Arrival At Heathrow, The Journey Home
We touched down right on time, and for once the universe decided to be kind. Customs took all of fifteen minutes — practically unheard of in the UK — and our bags were among the first off the plane. After the endless wait we had last time, it felt like winning the lottery. Our taxi driver was already waiting outside arrivals, ready to whisk us home.The drive from Heathrow to Gosport is about an hour and a half, and at that early hour the roads were blissfully quiet. We expected to be home by around 9:30 a.m. The moment we stepped outside, though, the cold hit like a slap. After two weeks of Chicago heat, England felt absolutely bloody freezing — even if it was supposedly warming up again soon.
Walking through the front door always brings that strange mix of comfort and anticlimax. The house had that faint damp, shut‑up smell it always gets when we’ve been away, so the first job was throwing open every window. By then it was only about 10 a.m., and I was running on fumes. I don’t usually suffer too badly with jet lag coming this way, but after being awake for well over a day, I desperately needed sleep.
While I crashed out, Jane headed off to do some shopping. When I eventually surfaced, I took advantage of the empty fridge to give it a proper clean — thrilling stuff, but oddly grounding after the chaos of travel. And then, of course, it was time for my traditional Sunday afternoon pint down the pub. After a long holiday and an even longer journey home, that first drink back on familiar soil always hits differently.
Moments like this are exactly why I’d booked the next couple of days off work. The thought of going straight back in on Monday would have been unbearable. Having until Wednesday to recover, unpack, and gently ease back into normal life felt like a small gift to myself.
And now, after roughly 34,000 words of this journal, it’s time to gather my thoughts and try to sum up what this holiday — and Chicago itself — really meant to me…
