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.