The cabin lights have finally come up. It has been daylight outside for quite some time, but nobody seems particularly keen to open the blinds — and quite right too. At this altitude it's essentially permanent, unfiltered sunshine. One enthusiastic blind opener and half the cabin would be temporarily blinded. Breakfast has been served and somewhere below us Ireland is sliding past beneath the clouds. Not long now. A little later comes Wales, then the Bristol Channel, and slowly the familiar patchwork of home begins to reassemble itself beneath us. There is something reassuring about seeing recognisable places again after nearly two weeks away. From up here the countryside looks neat, organised and almost peaceful. You can nearly pick out our house from the flight path, which is either comforting or a stark reminder that reality is waiting patiently for us on the ground. Watching the world drift by from a window seat is one of the best parts of travelling home. It's a quiet moment between one chapter and the next. If a long-haul flight has to be endured, overnight is definitely the way to do it. At least you arrive in the morning with some chance of functioning like a normal person rather than spending an entire day wondering what continent your body thinks it's on. The approach into London was particularly enjoyable, with familiar landmarks appearing through the morning haze. From 4,000 feet up it almost looks like a pleasant place. Mind you, there is still that muddy trench running through the middle of it that they insist on calling the River Thames. Nothing To Look Guilty About We don't normally book assistance on the return journey, which in hindsight was probably a mistake. The people who use it are whisked through the airport like visiting heads of state while the rest of us shuffle along behind looking slightly crumpled and sleep deprived. Thankfully we hadn't landed at Terminal 5. That place appears to have been designed by someone who felt airports should double as endurance events. You walk for what feels like several counties before boarding a self driving train that travels for approximately thirty seconds. I've never entirely understood the logic of it. The bags appeared surprisingly quickly and before long we were making the traditional walk through the Nothing to Declare channel. It's one of life's great mysteries that even people carrying absolutely nothing of interest suddenly feel guilty at this point. We never buy duty free. We had nothing to declare. Yet there we were, staring determinedly into the middle distance, trying to project the confidence of innocent travellers while secretly wondering if an overpriced hoodie from Walgreens somehow counts as international smuggling. Nobody wants their bags tossed out and their life examined at seven in the morning, least of all after ten hours in a tin tube over the Atlantic. Nobody stopped us, nobody searched us, and within minutes we were through. The trip was over. All that remained was the final journey home, a cup of tea, and the gradual process of convincing ourselves that San Francisco had really happened and wasn't just a particularly vivid dream. Final Steps, The Journey Home We cleared the airport fairly quickly — which, after fourteen days of navigating San Francisco's finest public transport adventures, felt almost suspiciously straightforward. It always seems to be the same driver who picks us up, and after a bit of cheerful chit-chat somewhere around the M25, we both quietly surrendered to sleep for most of the eighty-minute ride home, arriving back around ten in the morning. We'd booked the return journey in advance because, after everything this trip had thrown at us, the idea of wrestling with luggage, a wheelchair, and a series of connections across the south of England held absolutely no appeal whatsoever. After what we'd spent on the trip, a taxi home wasn't exactly extravagant — it was just common sense wearing a sensible coat. After a quick nap, Jane headed out to do some shopping because we'd come home to an entirely empty fridge, in the way that only returning travellers truly understand. I went to the pub for a bit. Priorities. I wasn't back at work for a few days, which gave us both some time to ease back into reality and shake off the jet lag — although whether it counts as jet lag when you haven't actually slept is a philosophical question I'll leave for another day. And that, as they say, concludes our San Francisco adventure. Thanks for reading. Do make sure you have a look at the afterword, and there's a handy collection of facts and figures at the back if you enjoy that sort of thing. A Note from Jane and Con Every trip we take is, in some ways, a small act of defiance. Against the hills, the broken pavements, the ramps that aren't quite where they're supposed to be, and the buses that don't quite reach the kerb. Against the idea that travelling with a wheelchair means travelling with limitations. San Francisco has never made things easy for us — which may be exactly why we keep going back. This journal is dedicated to Jane, who rolls through life with more patience, good humour, and quiet determination than I could ever hope to manage on two functioning legs. None of this happens without her. Here's to the next one, Jane
