We’re into arrival day now, the stretch of the journey where time zones swap and sleep patterns surrender. I've switched over to UK time, though the body's not quite convinced. At one point, I watched the sun rise — it really does sneak up fast when you’re flying towards it, like someone fast-forwarding the morning. Long-haul travel always feels a bit like time travel, just with less glamour and more trays of mystery food.
Breakfast arrived — or at least something claiming the title — and by this point, any coffee is a small mercy. Warm, vaguely caffeinated, and welcome.
11:00 GMT
With the eight-hour time difference stacked on top of the ten-hour flight, the journey felt longer than it really was. Not just physically — something about the maths tricks the brain into believing it’s been drifting through the sky for a day and a half. Long-haul flights stretch the hours, bend reality a little. Time loses its shape when the cabin lights dim and coffee passes for sleep.
But through it all, the quiet moments land heavier. Looking out the window as we passed over Southern Ireland, then over Bristol — it was strikingly peaceful. Clouds parting gently. The land familiar but fleeting. We even skimmed close to home — or nearly. That sense of flying right over the place you’re heading to, not quite landing yet. The irony didn’t escape me. Almost full circle.
Arrival
Some 5,900 miles later, we landed at Heathrow at 2:30 p.m. the following day. Ten hours in the air, plus the eight-hour time difference, had stretched the journey into something that felt twice as long. To say we were knackered is putting it mildly — running on fumes but still standing.
We made our way through the terminal, fighting the dazed shuffle of arrival, then joined the long wait at baggage reclaim. Eventually, they turned up — intact, travel-worn and, oddly enough, marked with dog footprints. Not sure what tale those told, but they made us smile.
Next up was customs, then out into the chilly air to find the taxi we’d booked for the ride home. The real shock came when they opened the plane door — we’d left behind a sunny 25°C in San Francisco, and arrived to near-freezing temperatures in London. That crisp blast of cold was a firm reminder that the holiday was officially over.
Ready whenever you are for your final reflection or postscript — however you want to wrap the journey. Let’s give it the sign-off it deserves.
Journey Home
From Heathrow to home takes about an hour and a half — though I’m fairly sure both of us were fast asleep twenty minutes into the taxi ride. And to be fair, it was probably the best nap we’d had all day. By the time we reached the front door, it was around 4:30pm, and the only thing on our minds was sleep.
Of course, the fridge had other ideas. No milk, no bread, nothing for a quick bite — so we dragged ourselves up to the shop to pick up just enough for sandwiches, and left the rest for tomorrow. A quiet little errand, and the final chore before collapse.
It’s strange — maybe it’s just getting older, maybe it’s the cumulative hours, but this time the flight seemed to take it out of me more than usual. That deep tiredness that doesn’t just settle in your body, but wraps around your thoughts.
The kind that whispers: you’re home now — rest.
San Francisco will always be in our hearts wherever we are, until we meet again SF.
Final Reflection: “Time Zones, Tray Tables, and the Soft Landing Home”
Sunday wasn’t just arrival day — it was the slow unraveling of a journey, the moment when motion gives way to memory. The flight blurred hours and hemispheres, stretching time until it lost its shape. Coffee became currency, sleep a distant hope, and breakfast a vague suggestion. But somewhere between Southern Ireland and Heathrow, the quiet settled in — that hush of altitude where thoughts drift and the world below feels both familiar and far.
Landing was a jolt — not just the wheels on tarmac, but the cold air, the dazed shuffle, the dog-footprinted luggage that made us laugh when we needed it most. The taxi ride home was a blur of half-sleep and soft silence, and by the time we reached the front door, the only thing louder than our exhaustion was the fridge’s protest. No milk. No bread. Just one last errand before collapse.
And yet, even in that fatigue, there was a kind of grace. A sense that the journey had given all it could — laughter, landscapes, late-night pizza, prayers on bridges, and pelicans in flight. San Francisco had wrapped itself around our days, stitched itself into our stories, and left behind a warmth that even London’s chill couldn’t quite shake.
This wasn’t just a holiday. It was a chapter. A rhythm. A reminder that some places don’t just get visited — they get remembered, revisited, and carried with you.
So we rest now. We unpack slowly. And we let the city hum quietly in our hearts until next time.
❤️Until we meet again, SF.❤️
