The day that never happened.

Wednesday 6th December 2023 never happened. At least, not for me.

But first, welcome to the last blog from my Great OE.

Having had the adventure of a lifetime, my homeward journey began. Saying goodbye to people and places I’m unlikely to ever meet again was tempered by the everlasting memories of warm hugs, laughter and shared stories.

Cleaning out my suitcase so as to guarantee it being under the airline’s 23kg’s limit took surprisingly long, as receipts and paper tickets (yes, there is still such a thing!) jogged memories of the previous three months; the train journey where I met Sue from Lancaster, and the bus ticket which brought the joy of Polly. Just two highlights from a whole book-full of experiences.

Waving Liz goodbye at Heathrow seemed so final. She drove off into the new adventure that she and her husband Richard were bravely undertaking, and I turned to face the pleasure that is international flying.

You never know who will be your seating companion. On the flight from Heathrow to San Francisco I was joined by a lass whose world was utterly alien. I’m not sure she was entirely pleased to see me. Someone younger and more easily influenced would have been right up her street. For this very polished young woman was an Influencer in the world of martial arts; at least, I think that was it. Everything about her, from the beautifully straightened long hair to the designer bags, was casually perfect. She was doing a surprise appearance at an event in San Francisco, so had stopped answering calls or recording in order that no-one could suspect.

I watched in some fascination as she organised herself into her seat, complete with makeup checks, and constant updating on what was trending in her world. I had the window seat, and this was how the ice finally got broken. Pointing out spectacular views, and pinning myself back so she could take photos, softened her. If not for that flight, our paths would never have crossed. She lived in a world devoid of fresh grass, animals bigger than a coiffured dog, and gumboots. I don’t have friends who need to hear from me every few hours, nor any expectation of hype.

The flight from Heathrow to San Francisco is a bit bizarre. We flew out in the late afternoon, into the sunset, which then stayed on our wingtip for the next eleven hours, and, according to the clock, we arrived just three hours after takeoff. Where had those eight hours vanished to?

The flight path crossed Greenland, sparking a new desire; my next trip will need to be up into those vast areas of the north.

Canada took hours to to traverse; seeing it’s size on a map barely hints at just how huge that country is. And yet the sunset appeared to be the same, as though we were hanging in limbo.

Utah; I was not expecting the green and white, nor the mountains.

A jet fighter wizzed by, so quickly as to be frightening.

Sunset over San Francisco; despite having been warned of it’s beauty I was still gobsmacked.

San Francisco airport and customs were so much kinder than Los Angeles. Security knew what a smile looked like, there was even the occasional ‘please’. No crying baby’s or stressed elderly in these queues. Once through, I found a packed restaurant/bar in which to dine on a fabulous steak whilst watching folk going by. Snippets of conversation crashed in; would they get there before the baby was born, who’s going to win the big game, let’s hope she goes to jail forever. I was dying to ask….

Going to the AirNZ waiting area was to be blessed by the first touch of home. New Zealand voices! Te reo Maori words woven into the speech and signage. Pictures of places I knew. And kindly patience; such a joy.

I’d been upgraded to Business class. The sheer pleasure of a flat bed and seperate pod override everything else. They bring you a warm cloth to freshen up with, even prior to takeoff. Then there’s the service… at any time. It’s not in an uncomfortable servile manner, but in a genuine attempt at making sure you are properly comfortable for a lengthy journey. Not a number, but a name.

Waking sometime mid-flight, I stopped to chat with the attendant in the galley. He had been reading but promptly put the book aside when he saw me pass by on the way to the toilet. The books cover caught my attention, and soon led to a discussion. What an interesting man this attendant was! A builder by trade, but he absolutely loved his role with AirNZ. His manner made every passenger feel properly looked after, and he deserves a medal for how he settled the rude man. That’s an admirable skill. I would have wanted to slap the passenger concerned, but this attendant’s response never showed tension, and he managed to prevent the rudeness from impacting on other passengers. AirNZ’s business class for long-haul is worth gold; if you ever get the chance, do it, at least once.

Arriving in Auckland, setting foot on New Zealand soil; what a feeling. But my journey home wasn’t over, and there were still stories to be uncovered. On the bus between the international and domestic terminal a grandmother told me how her family would never again fly through the USA; at a stopover her ten year old grandson was unexpectedly thrown up against a corridor wall by a passing security guard and searched, traumatizing the whole family. There had been no explanation, nor apology. Mistaken identity? On a ten year old?

Checking in to the domestic flight, the date seemed odd. I’d left San Francisco on the 5th of December, flown for 13 hours, and now it was the 7th? What happened to Wednesday 6th December? Weird to have never lived a particular day. Did I miss anything special? Never mind, I have a plane to catch.

Coming home. The early morning flight path passed snow-covered tips of treasured mountains; Ruapehu, Tongariro, Taranaki. New Zealand’s west coast of the north island stretched, curved and flexed it’s way south. I craned for my first glimpse of Cook Strait, Mount Arthur, and Farewell Spit; the places which signal home. And suddenly, there they were, bathed in sunlight, showing off their uniqueness.

As the plane banked, I couldn’t help naming the roads I knew, and mentally waving at the homes of friends.

Touch down, wait for the scramble of passengers to subside, then finally gather my emotions and disembark. My heart skipped at the sight of The Whiskered One holding a red rose. Home. That hug worth more than anything else in the world.

And then the surprise of a daughter and baby grandson from five hours drive away being there! Such joy.

But the journey still had one more stop over; delivering a card to an elderly family member from her nephews in Tring.

And finally home, where love and my life’s core nestle, familiar and dear. The sights, smells, and couch fit perfectly.

Early next morning, I step out onto the deck, to listen to my world waking; Tui and bellbirds greet the day with endemic song. How amazing to be here. There really is no place like home.