Alcatraz Island

Today we finally got to visit Alcatraz Island — something we missed last time due to everything being booked solid. Tickets go on sale three months in advance and usually vanish fast, so this time we planned ahead. They’re only available online, and thankfully the hotel printed ours off a few days before. It wasn’t particularly busy this time, and plenty of slots were still available. At $30 each, it’s not cheap, but for the history and experience, it’s absolutely worth it.

Alcatraz

Waiting For The Boat To The Rock

We’d booked the 11am slot and took the F-line streetcar, which conveniently stops almost outside Pier 33 — the departure point for the island. With half an hour to spare, we popped into the nearby coffee shop while about a hundred others gathered, tickets in hand, behind the fenced waiting area.

Most visitors go through a security check, but for reasons unknown, we were waved straight through — no complaints there. Entry to the island itself is free, much like the Statue of Liberty, but the ferry crossing is where the cost comes in.

Boarding is efficient, with everyone loaded on in one go. The journey across the Bay takes about 20 minutes, and as the city skyline slipped behind, Alcatraz loomed ahead — stark, craggy and loaded with stories.

The Dock At The Rock

On arrival, we were met near the old guard housing for a brief intro to the island’s layered past. Originally home to the West Coast’s first lighthouse in 1854, it later became a military fort, then a base, and eventually a federal penitentiary from 1934 to 1963. The island held the worst of the worst — prisoners who’d caused problems elsewhere, including the infamous Al Capone and “Machine Gun” Kelly. Interestingly, Robert Stroud, the so-called Birdman of Alcatraz, never actually kept birds here — that part came from his earlier years in another prison.

After Alcatraz closed, it was famously occupied in 1969 by Native American activists claiming it as ancestral land. They held out for nearly two years, drawing national attention to Indigenous rights before being evicted. Eventually, the site was handed to the National Park Service and opened to the public.

The Hole They Dug To escape

And then there’s the escape story. Officially, no one ever escaped Alcatraz successfully — the cold waters, strong currents and isolation made it near-impossible. But in 1962, three prisoners — Frank Morris and brothers John and Clarence Anglin — pulled off one of the most elaborate escape attempts in US history. They chiselled through vents, climbed shafts, slipped out through a utility corridor, and vanished into the night on a homemade raft fashioned from raincoats. They were never found. Authorities presume they drowned, their bodies lost to the Bay — but conspiracy theories still float around, and the case remains open. It adds a fascinating layer to the otherwise rigid history of containment and control.

Jane On The Electric Tram

They call it The Rock for good reason — the climb from the dock to the cell block is steep, rising 300 feet up winding paths. There’s an electric tram available for those who need it, so Jane rode that while I tackled the incline on foot.

Inside the main block, visitors follow the same path new inmates would’ve taken — search rooms, showers, the medical wing — before climbing to the two tiers of cells. The cells are tiny — barely wide enough to stretch — though each prisoner had their own. Oddly, solitary confinement (The Hole) was slightly larger, though shrouded in total darkness. Beneath the main floor lies The Citadel, part of the original fort, used for harsher punishments. Night tours sometimes include it, but the photos alone are enough to put you off.

Inside The Cell block

At the upper level, you’re given headphones and a chunky audio guide which leads you through the prison’s history — routines, security systems, escape attempts, and daily life. It’s narrated by former guards and inmates, which adds grit and perspective. You pass through the blocks, exercise yard, mess hall and workshops, with occasional views out across the water — tantalising reminders of freedom, just out of reach.

After returning the audio gear, you’re free to explore the rest of the island. Views back to San Francisco are fantastic, and surprisingly, there are small gardens scattered around — restored from those originally planted by well-behaved inmates. They feel like little pockets of peace in an otherwise unforgiving landscape.

Jane Behind Bars

After nearly four hours on the island, we headed back down to the dock. With ferries running every 45 minutes, we had time to browse the gift shop — obviously couldn’t leave without picking up a souvenir — before cruising back to the city.

With temperatures hitting around 26°C and sunshine all day, the whole experience felt surprisingly serene given the history packed into every stone. An absolutely brilliant day — gritty, moving and quietly unforgettable.

Sea Lions & Streetcars

Catching The Last of The Sun

We got back to Pier 33 around three o’clock, and with daylight still on our side, took a short walk along the Embarcadero to Pier 39. First order of business: a couple of hot dogs — much needed, especially after discovering there’s no food or drink sold on Alcatraz itself. After refuelling, we had a look around the gift shops before spending a bit of time with our sea lion friends, who were as noisy and entertaining as ever.

By five o’clock, we headed over to the streetcar stop — but, naturally, had to wait ages for one to show up, and it arrived packed to the gills. I’d completely forgotten we could’ve grabbed a bus from one of the side streets. My bad.

Not The Easiest Streetcar
For Jane To Get On

The streetcar that eventually turned up was one of the older ones, which meant Jane had to use the special ramp from the raised platform to get on — but that meant we couldn’t get off at the stop we’d originally planned. I followed her aboard and had to duck my head to get through — apparently, vintage design wasn’t made with tall people in mind.

The stop we did get off at had a pavement lift — helpful in theory — but when it lowered, we couldn’t get the gate open again. Turns out we were trying to open the wrong part. Can’t blame us, really; it had been a long day.

Luckily, there was a Walgreens right nearby, so we popped in to check out their hoodie selection. Even though Walgreens seem to be on every corner, each one stocks slightly different gear when it comes to clothes — but nothing caught my eye this time. We just grabbed the usual bits: bottles of drink, a few snacks, and called it a day.

By now it was nearly dark, so we strolled back to the hotel for a well-earned rest. A warm evening, a full day, and at least the sea lions didn’t shout at us.

Pizza Trek

By the time it hit 8pm, hunger had kicked back in, so I made the trek up the hill to Uncle Vito’s for a large pizza to share. I’d forgotten just how steep that hill is — deceptively short on the map, not so forgiving on the legs. Took a little longer than expected to get there, but I managed to make it back to the hotel before the pizza started cooling. I can’t abide cold pizza — it’s just wrong.

Powell Street To Pizza

By 10pm we were both completely done in, so called it a day and headed for bed. Just before turning in, I glanced out the window and spotted a scene unfolding across the road — a police car had pulled someone over. One officer was stood near the driver’s side, while the other had his gun aimed straight at the passenger. Things escalated quickly — the first officer backed off and grabbed a shotgun from the squad car. I honestly thought shots were about to be fired.

But after about a minute, they lowered their weapons and let the car go. Must’ve been a case of mistaken identity — tense but short-lived.

It was finally time to wind down, listening to sirens roll by throughout the night. They didn’t keep us awake, thankfully — just part of the city’s soundtrack.

Reflections on the Day: A Day of Legends, Logistics, and Late-Night Sirens

Some days feel like they’ve been waiting for you. Thursday was one of them — a long-postponed visit to Alcatraz finally realised under a cloudless sky, with the city sparkling behind us and history looming ahead.

We’d planned ahead this time — no last-minute regrets or sold-out slots. The ferry from Pier 33 was smooth and swift, the skyline slipping away as Alcatraz rose from the Bay like a stone sentinel. Stark, weathered, and humming with stories.

The island’s past is layered and unflinching: lighthouse, fort, prison, protest site. From Capone to the Birdman (who, it turns out, never kept birds here), every corner whispered something — about power, punishment, or the illusion of escape. The audio tour, voiced by former guards and inmates, pulled us through the cell blocks, mess hall, and solitary confinement with a kind of quiet intensity. You could almost feel the weight of time in the walls.

Jane took the tram while I tackled the steep climb on foot — a reminder that even visiting The Rock requires effort. But the views from the top, and the unexpected pockets of garden serenity, made it all worthwhile. After four hours, we returned to the dock, souvenir in hand, ferrying back to the city with sun on our backs and stories in our heads.

Back on the Embarcadero, we made a beeline for hot dogs and sea lions — the former much needed, the latter as gloriously chaotic as ever. Then came the streetcar saga: long wait, packed carriage, vintage design that didn’t account for wheelchairs or tall people. We boarded, ducked, ramped, and eventually disembarked via a pavement lift that briefly outwitted us. Classic end-of-day brain fog.

A quick Walgreens stop yielded snacks but no hoodie treasures, and we strolled back to the hotel under a warm dusk sky. But the day wasn’t done.

At 8pm, hunger struck again, so I braved the hill to Uncle Vito’s for a large pizza — a trek that looked innocent on the map but turned into a calf workout worthy of a Rocky montage. I made it back before the pizza cooled (cold pizza is a crime), and we tucked in with the kind of satisfaction that only comes after a day well earned.

Then, just before bed, a final scene unfolded outside our window: a police stop turned tense, weapons drawn, then lowered. No shots, no arrests — just a flicker of danger in an otherwise peaceful night. A reminder that cities, like stories, can turn on a dime.

We drifted off to the sound of sirens — not jarring, just part of the city’s lullaby. Alcatraz may be a relic of confinement, but today felt expansive: full of movement, memory, and the quiet joy of finally ticking something off the list.

Sausalito

With the sun properly out and the skies bright blue, we knew it was the perfect morning for something scenic — a boat trip across the Bay to Sausalito, that famously laid-back enclave where the rich and famous kick off their designer sandals and call it home.

Cardboard Tickets With NFC Inside

First, we caught the bus to the Ferry Building, then headed round the back to square up to the ticket vending machines — known enemies at this point. The tickets themselves are strange little things: thin bits of cardboard that you don’t swipe, but simply touch against the card reader, which feels oddly magical. They cost just $11.50 for a return — about £7 — which is excellent value for a 30-minute cruise, especially considering the prices of ferries back in the UK.

Sausalito Boat Trip

Bargin Boat Trip To Sausalito

We had about an hour to kill before the ferry turned up, so we dropped into Peet’s Tea & Coffee House for a drink. While buying the tickets earlier, someone ahead of us had fed a $20 bill into the machine and received all his change in quarters — absolute chaos. We should've swapped them for notes, really, since we’d been trying to collect the full set of U.S. quarters by release date. It would’ve been a jackpot.

When the ferry arrived, it was packed — crowds piling on — but boarding was swift and well-organised. Off we went across the Bay, the skyline sliding away behind us as the water stretched out ahead.

Sleepy Sausalito

We arrived in Sausalito to warm sunshine and a complete shift in pace. It’s not the sort of place you come for thrill rides or neon signs — it’s bay views, calm streets, and a sense that everything is quietly expensive. We explored a few shops, soaked up the scenery and imagined what life might be like here — balconies overlooking the water, dogs with better insurance policies than most humans, and boats that cost more than houses.

Lunch was a laid-back burger from a local bar, eaten slowly as the tide rolled in. Then we stretched our legs again and walked about a mile to visit the Bay Area Model — a curious miniature of the region laid out for planning purposes, and surprisingly absorbing if you like your geography hands-on and your maps enormous.

Bar Area Model

The Vast Bay Area Model

Tucked inside a massive warehouse sits the Bay Area Model — a scale replica of the region built by the Army Engineering Corps. The whole thing’s designed to simulate how changes to the coastline affect tidal flow. It actually fills with water to mimic the tide coming in, and everything’s built to scale, including miniature versions of the Golden Gate and Bay Bridge. A proper feat of engineering, and surprisingly mesmerising when you see it all in motion.

Two Small Ice Creams

We spent a couple of hours wandering around — and at times, we had the place entirely to ourselves. Afterwards, we walked back into Sausalito, taking the other route to browse the shops. Loads of gift shops tucked away in corners, so I was in my element — even found a few gems you’d struggle to get anywhere else.

Next up was ice cream from the Italian dealer — huge scoops and absolutely delicious. Then it was time to sit by the Bay front for around 45 minutes, soaking up the late afternoon sunshine and letting the peace of the place settle in.

A peacefull Ride Back To The City

By now, the ferry dock had filled with people — mostly cyclists who’d hired bikes in San Francisco, crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, cruised through Muir Woods and were now heading back. They load foot passengers first, then start cramming in the bikes. It’s a good setup — you board on the lower deck but disembark upstairs. Since we were near the front of the queue, we nabbed a decent spot up top.

By late afternoon, the light began to shift. The ferry glided past the back of Alcatraz Island, and the sun dipped behind the Golden Gate Bridge in full golden-hour glory. A picture-perfect end to a peaceful, well-earned day spent with Jane.

Turkey Pie, again

Since we were getting off at the Ferry Building Marketplace, it would’ve been rude not to nip inside for one of the turkey pies from the Golden Gate Meat Company. Familiar, comforting, and just as good as we remembered.

A Few Buses Passed Our
 Hotel Window

By now, dusk was starting to settle, though the air was still pleasantly warm. We strolled across the plaza on the far side of the road and caught the bus back along Market Street, with a quick stop at the shops for a few nibbles to round out the evening.

It had been a long day — sun-soaked and full of good miles — and I think we were both glad to make it back to the hotel. A proper sit down, a bit of telly, and the satisfaction of having seen so much. Well worth it.

Reflections on the Day: A Sausalito Sojourn with Pie to Finish

Some days feel like postcards in motion — and Wednesday was one of them. With skies painted in perfect blue and the sun finally showing off, we set out for something scenic: a ferry ride across the Bay to Sausalito, that famously relaxed enclave where the rich go to pretend they’re not checking their portfolios.

The journey began with a showdown at the Ferry Building’s ticket machines — those cardboard-slinging contraptions that seem designed to test patience and coin management. One poor soul ahead of us fed in a $20 bill and got a tsunami of quarters in return. We should’ve offered to trade — we’d been quietly collecting U.S. quarters like numismatic magpies.

Once aboard, the ferry sliced through the Bay with practiced grace, the skyline slipping behind us like a stage curtain. Sausalito greeted us with warm air, calm streets, and the kind of quiet wealth that wears linen and owns yachts. We browsed boutiques, admired balconies, and imagined a life where even the dogs have dental plans.

Lunch was a slow burger at a local bar, eaten with the tide rolling in and the kind of relaxed pace that only seaside towns seem to master. Then came the Bay Area Model — a warehouse-sized replica of the region, complete with tidal simulations and miniature bridges. It was geography meets theatre, and we had the place almost entirely to ourselves. A rare treat.

Back in town, we took the scenic route through tucked-away gift shops, where I unearthed a few treasures that felt genuinely unique. Ice cream followed — Italian, enormous, and absolutely delicious. We perched by the waterfront for nearly an hour, letting the late afternoon sun do its golden thing while cyclists queued for the return ferry like lycra-clad extras in a coastal ballet.

The ride back was golden-hour perfection: Alcatraz brooding in the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge glowing like a film set, and the ferry gliding through it all like it knew it was part of something special.

Naturally, we capped it off with a turkey pie from the Ferry Building — a ritual now, warm and familiar. Then a gentle bus ride back, a few snacks from the shop, and the quiet joy of collapsing into a hotel bed with telly humming and feet finally at rest.

It wasn’t a day of adrenaline or spectacle. It was a day of soft edges, scenic pauses, and small indulgences — the kind of day that reminds you why you travel in the first place. To sit beside someone you love, watching the sun dip behind a bridge, with pie in your bag and peace in your bones.

Yerba Buena Gardens

Most of the time when we left the hotel in the morning we turned right and headed up to Market Street but today it was time for a change 

Most mornings, we’d turn right out of the hotel and head up to Market Street. But today called for a change of scenery — so we turned left, and wandered into the quiet calm of Yerba Buena Gardens.

City Park Waterfall

This area nearly vanished under redevelopment back in the 1980s. But then-Mayor George Moscone was firmly opposed, campaigning to preserve it as public green space. Tragically, in November 1978, both Moscone and Harvey Milk were murdered in their City Hall offices by Dan White — a political fallout tied to their support for civil rights legislation. Years later, Yerba Buena Gardens was built in honour of that movement, and it remains one of San Francisco’s quieter achievements.

MLK Jr. Memorial Waterfall

What they created was nothing short of clever: the Moscone Centre mostly built underground, topped with a sprawling park and a forty-foot-long waterfall cascading twenty feet down. Even with the overcast skies, it was a peaceful place to stroll — a break from traffic, sirens and the city’s usual rhythm.

We spent some time sitting by the top pool, watching the water rush to the edge. Not a scrap of litter in sight, and all the homeless who sleep here at night had moved on for the day. Just green lawns, soft echoes and a quiet moment.

Above The waterfall

Apparently, beneath where we sat was a full-sized ice rink — though you’d never guess it from above. Before heading back, we crossed the gardens to admire the restored carousel from the early 1900s. A lovely bit of vintage tucked amongst the modern. Then we took the lift down from the park to street level and walked back to 5th Street to catch the number 30 bus down to the Caltrain station.

Big Trains, Tiny Platforms

Caltrain Station

We don’t usually head down this way, but today curiosity got the better of me — I fancied a look at the trains in the Caltrain station as we passed. Up close, they’re impressively massive, especially when you're standing just a few feet away. You can't access the platform until the train’s ready to board, but you can walk alongside the fence that runs parallel to the road and take a few photos through the gaps.

I liked the colours they’re painted in — bold and distinctive. But what struck me most was the platform situation… or lack of it, really. Unlike back home, there’s no proper raised platform. Just a slightly elevated bit of pavement, which means climbing steps to board. That said, they’re double-decker trains, so the floor isn’t quite as high up as you’d expect. If you need help getting on, there’s a mobile lift that looks like a pallet truck — it rolls up to the doors and raises wheelchairs into the carriage. Simple, clever, and no fuss.

Low Platforms Are Standard In US

I was tempted to wait and watch one depart, but it was going to be a while — so I headed for the shop on the station concourse and grabbed a coffee. Three dollars well spent, especially with a chance to sit and soak up the hum of the place.

There’s a Safeway supermarket just across the road, and it’s definitely tempting for next time — loads more choice and much better prices. The only drawback is the bus loop through this part of town; it’s one-way, so when you get off, you’ve got to walk back a couple of blocks to retrace your steps. Still, might be worth it for a proper stock-up.

Empty Seats & Pelicans

Main Entrance To AT & T Park

After grabbing a few bits we needed, we headed across the road to AT&T Park — home of the San Francisco Giants baseball team. Even though the season had wrapped up a while ago, it still felt worth a wander. You can almost feel the energy that must buzz through this place on game days, when thirty thousand fans fill every corner. Hard to imagine when it’s so quiet.

From the outside, the stadium doesn’t look all that massive — but through the gates near the base, you get a glimpse of the sheer scale inside. It opens up like a cavern, and I bet once you're in there, it feels twice as large. The area around the park looked freshly done up — new paving, tidy benches — and they've done a fine job of it. This spot also marks the beginning of the Embarcadero, the waterfront stretch that runs for about five miles down to Fisherman’s Wharf.

Not My Finiest Photo
Of A pelican

We took a walk out on the short pier that juts into the Bay, and spotted a pair of pelicans perched out on the breakwater — always a nice surprise, especially after our earlier crossing on the bridge. Today wasn’t particularly warm, which suited us just fine given the miles we were clocking, and it was genuinely peaceful strolling along the edge of the water and beneath the Bay Bridge.

Chilling At AT & T

We made it as far as Rincon Park, where Cupid’s Span towers above the grass. It’s a giant bow and arrow sculpture, probably about fifty feet tall, donated to the city by some famous artist. It’s got that unmistakable modern art feel — unexpected and bold, right in the middle of a public park — and somehow fits perfectly alongside the backdrop of the bridge and city skyline.

Trams, Turkey Pie and Telly

Cupids Span & The Ferry Building

From there, we sat for a while and just soaked up the atmosphere — the kind of moment you don’t rush. The Muni trams glided past and disappeared into the tunnel that runs beneath the city, slipping down into the concrete like something out of a film. It’s always fascinating watching how calm everything looks at surface level while a whole world rumbles underneath.

Eventually, we wandered into the Ferry Building Marketplace to grab something to eat. That meant one thing: turkey pie again. It’s become a bit of a favourite — warm, hearty, and reliably good. A proper sit-down meal without the sit-down.

Before The Tram Goes Undergrond
At The End Of Market Street

By this point, we’d done our fair share of walking, and the day was starting to stretch. So we crossed over to catch the bus back along Market Street, with a quick detour into Walgreens to stock up on drinks for the room. Never hurts to be prepared for a quiet evening.

Back at the hotel, it was a relief to sink into the bed, turn on the telly and let the city hum quietly outside while we stopped moving for a bit. A good wander, a solid pie, and the kind of pause you earn one footstep at a time.

Tuesday Reflections: Pelicans, Platforms & Pie

After days of heading right towards Market Street and the city’s usual pulse, Tuesday began with a simple act of rebellion: we turned left. And in doing so, we stepped into a different San Francisco — one of quiet gardens, hidden history, and the kind of peace that doesn’t shout for attention.

Yerba Buena Gardens was our first stop, a space that almost didn’t exist. Saved from redevelopment by Mayor George Moscone — whose legacy is forever tied to the city’s civil rights movement and tragic loss — the gardens now sit atop the Moscone Centre like a green exhale. We sat by the waterfall, watching it tumble twenty feet into a pool so clean it felt curated. No litter, no noise, just the soft hush of water and the occasional pigeon with opinions.

Beneath part of the park, apparently, was an ice rink. Above us, a restored carousel from the early 1900s. It was a place where past and present coexisted quietly, like old friends who no longer needed to fill the silence.

Curiosity then pulled us south, down to the Caltrain station. The trains were beasts — double-deckers in bold colours, looming over platforms that barely qualified as such. No raised edges, just a bit of pavement and a clever mobile lift for wheelchairs. Simple, effective, and refreshingly no-nonsense. I lingered with a coffee, watching the station breathe.

Across the road, AT&T Park stood quiet in the off-season, its gates hinting at the roar of thirty thousand fans now replaced by pigeons and pelicans. We wandered the pier nearby and spotted two of the latter perched on the breakwater — a feathered encore to Sunday’s bridge-crossing sighting. The Bay Bridge loomed above, and the Embarcadero stretched ahead like a promise.

We followed it to Rincon Park, where Cupid’s Span — a giant bow and arrow sculpture — stood like a modern myth, bold and oddly fitting against the skyline. It was the kind of art that makes you smile, even if you’re not sure why.

Eventually, we drifted into the Ferry Building Marketplace for a now-familiar comfort: turkey pie. Warm, rich, and eaten on the go — the culinary equivalent of a hug. Then it was back to the bus, a quick Walgreens stop, and finally the hotel.

Back in our room, the city hummed outside while we sank into pillows and telly. It wasn’t a day of grand gestures or ticking off major sights. It was a day of left turns, quiet corners, and pelicans on piers. A day that reminded us that sometimes, the best discoveries come when you stray from the usual path — and that a good pie and a soft bed can feel like the perfect reward.

Coit Tower

It wasn’t one of the sunniest days of the holiday, but after Sunday’s marathon bridge walk, we’d planned something slower — less legwork, more browsing. A recovery day, if you like, with snacks and sea lions on the agenda.

We left the hotel around 10 a.m. and made our way to Market Street to catch the F line streetcar down to Pier 39. Now that we were both feeling better, we fancied a proper wander through the gift shops to see if anything unusual or unique caught our eye.

What we didn’t plan for was the streetcar soap opera.

Almost a Brawl

The tram behind had bunched up behind this another one, which made things awkward from the start — packed solid, doors barely shutting, tempers on edge. The driver, rather than calming the situation, seemed to go out of his way to frustrate everyone climbing aboard. No announcements, no suggestion to wait for the empty tram behind. Honestly, I'm amazed someone hadn’t decked him already.

Our Ride To Fishermans Wharf

The situation boiled over when one bloke got into a shouting match with the driver — swearing, racial slurs, general chaos. Then, just to add a little extra drama, the driver cruised past a stop that people clearly wanted to get off at. Cue more shouting, eye-rolling, and passengers visibly regretting their travel choices.

We were relieved to hop off, I can tell you.

On the pier at last, things settled. We grabbed something to eat — a hot dog, I think — then paid a visit to our old friends, the sea lions. Still lounging, still noisy, still weirdly charming. Some things never change, and in their case, that’s a very good thing.

 PAC-Man Returns

Not Much Room To Move

After about an hour on the pier, we took a stroll over to Fisherman’s Wharf — San Francisco’s answer to Blackpool’s seafront. Shops, restaurants, lots of foot traffic and even more seafood, which isn’t really our thing. Still, it’s the kind of place that always has something odd tucked in its corners.

Retro At Its Best, Musée Mécanique

And we found it: Musée Mécanique. A brilliantly strange little museum stuffed with arcade games, some of which date back over a hundred years. Even better — most of them still worked. I don’t think I’ve seen a two-player PAC-MAN machine since the 90s, and the staff were zipping around on roller skates like it was standard uniform. It felt like falling into a time warp and landing somewhere between retro gold and eccentric genius.

McDonald’s Was Around
 Here Somewhere

By now it was lunchtime, so we ducked into McDonald’s for something quick. Surprisingly better than the ones back home — and cheaper, too. You get your drink cup at the counter and fill it up yourself, as many times as you like. If they did that in the UK, people would definitely make the most of it.

They also had super-fast free Wi-Fi, which we made good use of — catching up online and checking maps, messages and what was next on our list. Well fed and fully hydrated, we walked back the way we’d come — but this time along the opposite side of the street — heading for the entrance of Pier 39 to catch the number 39 bus. Destination: Coit Tower.

Coit Tower

Coit Tower From
Pioneer Park

We’d tried to visit Coit Tower on our last trip, but it had shut the day before for repairs — eight months of scaffolding and silence. Now, finally reopened, it was time to tick it off the list.

It’s only about a twenty-minute bus ride to the top of the hill, but it’s not something you’d want to tackle on foot. The tower sits on a hill some 300 feet above sea level, accessed by a narrow, winding road that finishes in a tucked-away car park. Thankfully, the bus driver this time was full of cheer — though hardly anyone ever boards this particular route.

The view from the top car park is brilliant, even with the cloud cover. And that’s where we had our first run-in with the local wild parrots. You hear them before you see them — great flocks screeching overhead — and while they’re a colourful addition to the skyline, they’re not exactly popular with the neighbours. Apparently, they wreak havoc on the gardens.

Winged Vandals or Wild Parrots

The tower itself isn’t that tall — 75 feet or so — with murals painted around the base inside by artists I’m told are famous, though none I recognised. It’s eight dollars each to go up, and amusingly, our change came in two-dollar bills. I’ve never seen one before, and judging by the reactions later on, not many people have. Your hand gets stamped with a heart, which you show to the lift operator — probably one of the slowest lifts I’ve ever taken. It is nearly a hundred years old, though, so fair play.

It takes about five minutes to ascend, followed by twenty more steps to reach the top. There’s no roof — just wide windows that staff open for you so photos come out clean, without reflections. They’ve had issues with scratched glass in the past, so now there’s always someone up there looking after them.

Downtown From The Top

The view from the top? Absolutely stunning. A full 360-degree sweep of the city, stretching all the way out to the Bay and beyond. A proper moment for the camera — and a great excuse to try the toy town filter, which works best from high up. We probably spent close to an hour up there, and even the sun made a brief cameo appearance between the clouds.

By the time we’d come back down, my legs were starting to protest, so we had a sit outside and watched the parrots do another screechy lap. We just missed the next bus — they only run every thirty minutes — so I took the chance to explore the Filbert Street Steps, one of San Francisco’s famed staircases.

Roof Top Patio On A House

The steps plunge 300 feet down to Levi Park in about half a mile — not the kind of path you’d want to climb up unless you’re training for something serious. I only went part way down for a look. Along the way, you’ll find houses tucked into the cliffside, with every available patch transformed into lush, layered gardens beneath towering trees. It’s here I properly understood the local dislike for parrots — one was perched in a garden, quite happily tearing all the leaves off a plant like it was auditioning for garden villainy. Avian hooligans, honestly.

Once satisfied with my photos, I headed back to the bus stop where I’d parked Jane and caught the ride back down, hopping off at Washington Square.

Little Italy

There’s no shortage of shops in this part of town — all sorts, really — but most of them don’t properly wake up until evening. That’s when Little Italy starts humming: restaurants filling, foot traffic building, lights flickering on one by one. We’d planned on stopping by Rouge Bar for a drink, but it looked a bit too lively now, so we diverted for a more practical option — the liquor store.

Beer’s not something you stumble across easily in San Francisco. Most shops near the hotel don’t even stock it, so whenever you find somewhere like this, it’s best to grab what you can while the chance is there. A couple of bottles for the room, ready to round off the evening properly.

This area also holds a bit of Hollywood history. The rooftop scene from the opening of Dirty Harry was filmed right here — sniper at dawn, camera sweeping across the neighbourhood. Most of the film’s scenes were shot around the city, and watching it again later, we recognised a handful of locations from our own wanderings. Makes the place feel like it’s wearing two stories — one on the surface, and one flickering just behind it.

Timing & Trolleys Buses

By now it was time to catch the bus across the road and head back to the hotel — which meant facing down the dreaded number 30. This is the route through Chinatown, and it’s rarely a quiet ride.

Thankfully, this is where San Francisco’s real-time arrival boards earn their stripes. We could see four number 30s on the way, spaced just minutes apart. But because they’re trolley buses and run on overhead wires, they can’t overtake each other. So when the first one finally rolled up, it was bursting — people practically hanging out of the windows. Total chaos.

We decided to wait for the third bus, and it paid off — almost empty by the time it reached us. Definitely one of those moments where patience wins. Still, most people at the stop didn’t even glance up at the screen above. If they had, they might've saved themselves a tight squeeze and a sweaty elbow in the ribs.

Pints & Plastic Charm

We got off in Union Square after about fifteen minutes on the bus, and to be honest, I really needed a beer. Time to hunt down Johnny Foley’s Irish bar.

It’s not one of my favourite pubs in San Francisco — a bit plastic, a bit overpriced — but it was close, and sometimes convenience trumps character. Any port in a storm, really.

The pub itself is split into two sections: the main restaurant downstairs, which caters for families, and an upstairs area that seems to be for adults only. I assume that’s because you’ve got to be 21 to be in a bar, which does make sense. Still, it adds to the slightly Wetherspoon’s-meets-theme-park atmosphere.

They usually try and push the food menu on you as soon as you walk in, but thankfully it was quiet, so we just found a seat and I grabbed us a couple of drinks from the bar. The food isn’t cheap, and the beer’s not far behind — but we weren’t after gourmet, just a sit-down and something cold.

It didn’t take long for a waitress to appear with menus anyway, bless her — probably clocked us as fresh targets. Can’t really blame them though; they’re usually on a couple of dollars an hour and rely almost entirely on tips to make a living.

Seven dollars for a pint isn’t exactly daylight robbery, but it’s not far off — especially when you remember that a US pint is smaller than a UK one. They offer “tall pints” too, which are just bigger glasses for a bigger price. That said, the beer here tends to be stronger, so it probably levels out in the long run. Sort of.

Cake Quest

We’d spent about forty minutes in the pub, which felt about right, and then it was time to move on. Just down the road sits one of San Francisco’s hidden gems: Cako bakery, home of the most fantastic cupcakes. We’d been here before — and honestly, it’s not a place you want to miss.

Cako is the dessert-world equivalent of craft ale for cake lovers. Everything is fresh, handmade, and packed with what I can only assume is about a bazillion calories — sheer indulgence in sponge form. You could eat yourself into a diabetic coma if you weren’t careful… but like most things that are properly good, it comes at a price. Ten dollars for four cupcakes felt well worth it.

By now the light was fading, and it’s hard to say where the day went — but we’d ticked off everything we planned, so there were no complaints. If we’d had a bit more energy, we might’ve headed up to Japantown to see some of the architecture lit up after dark, but the legs weren’t in the mood.

So instead, we drifted back into Union Square and let the city wind down around us. We watched the Cable Cars roll past for a while, soaked up the early evening bustle, and listened to street musicians playing on the corner. They were good — got people involved too, not with the aim of pocketing tips, but simply to share in the music and the moment. Just a warm evening, mellow tunes, and smiles stretching across the crowd.

San Francisco might just be the most laid-back city anywhere — and I reckon that’s why people fall in love with it without even trying.

Chilling Out in the Square

Sitting there in Union Square on a warm evening, it was easy to forget that it was January. Back home, we’d be freezing — or more likely tucked up in bed because it would be the middle of the night. But that’s the thing that sticks with you: being in the heart of a big city that feels laid back, safe, and genuinely friendly. Not perfect, of course — no place is — but compared to a lot of others, San Francisco has a kind, open pulse that you can feel just walking around.

That said, bad things do happen here. What makes you pause isn’t just the crime — it’s the roads. You’re more likely to meet trouble from a careless driver than anything else. The accident fatality rate is shockingly high. I remember during our first visit, there were about nine fatal crashes in two weeks alone — nearly half of them hit-and-runs involving children. We saw it all play out on local news, day after day, sometimes mere blocks from where we were staying, or in places we’d passed through hours earlier.

It’s sobering. Life shifts quickly, and when you see these things up close — not just stats on a screen — it makes you appreciate how fragile it all is. So you keep your wits about you. You cross the road with care, you stay aware, and you carry the weight of those stories, even in moments that feel light.

Still, that night in the square was calm, the air soft, and the city buzzing gently around us. And in that quiet pocket between reality checks and fresh cupcakes, we felt something rare — the kind of peace that you don’t take for granted.

Reflections on the Day: Parrots, Pints & Pier-side Pandemonium

After Sunday’s bridge-crossing triumph, Monday was our designated recovery day — less legwork, more browsing, and a healthy dose of sea lions and sponge cake. But San Francisco, ever the unpredictable host, had other plans.

The morning began with a streetcar drama worthy of its own soap opera. The F line to Pier 39 was packed to bursting, tempers flaring, and the driver seemingly auditioning for “How to Lose Friends and Alienate Passengers.” Swearing, slurs, and skipped stops made for a tense ride, but we escaped into the relative serenity of the pier — greeted by hot dogs and the familiar chorus of sea lions flopped across their wooden stage. Still noisy, still charming, still the city’s most endearing loafers.

From there, we wandered to Fisherman’s Wharf and stumbled into Musée Mécanique — a glorious time capsule of arcade machines, some over a century old. Staff zipped around on roller skates, and we found a two-player PAC-MAN machine that felt like a portal to the 90s. It was retro joy with a side of eccentric genius.

Lunch was a McDonald’s pit stop, where the drinks were bottomless and the Wi-Fi faster than most UK cafés. Refreshed and reconnected, we headed for Coit Tower — finally reopened after months of scaffolding exile. The bus ride up was cheerful and quiet, and the view from the car park was already impressive. Then came the parrots — screeching flocks of green-feathered rebels, charming from a distance but apparently garden terrorists up close. Locals weren’t fans, and after watching one shred a plant like it owed him money, we understood why.

Inside the tower, murals lined the base, and our change came in two-dollar bills — a novelty that sparked more curiosity than the art. The lift was charmingly slow, but the view from the top was worth every minute: a full sweep of the city, Bay, and beyond. Even the sun made a cameo appearance, just in time for the toy town filter to do its magic.

After descending, I explored the Filbert Street Steps — a lush, cliffside staircase that plunges 300 feet to Levi Park. The gardens were stunning, the parrots less so. One was mid-rampage, stripping leaves like it was auditioning for “Avian Villains: The Musical.”

Back at Washington Square, we wandered into Little Italy, where the shops were just waking up and the bars were already buzzing. Rouge Bar looked lively, so we opted for the liquor store instead — beer being a rare find near our hotel. A couple of bottles secured, we ended the day with a nod to Hollywood: the rooftop from Dirty Harry’s opening scene loomed nearby, adding a cinematic shimmer to our stroll.

The journey back involved facing down the dreaded number 30 bus — Chinatown’s rolling pressure cooker. Thanks to real-time arrival boards, we dodged the sardine special and caught the third bus, nearly empty and gloriously calm. Most people ignored the screen, opting instead for elbow-to-elbow chaos. Patience, it turns out, is a superpower.

Union Square welcomed us with open arms and overpriced pints. Johnny Foley’s Irish bar wasn’t exactly charming, but it was close, and sometimes convenience trumps character. Seven dollars for a pint felt steep, especially when you remember a US pint is basically a UK pint with commitment issues. Still, the beer was cold, the seats were soft, and the waitress was trying her best to upsell without seeming desperate.

Then came Cako bakery — the dessert-world equivalent of craft ale for cake lovers. Four cupcakes for ten dollars, each one a sponge-based masterpiece. We didn’t just eat them; we celebrated them.

As the light faded, we drifted back into Union Square, watching cable cars roll past and street musicians play for joy, not tips. The city buzzed gently around us, and in that soft pocket of calm, we felt something rare — the kind of peace you don’t take for granted.

But San Francisco isn’t all cupcakes and cable cars. The city’s pulse includes sobering beats: high road fatality rates, hit-and-runs, and stories that stick with you long after the holiday ends. We’ve seen it play out on local news, sometimes just blocks from where we stayed. It’s a reminder that life is fragile, and awareness is its best companion.

Still, that night in the square was warm, mellow, and quietly magical. Between parrots and pastries, arcade machines and urban wisdom, Monday gave us a full spectrum of city life — and we were grateful for every pixel of it.

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.