to explore them, you see just how much rubbish gets dropped here. It’s a real shame. This place—once a marvel of Victorian engineering and imagination—now has crisp packets and plastic bottles wedged between the concrete bones of history. How hard can it be to take your trash up to the road and put it in the bin?

Still, I’ve always loved walking around old places like this. There’s something about ruins that invites you to imagine—not just what they looked like, but how they felt. Picture the Sutro Baths in their heyday: steam rising from saltwater pools, the echo of laughter, the rustle of fancy clothes. Although the baths were open to everyone, there was a time in the late 1800s when racial segregation was enforced. Non-white visitors were allowed in—but only as spectators. “Well, wasn’t that nice of them wasn’t it”. Thankfully, that policy was overturned in court in 1898, making the baths accessible to all—if you could afford it.

All that Remains of the Pools

Speaking of affordability, entry cost 25 cents in 1896. Adjusted for inflation, that’s about $8.57 in 2013. Not an outrageous sum, but certainly a treat for working-class families. It wasn’t something you’d do every day, but it was within reach—a rare blend of grandeur and accessibility.

As I wandered through the blocked-off staircases and tunnels, I felt a mix of awe and melancholy. The ruins are beautiful, but they’re also a reminder of how easily we forget to care for the past. The view out to sea is still magnificent, though. That part, at least, remains untouched.

Lands End

One of the Paths to the Lands End Trail

It was then time to head up the steep pathway onto the Lands End Trail, part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, and follow it north toward China Beach. The plan was to catch the late-afternoon light on the Golden Gate Bridge from the other side—sunlit, majestic, and hopefully perfect for a few good photographs.

As I climbed, the wind picked up and the air grew cooler, but the views were worth every step. What struck me most, though, wasn’t just the scenery—it was the sense of walking through history. This trail, winding along the cliffs, follows the path of the old Ferries and Cliff House Railway, a steam train line funded by Adolph Sutro in the late 1880s. He wanted his attractions—the Cliff House, Sutro Baths, and Sutro Heights—to be accessible to everyone, not just the wealthy. For just five cents, passengers could transfer from downtown cable cars and ride the train out to the edge of the continent.

Lands End Trail

Later, around 1905, the line was electrified and became the No. 1 Sutter and California streetcar line, often called “the Cliff Line.” It hugged the cliffs, offering panoramic views of the Golden Gate. But the cliffs were never stable. Landslides plagued the route, and in February 1925, a particularly severe one damaged the tracks beyond repair. The line was abandoned, and the trains stopped running—but the land remembers.

As I walked, I noticed subtle clues: embankments shaped unnaturally level, concrete foundations half-swallowed by earth, and the occasional historical marker with faded photographs and maps. 

Lands End to the Golden Gate Bridge

A mile or so along the trail, I reached a brilliant viewpoint. The Golden Gate Bridge stood proud in the distance, bathed in golden light, with the Marin County hills behind it. The sun was sinking fast now, so I turned back to catch the sunset over the Pacific. I tried some time-lapse video as the sky turned orange and then deepened into twilight.

Sunset Over the Pacific Ocean

By now it was dark, but the evening was warm. Down on the beach, people had started lighting fires—small gatherings, laughter, the smell of smoke drifting up the cliffs. What a perfect way to spend the evening.

But I had to keep moving. It was a mile or so walk back to the tram stop, and I arrived just as one was about to leave. Back in the city by six o’clock, I grabbed a couple of swift drinks down the pub before heading back to the hotel to check on Jane and sort out something for dinner.

Cheeky Pint & Pizza

Photos Before a Pint

Jane was feeling better after a good afternoon nap, but she didn’t fancy heading out for dinner. Fair enough. So I made a solo dash for food, with a cheeky detour first—Johnny Foley's Irish Pub, just off Powell Street. It’s got all the charm of a classic pub, albeit with a bit of plastic sheen, but it’s hard to resist when it’s right on the way. A swift pint felt like the proper punctuation to a day spent walking cliffs and ruins.

Then it was uphill—always uphill—to Uncle Vito’s Pizza at the corner of Powell and Bush. The slope seemed steeper than ever, legs protesting after miles of walking. The place was packed, with a queue snaking out the door, but most were waiting for seats inside. I was lucky—served fairly quickly, pizza in hand and ready to descend.

Macy's Christmas Lights

The walk back was longer than I remembered, but at least it was downhill. Still warm, even after dark, and the pizza was worth every step. Just $13.50 for a slice of comfort—crispy, cheesy, and exactly what I needed.

By now it was about nine o’clock. Looking back, this might’ve been the best Boxing Day I’ve ever had. Spectacular views, warm weather, a paddle in the Pacific, and good food to keep me going. You couldn’t ask for more than that today, I think.

Reflection on the Day: Boxing Day Reimagined

Boxing Day in San Francisco turned out to be nothing like the ones I’ve known back home—and maybe that’s what made it so memorable. No leftover turkey, no drizzle, no half-hearted sales. Instead, there was sunshine, sea air, and the kind of freedom that only comes when you stop trying to follow tradition and start following your feet.

Jane’s recovery gave the day a gentle rhythm. We didn’t rush, didn’t plan too tightly—just let the hours unfold. From the quiet joy of watching surfers together to the solitude of walking the Lands End Trail, it felt like the city was offering up its own version of peace. Not the kind wrapped in tinsel, but the kind you find in warm breezes and long shadows.

The history beneath my feet added depth to the walk—knowing that trains once clung to these cliffs, carrying families out to marvel at the Pacific, made every step feel connected to something bigger. And then there was the pizza, the cheeky pint, the soft descent back to the hotel. Simple pleasures, perfectly timed.

It wasn’t a traditional Boxing Day, but it was one I’ll remember. A day of warmth, wonder, and quiet resilience. And sometimes, that’s all you need.

Huntington Park Christmas Day

Well, today is Christmas Day—not that you’d really know it. The sun was blazing, the temperature hovered around 22°C, and most of the shops were open, apart from the big department stores like Macy’s, which had shut their doors for the day. It felt more like a spring afternoon than anything remotely festive.

Jane was worse today, so we kept things gentle. She fancied a short stroll through a few shops before lunch, just to stretch her legs and get some fresh air. Then we headed back to the hotel for a quiet bite to eat. I seemed to have dodged the worst of whatever bug was running through our systems, so I decided to make the most of the afternoon with a bit of solo urban exploration.

It’s strange spending Christmas in a city that doesn’t quite pause for it. Just sunshine, storefronts, and the occasional wreath trying its best to look seasonal in the glare. But there’s something liberating about that too—no pressure, no expectations, just the freedom to wander.

Christmas Day Trek

After lunch, Jane wanted to rest—her cough wasn’t letting up—so I set off on a solo wander to explore some of the out-of-the-way spots that don’t take long to visit but are worth the detour. They’re scattered across the city, and the best way to find them is to wander the side streets and see where your feet take you.

Arriving at powell street Turn Around

I started at the bottom of Market Street, where the Powell and Market cable car turnaround sits like a stage set for vintage San Francisco. It’s a great place to watch the cable cars being manually rotated on the turntable before heading back up the hill. From there, I walked east to the start of the California Street cable car line, then began the climb straight up California Street on foot.

This is one of the steepest roads in the city, rising about 300 feet in just under a mile. It’s a slow burn on the legs, but the payoff is worth it. I resisted the temptation to look back as I climbed, saving the view for the top—and when I finally turned around, it was spectacular. The city rolled out beneath me, with the bay glinting in the distance and the rooftops stacked like a postcard. It’s one of those moments where the effort makes the view sweeter.

Huntington Park

After about an hour of walking, I finally reached the top of California Street and my first port of call: Huntington Park. It’s not large—just 1.3 acres—but it’s easily one of the most peaceful and beautiful parks I’ve ever had the pleasure of sitting in. On Christmas Day, with the city hushed and the sun casting long shadows, it felt like a sanctuary.

Here’s a brief history of how this little oasis came to be.

Huntington Park

Back in 1872, at the corner of California and Taylor, railway lawyer General David D. Colton built one of San Francisco’s most elaborate residences. The white timber mansion boasted a grand marble staircase and a portico of Corinthian columns, hosting glittering gatherings in true Gilded Age style. After Colton’s death in 1878, his widow sold the home to another railroad magnate, Collis P. Huntington. He lived there with his wife Arabella until his passing in 1900. Arabella remained until the house was tragically destroyed in the 1906 earthquake and fire.

Rather than rebuild, Arabella donated the land to the city in 1915, with one condition: it must remain a public park in perpetuity.

Today, Huntington Park is a manicured green space nestled atop Nob Hill, bordered by California, Taylor, Sacramento, and Cushman Streets. At its heart is the Fountain of the Tortoises—a replica of Rome’s Fontana delle Tartarughe—featuring cavorting turtles and nymphs. During the holidays, the underwater lamps glow in festive reds, ambers, and greens. The park is flanked by architectural icons: Grace Cathedral to the west, the Fairmont Hotel to the north, and the Huntington Hotel just across the street.

I sat there for a while, watching hummingbirds dart between the native plantings, soaking in the quiet and the soft light of mid-afternoon. What more could you ask for on Christmas Day? Well—Jane by my side, perhaps. That would’ve made it perfect.

Grace Cathedral

Just across the road from Huntington Park stands Grace Cathedral—one of the largest and most iconic cathedrals on the West Coast. Towering over Nob Hill, its Neo-Gothic architecture is inspired by Notre Dame in Paris, and the building itself took nearly four decades to complete after the original Grace Church was destroyed in the 1906 earthquake and fire.

Grace Cathedral

The interior is vast and awe-inspiring, with soaring arches and some of the largest stained glass windows I’ve ever seen. They depict everything from biblical scenes to moments in San Francisco’s history, including the 1906 quake and the signing of the UN Charter in 1945. Outside, the stonework is exquisite—every detail carved with care and precision. It’s hard to imagine the time, effort, and skill that went into creating something this monumental.

Grace Cathedral is also home to two labyrinths (one inside, one outside), a replica of Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise, and a striking AIDS memorial altarpiece by Keith Haring. It’s not just a place of worship—it’s a living gallery of art, history, and community.

The surrounding area, Nob Hill, is a charming mix of 1920s-era shops and homes. It’s not only litter-free—it’s beggar-free too, which probably has something to do with it being one of the city’s most affluent neighbourhoods.

After spending some time wandering around and taking photographs, I headed back down Powell Street. Walking downhill on streets this steep is just as tough as going up. I was on the hunt for a pizza restaurant I’d wanted to try before heading home, but eventually ended up back at Union Square. So I grabbed a sandwich for a late lunch and sat in Walgreens watching the world go by. It felt oddly familiar—almost like home. If I could live anywhere, I think it might be here. It’s not all steep hills.

It was still only about 3:30, so I jumped on a bus heading toward Powell Street Station, then caught the first outbound tram with no idea where it was going. That was the plan—a surprise destination at the end of the line.

Mystery Tram

Pacific Sunset Ocean Beach

Turns out my spontaneous tram adventure took me west on the L line, and about 30 minutes later I was strolling along the sand at Ocean Beach. The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows and golden light across the waves. I don’t think I’ve ever spent such a peaceful Christmas Day. It was one of the warmest on record for San Francisco, and the city seemed to lean into the calm. I only wished Jane had been there with me. Watching the sun set over the Pacific, I found myself imagining us sitting together on the beach with a campfire crackling between us. That image will stay with me.

I wandered north along the shoreline until I reached the end of the N Judah line. Even on Christmas Day, the trams and buses were running a Sunday service—which, oddly enough, felt more frequent than a regular weekday back home. The warmth must’ve drawn people out; the tram was busy, full of families, couples, and solo wanderers like me, all soaking in the rare December sunshine.

There’s something magical about boarding a tram with no destination in mind and letting the city decide for you. That little loop at the end of the N line, where the tracks curve around the Great Highway, felt like a quiet punctuation mark to the day. I hopped on and let the city pull me back toward its glowing heart.

Back to the Hotel

I finally made it back to the hotel around 6:30, totally knackered and in desperate need of a tin of beer. My legs were staging a quiet protest, and I couldn’t blame them—I'd walked half the city, uphill and down, beach to tram stop. But every step had been worth it.

Jane was starting to feel a bit better after spending the afternoon resting, so we grabbed something to eat and settled in for the night. There’s something comforting about sinking into a big, soft bed after a day like that, flicking through channels and letting the hum of the TV fill the room. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was perfect.

Christmas Day had unfolded in unexpected ways—from cathedral grandeur to beachside solitude—and even though it wasn’t the day we’d planned, it became one I’ll never forget. Maybe my legs wouldn’t agree tomorrow, but my heart was all in.

Reflection on the day: A Christmas of Contrasts

Christmas Day in San Francisco turned out to be a day of contrasts—cathedrals and coastlines, solitude and shared comfort, grandeur and grit. It wasn’t the kind of day we’d planned, but maybe that’s what made it so memorable. There was no roast dinner, no family gathering around a tree, no snow-dusted streets. Instead, there was stained glass and stonework, sunlit sand, and the gentle hum of trams weaving through the city.

Grace Cathedral reminded me of the beauty that can rise from ruin—how something so intricate and enduring can be born from disaster. The beach, on the other hand, offered simplicity: just the sea, the sky, and the setting sun. Both places stirred something in me. A sense of peace, maybe. Or perspective.

I missed Jane during those quiet moments, especially on the beach. But sharing the evening with her, even if it was just curled up in bed watching TV, grounded the day in something familiar. It reminded me that connection doesn’t always need ceremony—it just needs presence.

This Christmas wasn’t traditional, but it was honest. It was a day of wandering, wondering, and finding small joys in unexpected places. And if I could bottle the feeling of watching the sun set over the Pacific with the warmth of the city at my back, I think I’d carry it with me always.

Union Square Christmas Eve

Jane seemed to be getting worse today—her cough had taken a turn for the dramatic, and to be honest, I wasn’t feeling too great myself. Perhaps the dreaded lurgy was wriggling its way through my system too. But we’re British, and if there’s one thing we’re known for, it’s soldiering on through mild-to-moderate discomfort with a cup of tea and misplaced optimism.

We didn’t fly 6,000 miles to let a mere cold stop us.

So, we decided to take it easy. Just a short walk to stretch the legs and remind ourselves we were still on holiday, even if our immune systems were staging a quiet rebellion.

Almost Merry Christmas

Or should I say “Happy Holidays”? It’s Christmas Eve, but it doesn’t feel like it. The temperature’s over 20°C, the birds are singing, the bees are buzzing, and we had no plans at all for the day. The main reason? We weren’t sure how reliable transport would be. Turns out, unlike the UK, San Francisco winds down to a Sunday night service—which, to be honest, probably still has more buses running than we do on a weekday. There’s no shortage of drivers here, since they’re well paid for working these hours.

All Sorts of Cup Cakes

Jane wasn’t feeling great, so we kept things simple with a short walk around Union Square. Then we headed up to Cako Bakery, a place I’d heard does the best cupcakes in town—and they weren’t wrong. We only got a couple of chocolate ones to try. At $3.50 each, they’re not cheap, but they’re a local legend. They even came in little plastic holders inside the bag so they wouldn’t get squashed. A small touch, but a thoughtful one.

We saved them for later in the evening, and they were worth the wait—light, fluffy, and probably about a million calories each. A proper festive treat, even if the weather felt more like springtime in Cornwall than Christmas in California.

Last Minute Shoppers, The Lurgy Lurks

Looking Down on Union Square

Jane was starting to feel worse, so she headed back to the hotel to rest. I took the opportunity to walk up to Union Square and snap a few photos. You wouldn’t believe how many people were out doing last-minute Christmas shopping—it was packed to the point where you could barely move. It reminded me of those classic Christmas movies set in New York, with everyone rushing about in a festive frenzy. Only this time, instead of scarves and snowflakes, it was t-shirts and sunshine—one of the warmest Christmas Eves in years.

Union Square had transformed into a bustling holiday village, thanks to the Union Square Holiday Market. With over 150 outdoor vendors selling handmade crafts, art, home accessories, and festive treats, it was a sensory overload of colour, sound, and cinnamon-scented air. The market’s energy was infectious, even if I wasn’t buying anything. Just being there—watching people haggle over ornaments, sip spiced coffee, and pose for selfies under twinkling lights—felt like stepping into a living postcard.

Pyramid & Parks

The queue for the ice rink was massive—not that I was going to risk it at my age. If I break something now, it’ll probably stay broken, and I’m fairly sure travel insurance doesn’t cover acts of stupidity. Things were getting a bit too busy around Union Square, so I cut through the side streets to visit the Transamerica Pyramid.

Transamerica Pyramid

You can see it from almost any high point in the city, but I wanted to stand at the base and look up. At 853 feet tall, it’s the tallest building in San Francisco and easily the most iconic. Built in 1972, its pyramid shape was designed to reduce the shadow it casts on the surrounding streets—a rare case of architectural ambition meeting civic consideration. Sadly, there’s no public observation deck anymore, but standing next to it is impressive enough. It’s like staring up at a giant, futuristic obelisk that somehow feels both out of place and perfectly at home.

Around the back, I found Transamerica Redwood Park—a hidden gem tucked into the Financial District. Despite being private land, it’s open to the public and offers a tranquil escape from the city’s buzz. The park is home to a grove of 50 coastal redwoods, brought over from the Santa Cruz Valley in the 1970s. They stand about 70 feet tall now, casting dappled light across benches, sculptures, and a central fountain. It’s the kind of place you’d never expect to find in the middle of a financial hub—quiet, green, and ideal for sipping a coffee while pretending you’re in a forest.

Being Christmas Eve, the whole area was practically deserted. No suits, no rush—just the sound of wind through redwoods and the occasional pigeon wondering where everyone went.

Murphy’s Bar

Bar Fly Time

It was around 4:30, the light was fading fast, and most of the shops nearby were starting to close. The pub seemed like the best option. Murphy’s Pub, tucked into Kearny Street with its brick walls and dim lighting, had only four other patrons nursing drinks when I walked in. People kept popping their heads in asking if they were still serving food, only to be surprised when told the kitchen was closed—and that the whole place would shut by six. Not exactly the festive buzz you’d expect on Christmas Eve, but I stuck it out with the other diehards until closing.

Murphy’s has that classic Irish pub feel—wood-panelled walls, sports on the TV, and a bartender who looks like he’s seen it all. It’s the kind of place where you could imagine a wedding afterparty one night and a quiet pint the next. No frills, just good beer and a bit of character.

After closing, I walked along Market Street for a while and soaking up the atmosphere. At least I wasn’t hammered this time, so I knew which bus to catch and where to get off. That’s progress.

Evening in Union Square

By seven, most places were shuttered except the Apple Store—which, I’m convinced, never closes. I wandered in again, not to buy anything, just to be somewhere that still felt alive. There’s something surreal about walking through a big city when the shops are closed and the streets are nearly empty.

We’ve never travelled over Christmas before, and it turns out that once the shutters come down, the city empties like someone flipped a switch.

With that, I called it a day and headed back to the hotel to check on Jane. Sadly, the illness had got the better of her today, and things hadn’t improved while I’d been out exploring. So we curled up and watched TV for the rest of the evening—quiet, low-key, and oddly comforting.

Reflections on the Day

It wasn’t the most dramatic day, but it had its own rhythm—wandering through streets that felt both familiar and foreign, dodging ice rinks and crowds, then stumbling into pockets of calm like Redwood Park and Murphy’s Pub. There’s something about travelling alone, even briefly, that sharpens your senses. You notice the way the light hits buildings, the hush of a nearly empty street, the odd comfort of a pub that’s about to close.