COMING HOME

SPEEDBIRD RUNWAY L27  APPROACH 500FT 400FT   300FT  200FT 100FT  -  TOUCHDOWN

WELCOM TO HEATHROW LONDON, WELCOME HOME

Flying in to London Heathrow, nostalgia revisits as this time I enter the country as a visitor.  Previous journey’s have been on different conditions, as they were returning home trips.  

 Speedbird landed on runway no. L27  at what should be the crack of dawn but unfortunately its as dark as midnight.  Terminal 3 seems to have grown smaller or perhaps there are more people, distorting area awareness.  

Ravenous,  I know that the only meal worth enjoying in the UK is the English breakfast.   It was a toss up between a  motorway café truck driver’s nosh  (which I might add is terrific) or for the exclusive, expensive Piccadilly style.  I opt for Piccadilly as the best English breakfast can only be had  (besides my mother-in-law's) is at The Wolsely, and they open at 7:00am, unusually early for British time.  It offers everything you could wish for within an incredible setting in the heart of Piccadilly.

The assumption of this travel blog may be the result of my working in the industry of airlines or tour packages is a massive stretch from the truth.  Unfortunately, no such luck. Hundreds of thousands of miles have been crisscrossed, and it seems this is my destiny.  Time frame is always a question mark.  Some are fleeting visits, some require pitching tent for longer periods, and some whizz by without registering the cerebral cortex.

London has been home for me at different times of my life; as a small child, a teenager, a married woman and now it’s a place I go back for a good fix when life is a little off kilter.  

Drummed into my head that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, The Wolesley menu indeed fixed my cravings in ways you cannot imagine.  White tablecloth, white napkins, tea and coffee in silver pots, and plates of Wedgewood china with silver cutlery that has been shiningly polished.  Civilised.  This settles me because in  my world of fast speed internet, deadlines, tired looking sandwiches on the go, catching planes, meeting wonderful and not so wonderful people, I have little time to stop to smell the roses.  If I were my own therapist, this is what remedies my soul.

Green Park, London

No need to embelish what a great breakfast can do - my walk in Green Park does the next best thing.  Skipping & playing hopscotch through Green Park as a child, I feel young again just by being there.   The morning light coming through and spring is in the air.  Tulips just sprouting, and the nippy air keeps my jetlag at bay.

Tonight is reserved for something very special, so rest my head I will, jetlag demands it.



Having made it to the seventh year level of ballet, I have seen just about every production the Royal Ballet had to offer.  My excitement is even more pronounced when I knew that I would be seeing La Bayadere at the Royal Opera House.  It was performed in 1961 in Paris by Rudolf Nureyev, then with the Kirov Ballet but I was too young at the time.   Now my chance to totally absorb all  150 minutes choreographed by Natalia Makarova will be just magic.  And magic it was.

Weekend country house retreat requires being equipped with walking shoes and it only seems right to get kitted out at Harrods.  Two hours and finally we were out of  Knightsbridge heading north on the M1 in time for tea.  Coming home, feet up, BBC1 turned on with an episode of Cornonation Street, logs crackling in the fireplace and a cup of Brooks Bond, darkness enveloping the outside air and it is only 5pm, it cannot get better than this.