The last full day. I always feel it coming before it arrives — that quiet, unspoken thing that hangs
over the final twenty-four hours of any holiday, equal parts wistfulness and the creeping knowledge
that the suitcases are going to need packing. The only cure, as far as I can tell, is to fill every
remaining minute with something worth remembering.
Anything Can Happen Friday
So that's exactly what we did. Jane had shopping in mind; I had steep hills and a camera. First
though, we did what we always do when we need to ease ourselves gently into the day — we
headed to Union Sqare for a coffee. It's my second favourite spot in the city, after Pier 39, and the
kind of place where you can sit with a drink, watch the cable cars grind their way up Powell Street,
and feel like San Francisco is putting on a show just for you.
It never gets old.
We sat for a while longer than we probably needed to, because we both knew, without saying it, that
this was one of the last times we'd be doing exactly this for quite some time. There was no rush to
move on. The city wasn't going anywhere, but our time in it was.
From there I walked Jane over to the Cheesecake Factory in Macy's — she was set for the morning
— and then I turned myself loose on the city.
This is a tradition we've quietly fallen into over the years: setting aside one or two days on a longer
trip where we go off on our own and do whatever we want, no agenda, no compromise, no "well, I
suppose we could." After eleven days together — brilliant days, but eleven of them — a few hours
of separate wandering does wonders for the soul. And for the marriage, if we're being honest.
This time around, staying in touch was easy enough — free Wi-Fi dotted across the city, and
Google Maps' location sharing meant we could keep tabs on each other without having to
coordinate like a military operation. Jane could see I was working my way up something impossibly
steep; I could see she was, sensibly, not.
There were a couple of places I still wanted to tick off the list. One Jane had already visited on a
previous trip, and the other involved a hill that I'd have been pushing my luck to suggest. These
things happen when you plan a fortnight in San Francisco — some places are simply better suited to
solo expeditions, and rather than spend time finding workarounds, it makes more sense to have a
day like this baked into the itinerary from the start.
That way nobody misses out, nobody has to pretend they're fine about standing at the bottom of
something spectacular while someone else climbs it, and we both get to come back to the hotel in
the evening with our own stories to tell.
Which, if you ask me, is what a good holiday should feel like. Not spending every minute side by
side, but giving each other the space to enjoy it in our own way before coming back together to
share it all afterwards. On the last full day of the trip, it felt like exactly the right thing to do.
Take My Breath Away
After leaving Jane to her shopping, I headed down to Market Street and caught a bus to California
Street. The original plan had been to take the cable car up to the top of Nob Hill, but there was
nothing at the turnaround and nothing coming back down the hill either, which meant it was
probably going to be a long wait for the privilege of an eight-dollar ride. I decided to cut my losses,
caught the number 12 bus to Taylor Street instead, and set off on foot for Ina Coolbrith Park.
They say that if the climb up the hill doesn't take your breath away, the view certainly will. I can
confirm it achieved both, in that order, without much of a gap between them.
You don't really arrive at Ina Coolbrith Park so much as stumble upon it. One minute you're walking
past elegant old apartment buildings and streets so steep they seem more like a dare than a road, and
the next there's a narrow staircase disappearing into greenery, with postcard views already bursting
out between the trees before you've even reached the top.
The park was dedicated in 1911 to Ina
Coolbrith, California's first Poet Laureate — a fitting tribute to someone who dealt in beauty,
because the view from up here is something else entirely.
The park itself is tiny — barely more than terraced paths, stairways, benches and densely planted
gardens tumbling down the hillside — but it feels enormous because of what you can see from it. At
almost 300 feet above the bay, the downtown skyline rises straight ahead, the Bay Bridge stretches
across the water to the east, Coit Tower pokes up from Telegraph Hill, and Alcatraz Island sits out in
the bay looking exactly like it knows it's famous.
Apart from one other person quietly reading on a bench, I had the whole place to myself. I spent the
best part of an hour up there, taking photos and simply soaking it all in, which is about as close to
perfect as a solo morning gets. It's one of those places that somehow feels both hidden and iconic at
the same time. Looking back at the photographs now, they're a nice reminder of the view, but they
still don't quite capture what it felt like to stand there. The words I've written here don't really do it
justice either.
Cable Curiosity
After spending time at the park, I headed back the way I came, cut through a few side streets, and
made my way to the Cable Car Museum — or the cable car barn, as it's more accurately known,
because that's exactly what it is. I'd been here before, but it's one of those places that earns a return
visit without having to try very hard.
What makes it genuinely special is that it isn't just a museum in the traditional sense — it's a
working powerhouse, and it has been since the day it opened in 1887, although it only opened to the
public as a museum in 1984. This is the beating heart of the entire cable car network, the place
where four enormous winding wheels, each one the size of a small house, turn continuously day and
night, pulling the cables that run beneath the city streets.
Those cables never stop moving, except for maintenance. They travel at a constant nine and a half
miles per hour beneath the road surface, and the cable cars above grip and release them to start and
stop. It's an elegantly simple idea that hasn't changed in any meaningful way since Andrew Hallidie
first introduced it to San Francisco in 1873, which tells you everything you need to know about how
well it works.
The upper floor is given over to displays tracing the history of the system — how it evolved, how it
survived earthquakes, near abolition, and the relentless march of progress to become the last
manually operated cable car network in the world. There's a gantry up here where you can lean over
and look down to the lower floor, watching the winding gear turning with a deep, rhythmic thrum
that you feel as much as hear.
It's the kind of thing that makes you stop and stare longer than you expect to, partly because it's
impressive, and partly because it seems almost absurd that this Victorian-era engineering is still,
right now, hauling cable cars up some of the steepest streets in America.
Admission is free, which feels like a minor miracle given how good it is.
After I'd had my fill, I couldn't be bothered waiting for a bus, so I wandered through the side streets
instead, camera out, no particular plan in mind beyond heading roughly downhill. This is one of
those cities where you could never run out of things to photograph — every corner throws up a
different angle, a new combination of hills and painted wood, brick, and sky.
I filmed a few cable cars grinding their way past and just drifted, which is sometimes the best thing
you can do. Some of my favourite travel memories come from moments like this, when there isn't
really a destination, just a direction.
I knew that if I kept heading downhill I'd eventually come out near Chinatown, and from there it
was a short walk to the pub — any pub. A well-earned beer, I told myself. Maybe just one. Though
experience suggested that was a promise I wasn't especially likely to keep.
Getting Tipsy in Topsy's
I walked down through Chinatown and nearly straight past the hotel without stopping, which tells
you everything you need to know about Chinatown: chaos. We've never really gone out of our way
to spend time there across any of our three visits, and having now walked through it properly, I can
confirm that instinct was sound. It's not for us, in my entirely personal and completely unscientific
opinion. Moving on.
It was mid-afternoon by now, and by my count I'd only been in two pubs since arriving in San
Francisco, which felt like a situation in need of addressing. I'd walked past Topsy's Bar on
Montgomery Street several times over the fortnight and always hesitated — it's the kind of place
that looks almost deliberately uninviting from the outside, dark enough that you can't quite see in
and aren't entirely sure you're supposed to. But this was the last day, caution could go and do one,
and in I went.
I'm glad I did. Inside, it was exactly what a proper American bar should be — small, unhurried, and
comfortable in the way that only places with no interest in being fashionable ever manage to be.
Spinning bar stools, a couple of deep sofas to sink into, and the kind of lighting that suggests the
bulbs were chosen specifically to discourage anyone from leaving in a hurry.
I took a seat at the bar, which is always the right move if you want to get a feel for a place. You see
who comes in, catch the odd fragment of conversation, and get a quiet sense of how the city works
for the people who actually live in it rather than photograph it. The beer was a locally brewed pint at
$7, which in US terms is a slightly smaller glass than you'd get at home but considerably stronger,
so it evens itself out rather nicely.
They didn't have Wi-Fi, but I discovered that the Subway a couple of doors down had a signal just
strong enough to reach my bar stool if I held the phone at a specific and slightly undignified angle.
Sometimes you take what you can get.
After four drinks — which felt entirely reasonable given the circumstances — it was time to move
on. I crossed the road to Murphy's, which holds a particular place in my personal history as the pub
where I got thoroughly drunk on Christmas Eve back in 2013. Some places leave a lasting
impression because of the architecture, the atmosphere, or the history. Murphy's managed it through
a combination of local brews and poor decision-making.
It was busy by now, well into the late-afternoon rush, but I managed to squeeze onto a bar stool and
ordered another local brew for the road. Murphy's does good beer, a decent atmosphere, and
absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, which is more than can be said for some places.
By now Jane was somewhere nearby, doing whatever it is Jane does when left unsupervised with a
credit card and a city full of shops. We weren't far from the hotel, so we arranged to meet just
around the corner — the perfect end to a very satisfying afternoon's independent research, as I shall
officially be calling it.
Return To Murphy’s Bar
For our last night, we had grand plans — a proper sit-down meal at a restaurant not far from the
hotel that had come recommended. I'd read the reviews, it sounded promising, and we were
prepared to push the boat out.
There was just one small problem: when we turned up at 6:30 on a busy Friday evening, the place
was completely empty. Not quiet. Not winding down or gearing up. Empty.
And as any seasoned traveller will tell you, there is always a reason for that, and it is never a good
one.
We looked at each other, looked at the restaurant, and kept walking.
The last thing either of us needed — with a ten-hour flight home the following morning — was a
culinary adventure of the wrong kind. Some risks are simply not worth taking at altitude.
With the Italian option now firmly off the table, we did what any sensible person does when faced
with an uncertain dining landscape in an unfamiliar city: we went back to the pub.
Specifically, back to Murphy's, which at least had the advantage of being a known quantity.
Now, Murphy's will tell you — with some confidence — that they serve the best fish and chips in
the area. What they perhaps haven't accounted for is that neither Jane nor I have ever been to the
area they're comparing themselves to, and it certainly isn't anywhere in the UK.
Jane ordered it anyway, in the spirit of fairness, while I went for the mac and cheese, which turned
out to be the significantly better call at roughly half the price.
I had a taste of the fish and chips to satisfy my curiosity, which was all the convincing either of us
needed. We quietly consolidated our efforts onto my plate and shared the mac and cheese between
us, which was enormous and still defeated us completely.
With hindsight, we should have ordered a single portion from the start. Unlike back home, nobody
here looks at you sideways for sharing a meal — the waiter simply brings an extra fork and gets on
with it. No judgement, no raised eyebrow, no sense that you've committed some minor social
offence against the restaurant trade.
A lesson learned and filed away for next time.
Besides, there was something rather fitting about ending the trip not with an expensive meal in a
fancy restaurant, but in a familiar pub, sharing a plate of comfort food and laughing about how our
carefully considered dinner plans had lasted all of thirty seconds.
The Hoodie Quest
After having our photo taken outside the pub — because if it isn't documented, it didn't happen —
we walked our evening meal off and headed back to the hotel. Jane set about packing the rest of our
things while I did what I always do in that situation, which is sit in front of the television and offer
absolutely no help whatsoever.
Eventually, with the bags sorted and the room looking considerably less like a jumble sale, I
decided to go for one last walk.
It was going to be three or four years before we'd be back here at the earliest. That thought had been
sitting quietly at the back of my mind all day, and the only sensible response to it was to go out and
squeeze a little more of the city in before bed.
By 9:30 it was a warm, still evening, and Union Square was doing that thing it does at night where
the department stores glow, the cable cars rattle past, and the whole place feels like it's been lit
specifically for your benefit. There were just as many photo opportunities as during the day, if not
more — the kind of shots that only work when the artificial light is doing the heavy lifting and
everything looks slightly more cinematic than it has any right to be.
I'm not sure how long I spent just wandering, but it didn't feel wasted. In fact, it felt like exactly
what the evening was for.
I also had one last mission to complete before leaving San Francisco. Every city I visit, I buy a
hoodie with the location on it. I have no idea when this became a thing, but it has, and the collection
is growing. Simple as that.
What is not simple, as it turns out, is finding one that actually fits. Every hoodie I picked up was
labelled large and sized for someone considerably more compact than me. Sizes make no sense in
this city.
After working my way around no fewer than five Walgreens stores — which felt like a lot of effort
for a sweatshirt, and probably was — I eventually found what I was looking for back down on
Market Street in an XL. I can only assume that the majority of San Francisco's souvenir-buying
visitors are not built like a bloke from Gosport, but there we go. Worth every step.
By 10:30 I was heading back, strolling through the quiet streets at a pace that suited the occasion.
I'd have liked to stop for a swift one at Johnny Foley's just off Union Square, but it was out of the
way and tomorrow was going to be a long day. Some things you leave for next time.
And there would be a next time. There always is with this city.
Back at the hotel by eleven, I took one last look out at the lights beyond the window before closing
the curtains and turning in for the night. The holiday was effectively over now; only the journey
home remained.
A few hours later I'd close the hotel room door behind me for the final time, but in my mind this
was the moment the trip really ended.
For now, though, San Francisco could wait patiently for our return.
Refections On The Day
Today felt like a gentle goodbye.
Not a dramatic one, nor a sad one exactly, just the quiet acceptance that comes when you've had
enough time somewhere to stop feeling like a visitor and start feeling comfortable. There was no
pressure to tick off landmarks or cram in one last big experience. Instead, the day became about
enjoying the city for what it was — familiar streets, favourite places, unexpected moments, and the
simple pleasure of wandering without much purpose.
What stayed with me most was how easy everything felt. Jane and I spent part of the day doing our
own thing, then came back together with different stories to tell. There was something reassuring in
that. After nearly two weeks away, we'd settled into the rhythm of the place and into the rhythm of
the holiday itself.
As the evening drew in, there was an awareness that this chapter was coming to an end, but it didn't
feel final. San Francisco has a habit of doing that. No matter how many times you leave, it never
really feels like goodbye — more like pressing pause on a conversation you know you'll return to
one day.
And somehow that's a comforting thought.
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