The journey ends in London
“It is difficult to define: nostalgia is a common emotion, and all of us can be nostalgic about a time when we were younger, or happier, or only beginning to discover the world. The warm glow that surrounds our early years grows warmer, perhaps, with every year that passes. A journey taken as a twenty year old seems very different from a journey taken forty years later. But pry beneath the surface of that nostalgia and you may find real reasons for feeling as you do – reasons that are to do with growing up and with the growth of understanding.”
Alexander McCall Smith
The white cliffs of Dover shone as the ferry approached Great Britain. Crossing the English Channel represented the final leg of our journey. The last line to be drawn on our map. Our return flight departed from London. July 14, 1992.
Before going to London, we visited Sarah’s family on the Isle of Wight. They welcomed us with home cooked meals and an inaugural trip to the pub.
I left Sarah to visit with her family while I headed to London, getting a wee taste of travelling solo. Everyone I met at the hostel seemed to be either starting or ending their backpacking trip. For me, it was the end.
In those last few days, a sunny trip to Oxford was “brilliant, brilliant” as I documented in my journal. The pretty colleges, set amidst beautiful meadows and rivers, reaped history. I couldn’t fathom people actually working and studying in such a gorgeous setting.
Otherwise, I toured London under its grey skies. I visited the Parliament buildings and Big Ben, contemplated the brass rubbings at Westminster Abbey and crossed over the Tower Bridge. I had my last bread and cheese picnic in Hyde Park, with the familiar sharp cheddar I had been craving. I returned to Oxford Street with Sarah on our last day to do a spot of shopping. Somehow I managed to cram some toffees and Body Shop products in my overstuffed backpack.
What was the grand finale for our trip? We were in London, so we went to the theatre.* We stood in line to get some last minute tickets for Me and my girl at the Adelphi theatre. A lighthearted romp to send us on our way home.
*to be said with a haughty British accent
Sarah and I were all smiles arriving at the Toronto airport. We received warm hugs from our families. The two mothers gave us a good inspection to assure themselves our limbs were intact.
We made it home.
Reminiscing on my first travels has been a wonderful journey. Thankfully I found my long neglected journal. There is nothing like reading your own words to awaken a forgotten memory – an orange scented plaza, a harbour view room, a majestic picnic, a peaceful train trundle, a destiny foretold, an impromptu travelling companion, a kind host, a musical earworm, a travelling “to do” list, a snapshot of your younger self.
If anyone is reading this besides Sarah (hello there and thank you!) ask yourself: do I have an old travel journal? If so, I say, go find it. It’s worth the trip to the dusty crawl space or dark attic. It’s a treasure trove of memories, a travel through time.
🎵Please go. Please go find it. Please go read it. I begging you to do it.
And let me know if you do! I would love to hear about it.
If this post makes no sense, let me explain. This is the last entry from my 1992 European backpacking trip with my friend Sarah. If you care to read the whole story, please go to The journey starts in Nice and travel with me from there. It’s a three and half month backpacking trip, but it won’t take nearly that long for you to read.
