Golden Gate Bridge walk

Last time we stood at the edge of the Golden Gate Bridge, it felt just out of reach. Without Jane’s wheelchair, crossing wasn’t really an option — so we admired it from a distance and quietly filed it under “next time.”

Well, this was next time.

To the Bridge

With Jane's chair ready, the sun on our side and nothing urgent on the calendar, we were finally going to walk it — all the way to the other side. It's about a mile and a half each way, so not exactly a lazy wander, but with no time pressure and a cool breeze on our backs, it felt entirely doable.

San Francisco has a knack for turning ordinary goals into small triumphs. Just setting off felt like something worth celebrating.

We left the hotel around 9 am and headed for Union Square to catch the number 30 bus, which carried us part of the way. A quick turn and short wait later, we hopped on the number 28 — the one that takes you straight to Bridge Plaza. Most of that ride is on the motorway, about 25 minutes depending on the traffic, and the bus has to battle its way through the packed car park to reach the drop-off point. It’s tight, but for us, the bus is the only realistic way to get there.

The Gift Shop, Try & Stop Me

First up, the gift shop. We grabbed a couple of branded pens — you can’t buy Golden Gate merch just anywhere, probably because the image’s been copyrighted to the hilt. Bit of a racket, but part of the experience. Then it was time for a drink, a snack and a bottle of water from the coffee shop, even though I already had one tucked in the bag. Once you’re on the bridge, there’s nothing out there — no cafés, no loos, no vending machines. So best to be fully fuelled.

One thing that caught us off guard was the barrier height. Only about three and a half feet high in most places, which feels oddly low for a bridge that draws thousands every day. The only tall fencing is on the stretch above the fort and roadways below — presumably to stop anyone from jumping and landing on moving vehicles. Practical, if morbidly specific.

Bridge Walk — Pelicans & Prayers

Almost Across

So off we went — setting out across the Golden Gate Bridge with fresh determination and a few water bottles rattling in the bag. What you don’t realise until you’re halfway into it is just how steep the climb is, especially when pushing a set of wheels. It might look gentle from a distance, but my legs told a different story. Plenty of stops for breathers. Thankfully, once you hit the midpoint, it’s all downhill to the other side.

About halfway across, while I was lining up a few photos, two blokes nearby started chatting to us and asked about Jane’s leg. They seemed genuine, quietly curious. After a minute or two, they asked if they could say a prayer for her — and we assumed they meant later, maybe back at their church. But no — they dropped to their knees right then and there, placed a hand each on her knee, and gently offered a heartfelt prayer as people passed by. It caught us completely off guard. They asked if it felt any better — which it didn’t, to be honest — but smiled and said, “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” before wishing us well and carrying on. No ask for money, no preaching — just two kind souls sharing what they believed.

We made it to the far side in just over an hour. Tired but happy. A highlight for me was spotting pelicans gliding overhead — something I’ve always hoped to see. And to witness it while crossing one of the most photographed bridges in the world just layered the magic on thick.

The City From The North Parking Lot

Oddly, the north end of the bridge doesn’t have the same welcome as the south. No gift shop or café, just toilets and a car park that’s just as crammed and chaotic as the other. I’d hoped to climb the hills on the far side, where most of the iconic bridge photographs are taken, but between the time and the fatigue, it wasn’t happening. Besides, it was mid-afternoon, and the sun would’ve been in front of me anyway — those postcard shots are best in the morning. One for next time.

With water bottles topped up, we turned around and began the walk back. The bridge, as majestic as it is, is also thunderously loud. All that traffic rattling past just feet away makes you appreciate solid ground and peace all the more. Still, we’d done it — and that’s a moment worth tucking away.

Forts and Views — Hidden History

Battery Marcus Miller

Back at the South Vista Point, I’d spotted something on the satellite maps I simply had to investigate — Battery Boutelle, one of the old fortifications built to defend “The Gate.” That refers to the narrow stretch of water between San Francisco and Marin County, officially called the Golden Gate Strait, which is where the bridge gets its name from.

This sort of thing rarely makes it into guidebooks. But tucked among the hills, it’s easy to spot the old English influence in the construction — solid stone, curved lines, functional design. Very much like the forts back home, only supersized and set against views you wouldn’t normally get unless you were a bird or hanging from a drone.

Some Many Fortifications Along here

These batteries and forts were built between 1900 and 1917, designed to protect the bay from torpedo attacks. The artillery guns they housed could fire shells up to seven miles. It’s strange to imagine something so scenic having such a fierce past.

I probably spent too long taking photos — but with that backdrop and the faded grandeur of the place, it was hard not to. Eventually though, I realised I’d strayed a bit too far and had to retrace my steps to find where I’d left Jane. The terrain was anything but friendly — steep hills, loose sand, uneven paths and even a few ladders with no safety fences in sight. Back in the UK, a place like this would be securely fenced off or sealed up entirely.

It’s not remotely suitable for wheelchairs — but the sheer amount of historical structures here stretches for miles. It’s the sort of spot that deserves a whole day of exploring… assuming we ever make it back.

Buses and Chicken

By now it was only around 3:30, so we hopped back on the number 28 bus from the bridge. This time, instead of getting off at the usual transfer point, we stayed on almost to the end of the route. The funny thing was, we were the only passengers left. That’s when the driver turned and asked where we were headed — clearly assuming we’d missed our stop or wandered aboard by mistake.

To be fair, most people in this city do seem utterly bewildered by their own public transport. There’s no shortage of passengers who’ve no idea where they are, where they’re going, or when to bail out. So when we told him we were off to the Safeway superstore — and actually knew where it was and where to get off — he looked half impressed and half confused. Honestly, it’s easy to see why these drivers get stressed. There’s modern technology at everyone’s fingertips, yet half the city treats it like witchcraft.

Safeway, at last. This one’s got a bit of everything — and at prices that make Walgreens look like Fortnum’s. We’d been in this branch once before during a stroll along the marina, but that time we took a scenic route back and ended up hauling our shopping for what felt like miles. Lesson learnt. This time, we grabbed some sturdy reusable bags and did a proper stock-up. Our next bus was only a short walk away.

What we both fancied for tea was a roast chicken — and as luck would have it, there they were in the hot cabinet, golden-skinned and practically winking at us. Ready-cooked, no faff. Couldn’t have planned it better.

I love the Smell of Chicken in the Afternoon

It was a fairly big chicken, too — just five dollars, which felt like an absolute steal. Shame they didn’t have any coleslaw to go with it, but we weren’t about to complain. After about thirty minutes of shopping and at least a couple of bags full, we headed back out for the short walk up the road to catch the number 30 bus.

Now, whenever possible, we tend to avoid the 30. It barrels through Chinatown, and it’s always rammed to bursting — not uncommon for people to get off simply because the doors won’t shut. Fortunately, we got on near the start of the route, so things weren’t too bad… for about fifteen minutes. Then it filled up like a tin of sardines, and the traffic all but stalled.

I’m fairly sure our rotisserie chicken was making a name for itself by then — the smell drifting through the bus like a slow-motion food advert. Judging by a few hungry glances, we weren’t the only ones eyeing it up.

The upside to the 30 is that it drops you right outside the hotel — though crossing the road is another matter. At this time of day, the traffic’s endless, so we ended up walking to the next junction just to cross safely, then doubled back. With the city’s reputation for road fatalities, it felt like the smarter option.

Back in the hotel at last, and what a day it had been. We’d ticked every box, made it across the bridge, bagged souvenirs, spotted pelicans, even had strangers kneeling on tarmac — all topped off with a roast chicken feast that trumped our original plan of dinner at Rouge Bar. It went down a treat alongside a cold tin from the fridge and a heap of snacks for good measure.

By now, we were absolutely done in — time to flick on the big telly, flop on the bed, and rummage through the growing pile of keepsakes we’d picked up over the last few days. Just one last job before bed: taking out the remains of the chicken. You could smell it everywhere — even in the lift on the way in.

Some things travel well. Chicken scent is apparently one of them.

Reflections on the Day: A Day of Prayers, Pelicans, and Poultry Prestige

Some days feel like a chapter closing. Sunday was one of those — the long-awaited crossing of the Golden Gate Bridge, a goal quietly shelved years earlier when Jane’s mobility made it feel just out of reach. But this time, wheels were ready, weather was kind, and we had nothing but time.

Getting there was its own mini quest: two buses, a car park gauntlet, and a gift shop stop for pens that probably cost more than the ink inside them. Still, you don’t walk the Golden Gate Bridge without a bit of branded flair.

The walk itself was tougher than expected. That gentle incline? A lie told by postcards. Pushing a wheelchair uphill on a bridge that hums with traffic and wind is no small feat. But we paced ourselves, paused often, and soaked in the views — including a squadron of pelicans gliding overhead like feathered punctuation marks on a perfect day.

Then came the moment that will stay with us forever: two strangers, curious and kind, kneeling on the bridge to pray for Jane’s leg. No fanfare, no agenda — just a quiet act of faith in the middle of a tourist thoroughfare. It didn’t change her symptoms, but it changed the tone of the day. A reminder that belief, in any form, can be a balm.

The far side of the bridge was less welcoming — no café, no charm, just a car park and chaos. So we turned back, legs aching but hearts full. On the return, I detoured to explore Battery Boutelle, one of the old fortifications guarding the Golden Gate Strait. It was like stumbling into a forgotten chapter of history — stone structures built to repel torpedoes, now quietly crumbling against a backdrop of sea and sky. Not wheelchair-friendly, not even particularly safe, but hauntingly beautiful.

Back on solid ground, we rode the number 28 bus nearly to its end — just us and a driver who looked mildly alarmed that we knew where we were going. Safeway awaited, and with it, the holy grail of comfort food: a golden-skinned roast chicken for five dollars. No coleslaw, but who needs sides when your dinner smells like victory?

The number 30 bus delivered us back to the hotel, albeit in sardine formation. Our chicken, now a minor celebrity, perfumed the entire vehicle. I half expected someone to ask for a drumstick.

Back in our room, we collapsed with snacks, beer, and the smug satisfaction of a day well spent. The bridge had been crossed, the prayers received, the chicken devoured. And as we drifted off, the scent of roast lingered in the air — a delicious reminder that some triumphs come with crispy skin and a side of serendipity.

Treasure Island

After a tough start to the trip, I think it’s fair to say we’d finally turned a corner. Both of us were on the mend, and apart from Jane’s lingering cough — which was steadily easing thanks to the medicine she’d been taking — we were feeling right as rain.

T I Flea

Today gave us the chance to tick something off the list we couldn’t do last time: the Treasure Island Flea Market, held only on the final weekend of each month. So it was out onto Market Street, hopping any bus heading downtown, then weaving our way through to the temporary Transbay bus terminal to catch the Treasure Island service.

The Bay Bridge West Span

Treasure Island sits in the middle of San Francisco Bay, halfway between the city and Oakland. There’s no pedestrian access across the Bay Bridge, so the only way to get there is via the 24-hour bus service. I thought we were in for a long wait — one bus on the route and a 40-minute gap between runs — but luck was on our side. Just minutes after we arrived, the second bus rolled out of the depot. Perfect timing.

It’s around a fifteen-minute ride over the bridge, though the views aren’t much — the outward leg uses the lower deck, so you’re more tunnel rat than sightseer.

View From The Coffee Shop

We got off at what’s called the main gate and grabbed coffees from a little shop tucked inside what used to be the guardhouse. From there, we parked ourselves on a low wall overlooking the bay — one of the best vantage points on the island. Palm trees lining the street, San Francisco shimmering across the water... if only all flea markets came with scenery like this.

Treasure Island is actually a man-made extension of Yerba Buena Island, built between 1936–1937 using dredged mud from the bay, ready for the 1939 Golden Gate International Exposition. Since then, it’s worn many hats, most notably military base — but when it was eventually sold off and earmarked for stylish new housing, things took a turn. Turns out the land was contaminated with low-level radiation, and no one wanted to live there. Not even for affordable housing projects.

The Old Accomodtion Blocks

These days, most of the accommodation blocks are boarded up at the bottom — not through vandalism, just neglect. It’s isolated enough to keep the mischief to a minimum. There are still people living here, though I wouldn’t recommend growing vegetables in the back garden. The former administration building, with its classic art deco style, now serves as a function hall and small museum — a nod to its stranger chapters.

Bliss Dance, She Lives In Vagas Now

Entry to the flea market is three dollars, which covers land rental and staffing — and it’s well worth it. Calling it a flea market doesn’t quite capture the vibe; it’s more like a quirky, creative craft fair. Think sculptures made from scrap metal, clocks with eyes, and animals welded together from bits of forgotten tools.

Strange Things

I bought myself a rather handsome bag for $35, while Jane picked up some badges. The other big draw? Food trucks — around twenty of them serving everything from authentic Chinese noodles to classic American burgers. We went for bacon cheeseburgers: nine and a half dollars each with a drink, which isn’t cheap, but they were monstrous. Picnic tables were packed, so we took to the grass — slightly hesitant given what might be lingering beneath, but thankfully neither of us started glowing. Must be fine, then.

It took us a solid half-hour to defeat those burgers. Worth every bite.

After stretching out a bit longer and fighting the urge to nod off in the sun, we looped back through the market to check out the snow machine someone was trying to get going. From what we gathered, the plan was to stage a snowball fight — festive, if wildly optimistic given the 25°C sunshine. It wasn’t going well. Snow and summer don’t make easy bedfellows. What started as a fun idea was now a bubbling puddle and a lot of puzzled faces.

That, I believe, is what you'd call a spectacular fail.

Bridges, Blue Sky and a Bit of a Trek

The Bay Bridge And I

By now it was time to move on, so we left the market behind and headed to the far side of the island. I’d been keen to get a proper look at the new East Span of the Bay Bridge, and this was probably the best viewpoint we were going to get.

The Bay Bridge is split into two halves, with Treasure Island acting as the midpoint. The old eastern span took a battering in the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, and its replacement — started just six years ago — came in at a jaw-dropping seven billion dollars.

East Span Old & New

It’s a stunning piece of engineering. Nearly three miles long, sleek and modern, and I can only imagine how spectacular it must look lit up at night. From our vantage point, we could also see the old structure behind it, slowly being taken down piece by piece — a slow, deliberate dismantling that’s expected to take about three years. Watching something that vast gradually disappear is strangely mesmerising.

Aside from the unusual views, there’s not much else to do on this side of the island — no cafés, no trails, just quiet roads and wind in your face. So we retraced our steps back towards the bus stop at the main gate. Between the walk out, all the detours, and stopping for photos, I reckon we were out there for about an hour and a half.

Funny how time slips past when you're chasing bridges and soaking up views.

Flea to Farmers Market

Back at the bus stop, it was time for something sweet — so we nipped back into the shop and grabbed a couple of ice creams. Plenty of time to tuck in, too, since the bus has to loop around the island before picking you up for the return journey. Thankfully, this time it runs on the upper deck of the Bay Bridge, so you actually get a proper view. Sun glinting off the water, the skyline yawning into the distance — one of those simple moments that makes the journey feel like part of the destination.

The Ferry Building

Once back at the Transbay terminal, we headed out on foot — along the Embarcadero, past the bobbing boats and waterfront stalls, and on towards the Ferry Building marketplace. A farmers market was in full swing, and to call it busy would be an understatement. Elbows, queues and barely room to blink — even the toilets had a line stretching into double figures.

But we had a mission: the Golden Gate Meat Company. Discovered on our last visit, their turkey and mushroom pies are firmly pinned to our must-do list. At seven dollars apiece, they aren’t cheap — but they’re rich, hearty, and so packed with flavour you forget the price within two bites. Now that our appetites had well and truly returned, there was no holding back.

The Place To Sit With A Coffee

We settled on a bench outside to devour them and watch the old F-line streetcars roll by every few minutes — a slice of historical charm on wheels. And just as we’d come to expect, the weather had pulled one of its classic San Francisco stunts: warm five minutes ago, now borderline chilly. It’s the reason we always carry coats, no matter how sunny it starts. Move a mile and it feels like a different season.

With pies polished off and shadows stretching long, it was time to press on. Saturday had packed in more than we expected — and it wasn’t quite finished yet.

Market Street Crawl

We zigzagged our way across roads, tram lines and a plaza to reach the bus stop at the far end of Market Street. With free Wi-Fi covering the whole stretch, it was the perfect chance to fire up the app on my phone and track the next bus. Turned out we were in luck — just a ten-minute wait, which felt generous given the chaos around us.

Rush hour had Market Street locked up almost solid, but unlike back home, the traffic here doesn’t stew endlessly. They’ve got police officers on the junctions manually directing the flow where the light system buckles under pressure. It’s impressively efficient — something worth borrowing back in the UK. We saw the same trick used in New York, too. Feels oddly retro, but it works.

One way To Travel Market Street

We could’ve taken the tram that runs below Market Street, but let’s be honest — that idea had occurred to everyone else as well. Getting on isn’t usually the problem; it’s staying together when the doors fling open and you're elbow-deep in commuters. We stuck with the bus.

It should’ve been a quick fifteen-minute ride. Naturally, it wasn’t. About thirty minutes later, and after accidentally missing our stop because we were on an express service, we eventually disembarked a bit further up the line. No bother — we weren’t in any hurry.

Back near 5th and Market, we picked up a few evening bits from the shop before heading up to the hotel to wind things down. One particular luxury waiting in our room was an old cast iron deep fill bathtub — absolute bliss after a long day on our feet. A good soak, followed by sandwiches, soft pillows, and a few hours of mindless TV. Honestly, it doesn’t get much better.

We’re not really evening-out people — bars and noise aren’t our thing. Especially on longer trips, when the idea of heading out again becomes more chore than charm.

It had been a long one, but I’m glad we spent most of it exploring Treasure Island. It’s not somewhere you'd usually go, especially when the flea market’s dormant, but today made it well worth the detour.

Reflections on the Day: Treasure, Trolleys & Tactical Pie

Saturday felt like a reward for surviving the flu fog — a day where everything clicked, from bus timings to burger bliss. With Jane on the mend and our appetites fully restored, we set our sights on Treasure Island, that curious patch of man-made land floating halfway between San Francisco and Oakland. It’s not every day you visit a flea market on a former military base with a light seasoning of radiation.

The journey began with a minor miracle: catching the elusive Treasure Island bus within minutes. The ride over the Bay Bridge’s lower deck wasn’t scenic — more subterranean than sublime — but once we arrived, the views made up for it. Palm trees, shimmering skyline, and coffee from a repurposed guardhouse? Not your average market setup.

Treasure Island’s history reads like a plot twist: built for a world fair, turned into a naval base, then earmarked for housing until someone noticed the soil glowed a bit too enthusiastically. These days, it’s part ghost town, part creative haven. The flea market itself was more art fair than bargain bin — scrap metal sculptures, clocks with personality disorders, and food trucks that could feed a small army.

We tackled monstrous bacon cheeseburgers on the grass, half-expecting something to sprout from the soil or us. No mutations occurred, so we declared it safe. Then came the snow machine — a noble attempt at festive cheer that quickly devolved into confusion. Snowball fights in 25°C sunshine? Bold. Doomed. Entertaining.

After a sun-soaked stroll to admire the new East Span of the Bay Bridge — a $7 billion marvel slowly replacing its quake-damaged predecessor — we looped back for ice cream and a scenic ride home on the bridge’s upper deck. This time, the views were worthy of postcards.

But the day wasn’t done. We hit the Ferry Building farmers market like seasoned pros, elbows out and eyes on the prize: turkey and mushroom pies from Golden Gate Meat Company. Rich, savoury, and worth every dollar. We devoured them on a bench while vintage streetcars trundled past and the weather did its usual San Francisco impression of “four seasons in ten minutes.”

The evening wrapped with a Market Street crawl, a bus ride that turned into a scenic detour thanks to express routing, and a triumphant return to our hotel’s cast iron bathtub — the kind of soak that makes your toes forgive you for everything.

Treasure Island might not be on every tourist’s radar, but today it delivered: history, humour, and a whole lot of heart. And possibly a few lingering isotopes. But hey — we didn’t glow, we just grinned.

Bison and beach

We were up and out by around 9:30 am — actual enthusiasm in our step and no flu dragging us down for once. The plan was simple: pick up where we left off in Golden Gate Park a few days earlier. The weather wasn’t making any dramatic statements, just a cool morning with the sort of gentle grey skies that somehow suit a stroll through a city park perfectly.

By Golly its Bison

Armed with Muni passes and caffeine confidence, we set off for another dose of San Francisco serenity and surprises. The park had more to reveal — and this time, we were determined to tackle it with full stomachs and fewer tissues.

Bison Doing What They Do Best

We jumped back on the 5L towards Ocean Beach and hopped off just beyond the Japanese Tea Garden, heading into the park to catch sight of the resident bison herd. They were a bit distant, but we managed to snap a few decent shots — horns and all.

These magnificent beasts have lived here since 1891, part of a conservation programme that feels almost surreal given how close they came to extinction. Once roaming North America 30 million strong, their numbers plummeted to just a few hundred by the late 1800s. It wasn’t just hunting — government policy actively targeted them to disrupt Native American food sources, and habitat loss sealed the deal. That any survived at all is remarkable.

Attack Of The Golden Gate Park Roots

We should’ve headed back to the main road to walk down to the beach, but instead chose to meander through the park — a decision that came with consequences. Tree roots had taken over much of the pavement, making the wheelchair route practically unusable. Jane had to walk most of it, which wasn’t ideal, but the sunshine made up for the struggle.

Eventually, after about forty minutes of mildly heroic navigation, we popped out at the Dutch windmills overlooking the Pacific. Hunger struck, so we ventured over to a nearby row of shops, dodging the giant Safeway and searching for something with a bit more soul.

That’s when we struck gold.

TJ Burgers — a modest little spot with no neon branding or plastic booths — was recommended by someone passing by as we squinted at the menu. Inside, it was warm, welcoming, and exactly what we needed. Burgers, large fries, and a generously poured coffee came to about twelve dollars, and it might well have been one of the tastiest meals of the trip.

Nothing beats fresh air, big flavours, and a bit of luck.

Fountains, Forts & Fangs

Ligion Of Honor

From our burger haven, it was just a short stroll to catch the number 18 bus up to the Legion of Honor — a fine arts museum perched on a hill overlooking the city. Art galleries aren’t exactly our calling, but the views from the car park are spectacular. Clear skies, sweeping panoramas, and one of the cleanest fountains we’ve ever seen. Honestly, not a crisp packet in sight — a rare miracle when you're used to British town centres.

After taking a few photos around the fountain and its glistening no-litter glory, we headed round the side of the museum and slipped into the woods. I’d plotted one of my “trust me, it’s scenic” shortcuts — a winding path past old military bunkers that looked charmingly forgotten. Quaint, peaceful… until we later learned that the area’s full of rattlesnakes. Yes — actual rattlesnakes. Slithery, fangy, not-a-pet material.

Where The Snakes Hang Out🐍

Apparently, even in winter, they like to pop out and enjoy the sunshine, which was exactly what we were doing. That’s when it dawned on me: we weren’t just out for a stroll — we were potentially on the menu. And just to round off the wildlife bingo, mountain lions have been spotted roaming this area too (we found all this out later). No actual sightings on our jaunt, thankfully — though I did spend a good portion of the walk side-eyeing every rustle in the bushes like we were auditioning for Nature’s Top Five Terrifying Mistakes.

Now, I won’t claim I’m a sprinter by any means, but I did mentally calculate how fast I could run compared to Jane. Not proud of it... but let’s just say if anything tried to eat us, I liked my odds. Sorry Jane. At least one of us would make it onto the evening news.

Eventually, we emerged unscathed onto some quiet residential streets in the Outer Richmond district, greeted by pastel-painted houses and gardens bursting with — of all things — cacti. Bees buzzed as if it were July, and with the sun beaming down, it was genuinely hard to believe this was still winter.

Sunset, Souvenirs and Soft Hippy Vibes

Relaxing With A Coffee

From where we stood, it was only a short walk to Lands’ End — perched on a cliff that overlooks the weathered ruins of Sutro Baths. It’s one of those places that makes you stop talking and just… take it in. The Pacific stretched out like a sheet of burnished silver, and with the sun shining down on a gloriously warm afternoon, the only sensible thing to do was grab a coffee from the nearby shop, sit on the wall, and soak up the view.

It’s hard to explain the feeling of sitting there quietly beside Jane. No traffic. No crowds. Just stillness and sea breeze. One of those rare moments where the world feels like it’s politely stepped aside to give you space. Those are the ones you carry with you.

Ocean Beach & Cliff House

From there, we dipped into the national park gift shop for a few souvenirs — I’ll admit I’ve got a soft spot for keyrings and those oddly charming magnets you never know what to do with. Then we wandered past the old pumping station, which once kept the Sutro Baths flowing back in the 1900s. then Cliff House which is now a very pricey restaurant, but we popped into the adjacent gift shop all the same. Seems both places belong to the same company — and they’ve definitely embraced the luxury label. Everything had a hefty price tag, including the largest T-shirts I’ve ever laid eyes on. Honestly, I reckon you could rig one up as a marquee.

Something we’ve noticed in the States: buying clothes is a bit of a guessing game. I always end up needing a large, which I suspect is code for “tourist sizing.” Especially when most of the visitors seem to be from places like Japan, where proportions are generally more modest.

From the clifftop, we took the sloping road down to beach level. The sun was starting to dip by then, and we perched for a while to watch it slip behind the horizon. Even though we’ve been here before, this stretch of coast is one we’re always drawn back to — the kind of place that wouldn’t feel out of place in a dreamy romantic film. Watching the sun go down over the Pacific Ocean with Jane by my side... it doesn’t get much better.

Ocean Beach, Sunset Over The Pacific

The beach was still busy. Fires flickered across the sand in classic hippy style, glowing softly against the warm evening air. By morning, the tide would wash it all clean — a fresh canvas for new memories. Pure magic.

We wandered along the seafront, back to that small parade of shops we’d passed earlier, and ducked into the Safeway superstore — ready to stock up and settle in.

Grocery Shopping

There’s something oddly satisfying about stepping into a Safeway in San Francisco — shelves towering with choices, prices that make Walgreens look like Fort Knox, and that glorious feeling of having hit the jackpot in supermarket territory. We both love shopping here, but with so few branches dotted around the city, any chance to dive in is seized with delight.

Nom Nom

We didn’t hold back either — beer, biscuits, crisps, and anything else that whispered “treat yourself.” Within minutes, our modest little errand had turned into a full-blown haul. Turned out we’d seriously misjudged how much we could carry. The bags were hefty enough to count as gym equipment.

Thankfully, the bus stop was just across the road, sparing us the long haul with arms stretched like pack mules. We’d picked up a couple of Safeway’s reusable bags — the kind you have to use here since San Francisco’s banned plastic ones. These were proper sturdy, and stylish enough that no one back home’s likely to be sporting the same look. Nothing says “well-travelled” quite like a supermarket tote with character.

Crush Ride Bus Ride

We didn’t have to wait long for the bus — one of the perks of San Francisco’s real-time shelter boards. It’s always comforting to see a row of buses lined up across the road, even if none seem in a particular hurry to leave. Eventually one peeled off, and we climbed aboard.

By now it was completely dark, but the streets were still lively — it was only around 6:30 pm, after all. About fifteen minutes into the ride, the bus was properly packed. One of those “crush rides” where elbows become acquaintances and personal space is more concept than reality.

The ride back to 5th and Market took around 35 minutes, and from there it was just a short shuffle to the hotel. Both of us were knackered — it had been a long day full of fresh air, wildlife drama, and epic coastal views. Easily one of the best we’ve had so far.

Back in the room, we flicked on the telly, demolished the sandwiches and biscuits we’d snagged from Safeway, and gave in to the comfort of big pillows and city hum outside the window. A full belly, a tired grin, and the slow fade into sleep.

Reflections on the Day: Bison, Burgers & Bus-Sized T-Shirts

Friday arrived with actual pep in our step — a rare and welcome upgrade from the flu-shuffle of earlier days. Golden Gate Park was calling us back, and we answered with caffeine, Muni passes, and the kind of optimism usually reserved for people who haven’t yet Googled “rattlesnake habitats.”

First stop: the bison paddock. These shaggy legends have been grazing here since 1891, and while they weren’t exactly posing for selfies, we managed a few decent snaps. Their survival story is sobering — from 30 million strong to near extinction, thanks to a cocktail of hunting, policy sabotage, and habitat loss. Seeing them now, horns glinting in the morning light, felt like witnessing a quiet miracle.

Our route through the park was scenic but rebellious. Tree roots had staged a coup against the pavement, forcing Jane to walk most of it. Not ideal, but the sunshine softened the struggle. Forty minutes later, we emerged at the Dutch windmills, hungry and hopeful.

Enter TJ Burgers — a no-frills gem with zero neon and maximum flavour. Burgers, fries, and coffee for twelve dollars? Bargain. It was the kind of meal that makes you want to write a thank-you note to the cook and frame the receipt.

Next came the Legion of Honor, where the fountain was so pristine it could’ve starred in a detergent ad. We took photos, admired the view, and then — in classic “trust me, it’s scenic” fashion — I led us into the woods. Quaint bunkers, peaceful paths… and, as we later discovered, rattlesnakes. Yes, actual ones. Apparently, we’d wandered into San Francisco’s unofficial audition zone for “Wildlife That Could Ruin Your Day.”

No sightings, thankfully — just a lot of rustling and me mentally calculating my sprint speed versus Jane’s. Not proud, but survival instincts are rarely flattering.

We emerged into the Outer Richmond, greeted by pastel houses and cacti that looked like they’d been plucked from a desert postcard. From there, it was a gentle stroll to Lands’ End, where the Pacific shimmered like a silver sheet and the ruins of Sutro Baths whispered stories of old glamour. We perched with coffee, watched the waves, and let the world hush around us. One of those rare moments where everything aligns — sea breeze, silence, and someone you love beside you.

Souvenirs followed, including a T-shirt so large it could double as a tent. American sizing remains a mystery — somewhere between “roomy” and “portable gazebo.” Still, the gift shop charm was undeniable, even if the price tags required deep breathing.

As the sun dipped behind the horizon, we wandered the beach, fires flickering in soft hippy style. It felt like the city had exhaled — a warm, glowing pause before the tide reset everything.

Safeway was our final triumph: snacks, beer, and reusable bags sturdy enough to survive a minor apocalypse. The bus ride home was a classic crush — elbows, backpacks, and the occasional stranger’s shampoo scent. But we made it, tired and triumphant.

Back at the hotel, we collapsed into pillows, demolished our haul, and let the city hum lull us to sleep. A day of wildlife, wonder, and wearable marquee tents. Easily one of the best yet.

Crocker Galleria & Well Fargo History Museum

We woke up feeling worlds better—and absolutely ravenous—so a proper breakfast was non-negotiable.

The morning was overcast (though still pleasantly warm), and since it promised to be a short day, Jane set off to our favourite fast-food hideout: Carl’s Jr., just across from Hallidie Plaza.

A hearty Breakfast

Discovered by happy accident back in 2013, Carl’s Jr. has become our go-to alternative to the usual suspects. This time we finally tried their much-hyped breakfast cheese grills—essentially posh cheese on toast with your choice of filling. At around $6–7 each, they felt like utter bargains. We went for sausage and egg, and every mouthful was pure morning bliss.

With bellies full of gooey goodness, we were officially ready to face whatever the day had in store.

Roof Garden

Crocker Galleria

Like most days, we strolled to the end of the road and hopped on the first downtown bus we saw. We were only going a few stops to Crocker Galleria—a swanky food-only mall—but our real goal was the rooftop garden perched above Market Street.

This might just be the best spot in town to eat your lunch. You grab a bench, gaze down at the endless stream of buses and cable cars, and soak in the hum of the financial district. It was predictably hectic—lunchtime in a trendy zone always is—but in the best possible way.

The Roof Garden

After twenty minutes of blissful bird’s-eye people-watching, we slipped out through a side door to a tiny coffee shop. The coffee was superb and surprisingly cheap, but the tea came in these nylon-like sachets that never let the flavour escape. Needless to say, we stuck to coffee and hot chocolate thereafter.

We found a bench by the kerb, but the surrounding skyscrapers cast us into constant shade. Since it wasn’t quite warm enough for lingering, we headed on our way—just a couple of blocks down the road—to the next adventure: a museum waiting to be discovered.

A Nugget of Information

Restored Stagecoach, Wells Fargo Musuem

The Wells Fargo Museum is tucked into the lobby and first floor of the bank’s San Francisco offices — a hidden gem that most tourists breeze right past. It’s a shame, really. Wells Fargo is the oldest bank on the West Coast and played a pivotal role in managing transactions during the Gold Rush era, yet its story seems largely forgotten by the wandering masses.

Inside, they’ve preserved a remarkable collection of artefacts — weighing scales, authentic gold nuggets, and even a fully restored stagecoach once used to ferry money across dusty trails. It’s compact, so you won’t be spending hours here, but it’s absolutely worth a stop — an hour of quiet wonder in the heart of the financial district.

Unfortunately, just days after our visit, the museum found itself at the centre of a real-life heist. In the early hours, an armed gang crashed a car through the front doors, took the security guard hostage, and smashed open the display cases housing the gold. Their loot? Surprisingly modest. The damage to the building far outweighed the value of what they stole.

Thankfully, no one was hurt — the most important thing, really — and the museum reopened about four weeks later. The thieves were never caught, fading into the night like characters from the very history they tried to steal. It was strange to think that a place showcasing century-old security measures had just been breached in the most cinematic fashion imaginable.

More Nuggets

By around four o’clock, hunger had officially returned, so we ambled back along Market Street and ducked into McDonald’s for nuggets — this time the chicken kind, not the historical variety. They were doing a deal: twenty nuggets for five dollars. Who could say no? And they were cracking good, too.

Something you notice quickly here: McDonald’s in the US gives far more bang for your buck than back home. Most branches hand you a cup and let you fill it up yourself — free refills included, it seems. Not quite gourmet, but after days of feeling peaky, it hit the spot.

With stomachs sorted, we wandered down Market Street, peeking into a few shops along the way. Nothing serious — just a bit of browsing to stretch the legs and ease back into being upright humans. We’d kept it light on purpose while still recovering.

5th & Market, Start & End Of The Day

Eventually we reached 5th and Market, where the now comforting ritual continued: a stop at Walgreens to stock up on snacks and evening supplies. Feeling much stronger, I sent Jane on ahead to the hotel while I ventured further — round the corner to the off-licence (or liquor store, as they call it here) for a couple of tins of beer. I ended up only drinking one, mind. Jet lag and recovery don’t make for a high tolerance.

By now it was around 6 p.m.’ — or 4 a.m. in the UK. I didn’t mind the time difference, though. It gave me the perfect window to scroll through what people had posted online and use the hotel’s free Wi-Fi to upload my own photos from the day.

While everyone at home was just starting to browse, I was already tucked into our massive comfy bed, listening to the occasional fire truck zip past outside. It’s become part of the soundscape now — city lullabies in siren form.

Tomorrow? Let’s just say things were finally picking up pace.

Refections on the Day: Gold, Grills, and Chicken Thrills

Some days begin with a sunrise. Others begin with cheese. Thursday was firmly in the latter camp. After days of cautious nibbling, we woke ravenous and ready to devour something that didn’t come in a paper cup. Enter Carl’s Jr.—our fast-food soulmate since 2013—where breakfast cheese grills delivered the kind of joy usually reserved for winning raffles or finding forgotten ten-pound notes in your coat pocket. Sausage, egg, and gooey cheese: the holy trinity of recovery cuisine.

Fueled by toast-based triumph, we set off for Crocker Galleria’s rooftop garden—a hidden perch above Market Street where lunch breaks come with panoramic people-watching. From our bench, we surveyed the city like mildly caffeinated monarchs. The coffee was excellent. The tea, however, came in sachets that could double as parachutes. We made a swift diplomatic switch to hot chocolate.

Next stop: the Wells Fargo Museum, a compact treasure trove of Gold Rush history tucked inside a bank lobby. It had everything—gold nuggets, weighing scales, and a stagecoach that looked ready to gallop off into a Western. We wandered through quietly, marveling at the artefacts and wondering why more people didn’t stop in. Days later, the museum would be the scene of a real-life heist—car crash, hostage, smashed display cases. It was like Ocean’s Eleven had been rewritten by someone with a modest budget and poor planning skills. Thankfully, no one was hurt, and the museum reopened with its dignity (mostly) intact.

By late afternoon, hunger struck again, and we answered with McDonald’s nuggets—twenty for five dollars, which felt like winning the culinary lottery. US McDonald’s is a different beast: generous portions, self-serve drinks, and a general vibe of “go on, treat yourself.” We did.

The rest of the day was a gentle glide: browsing shops, stocking up at Walgreens, and a solo beer run that ended with just one tin cracked open. Jet lag and chicken nuggets don’t mix well with alcohol, it turns out.

Back in our room, I uploaded photos while the city sang its siren lullabies outside. Fire trucks, distant chatter, and the hum of a place that never quite sleeps. We were stronger, fuller, and finally upright again. Tomorrow promised more pace—but today gave us nuggets of joy in every form.

Golden Gate Park

We surfaced around 10:30 a.m. feeling surprisingly human again. The coughs lingered, but the sun was calling, so we peeled back the curtains, shrugged off the duvet and readied ourselves for a day outdoors.

To the Conservatory

Hard To Believe it's January

A five-minute stroll from 4th and Market brought us to the bus stop. We hopped on the 5L towards Ocean Beach for a thirty-minute ride through the Richmond district, then crossed into Golden Gate Park. Twenty minutes later, the Conservatory of Flowers appeared under a flawless blue sky—winter in San Francisco felt more like high summer back home, with blooms in riotous colour and bees performing aerial acrobatics.

Conservatory Of Flowers

Just outside the conservatory sits a cosy coffee hut—our first port of call for large coffees and a moment’s respite before entry. Tickets were $8 each, which felt like a bargain once we stepped inside. The interior is divided into tropical, subtropical and desert zones. I braced myself for a sweltering sauna in the tropical section, but the humidity was perfectly bearable—my glasses stayed clear, and I marvelled at pitcher plants and lily pads that dwarfed any I’d seen before. Every leaf seemed ten times the size I expected.

We slowly wandered through each zone, pausing on benches to soak in the riot of colours and exotic foliage.

The Amazing Roof Span

At the far end, a temporary exhibit on aquatic water gardening awaited. We found ourselves alone in that hushed gallery, joined only by a passionate staff member who explained how these miniature ecosystems thrive in glass tanks. The precision and artistry on display were breathtaking—I reckon we spent nearly two hours there before reluctantly moving on.

From feeling bedridden to wandering among giant ferns and tanks of floating blooms, it was a day of small triumphs. Next up: wherever the park’s winding paths lead us.

Tea Garden Time

Just a short hop from the Conservatory is the Japanese Tea Garden — a serene oasis famed for its manicured bonsai and ornamental bridges. I wasn’t entirely sure we’d manage, given the steep pathways, but we decided to give it a whirl anyway.

Not Wheelchair Friendly

We approached the ticket kiosk, expecting the usual $10 admission. To our surprise, the attendant waved us through free of charge — a kindly nod to the fact that roughly half the garden would be out of Jane’s wheelchair reach. A small mercy that set the tone for the visit.

Stepping inside felt like wandering into a living bonsai museum. Everywhere we looked, manicured trees arched over mossy stones, while below, colossal koi carp glided through crystalline ponds. Their vibrant scales flashed like living jewels, a perfect counterpoint to the muted greens around them.

A Part We Both Made It To

Following the path, we climbed a steep incline and navigated a series of stepping stones — a section that proved tricky for Jane. At the summit sat the traditional tea house, but as neither of us is particularly devoted to matcha ceremonies, we detoured straight for the gift shop. Nothing says “authentic souvenir” like hand-crafted ceramics — at prices that made our eyes water faster than the garden’s waterfalls.

From there, I struck out alone toward the grand pagoda. The uneven, narrow path left Jane holding court at the base — her own private viewing platform of the pond below. Meanwhile, I lost myself in photography, framing every arching pine and carved stone lantern.

The Kio Ponds

Eventually, we reunited and found an alternate route that bypassed the stepping stones entirely and wound us back down to the ponds. I later noticed the irony: there’s a wheelchair ramp leading up to the garden entrance, but no ramps within to explore further. Perhaps that’s why there’s no charge for wheelchairs — the view from the bottom is picturesque enough.

Back to the City

We were both starting to feel peckish, having barely eaten for days while recuperating, so we headed to a nearby stall selling hot dogs and cold drinks. Sitting in the sunshine in that sprawling park, tucking into frankfurters and watching joggers, families and dog-walkers drift by felt like a small triumph.

The Old Trolly Buses Are Plenty

By late afternoon the sky had begun its January quick-change—dusk falls around 5 pm—so we cut through to Fulton Street and caught the next bus back towards the hotel. Fortunately one rolled up almost immediately; most of the time in San Francisco you don’t wait more than a few minutes. Thirty minutes later, we were back on 4th and Market.

Our evening ritual began with a trip to Walgreens for sandwiches and juice. As we entered, we witnessed the store’s security guard intercept someone trying to shop-lift. He calmly grabbed the fellow by the collar, emptied his pockets of pilfered goods, then unceremoniously ejected him onto the pavement with a warning to stay away. With no police in sight, the man simply sat back down outside—proof that this kind of theatre is all too routine in the neighbourhood.

And so another day came to a close. Each sunrise seemed to find us a little stronger than the last. Back in our room, we settled under the duvet, flicked on the TV and surrendered to the largest, comfiest bed in San Francisco. Until tomorrow.

Refections on the Day: From Ferns to Frankfurters, Petals to Pagodas

There’s something quietly heroic about a day that begins with coughs and ends with koi. We woke not with a roar but a rustle—tentatively peeling back the duvet, answering the sun’s call like two slightly creaky sunflowers. The city, ever patient, waited outside.

Golden Gate Park welcomed us like an old friend in a floral shirt. The Conservatory of Flowers, with its steamy glasshouse charm, offered a sensory reset: pitcher plants that looked like alien chalices, lily pads the size of dinner tables, and a staff member so passionate about aquatic gardening that we nearly signed up for a new hobby. It was a place where time slowed, and so did we—on benches, under palms, letting the tropics do their quiet work.

Then came the Japanese Tea Garden, where serenity met slope. The kindness of the ticket attendant—acknowledging Jane’s limited access with a quiet gesture—set the tone for a visit that was both beautiful and bittersweet. The garden’s elegance was undeniable, but so was its inaccessibility. Still, we found our own rhythm: Jane with her panoramic perch, me with my camera, both of us navigating the space in our own ways. The irony of the ramp to nowhere wasn’t lost on us, but neither was the view from the bottom.

Lunch was a triumph of the ordinary: hot dogs in the sun, surrounded by the choreography of city life—joggers, dogs, and the occasional squirrel with a death wish. It was the kind of moment that would’ve felt unremarkable a week earlier, but after days of convalescence, it tasted like victory.

Evening brought us back to the familiar fluorescent glow of Walgreens, where the day’s final scene unfolded like a bit of urban theatre—security guard versus shoplifter, no police, no drama, just a quiet reset of the city’s moral compass.

Back in our room, we collapsed into the embrace of the comfiest bed in San Francisco, grateful for a day that reminded us how far we’d come—from feverish to floral, from bedridden to bonsai. Not every day needs to be epic. Some just need to be lived, one garden path at a time.