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Blame the mental load (as defined in last Sunday’s post). Thanks to it, I forgot my laptop on the roof of my car and gave Luna her maiden—and final—voyage down I-69. RIP. 😢
📸 Also, yep, all the photos in this post are mine. If you borrow them, tag me so I can bask in the glory.
The Accidental Honeymoon
This trip wasn’t originally mine. My ex–father-in-law wanted to relive his own grand European adventure—re-create the trip he once took, this time with his son. But the catch? You couldn’t exactly take his son without me. So, somehow, what started as his dream turned into my ex-husband and I tagging along on what was supposed to be my ex–father-in-law and ex–stepmother-in-law’s honeymoon. Romantic, right? If by romantic you mean: two newlyweds crammed into a rental car with their son and his wife, all of us lurching from castles to cliffs to cathedrals in one long, chaotic caravan.
9/18 — Heading Across The Pond
Chicago to London (Overnight Flight)
The plane was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, every cough and elbow an unwelcome companion. My ex-husband and I barely slept—more delirium than rest—and that’s what we got for trying to save a few hundred bucks on airfare. Meanwhile, my ex–father-in-law and ex–stepmother-in-law had flown out of Toronto. Their flight was practically empty; they each sprawled across entire rows, sleeping like kings while I sat upright, nauseous, sleepless, and muttering curses into my ginger ale.
We arrived early, only to circle Heathrow for nearly an hour like vultures waiting for permission to land. By the time we staggered through customs, I was a walking corpse: jetlagged, hollow-eyed, and unable to keep food down. And then came the first punchline of the trip—the rental. What was supposed to be a van somehow became an economy car. Four overweight adults, two weeks of luggage, and one tiny clown car. We shoved bags into every crevice, crammed ourselves in, and set off across England like the world’s most miserable sardines.
9/19 — Stones, Storybooks, and Beatles’ Ghosts
Stonehenge
Honestly? I thought it would be bigger. Probably because they keep you standing what feels like a mile away, penned in by ropes. Surrounded by sheep and whipped by relentless wind, the stones seemed smaller, but no less strange. Maybe that’s part of their trick—massive when you picture them alone, humbling when you see them scattered across a sheep pasture. Even jetlagged and nauseous, I felt the old pull of them, though it was hard to tell if it was magic or motion sickness.
The Cotswolds
We almost missed the Cotswolds completely. Somewhere between my jetlag crash and my ex–father-in-law’s glitchy GPS, we were barreling straight toward Liverpool. By the time anyone noticed, we’d already skipped a couple of planned stops and had to backtrack. Still, I’m glad we did. The Cotswolds aren’t a single place but a stretch of villages across south-central England, famous for their rolling hills and cottages built from warm, golden limestone. It’s the kind of countryside that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a fairytale—quaint pubs, crooked chimneys, and streets that look hand-painted. Even on limited time, it was worth the detour.
Liverpool
My ex-husband and ex–father-in-law were in heaven here—both big Beatles fans. We pulled in late, but just in time to walk from our AirBNB to Mathew Street, a cobbled stretch of nightlife and pubs that’s basically a shrine to the band. Murals, memorabilia, and music spill from every doorway. The crown jewel of the night was the Cavern Club, a brick-vaulted cellar where The Beatles first cut their teeth in the early ’60s. It’s hallowed ground for fans—sweaty, loud, alive—and being there felt like time folding back on itself.
9/20 — Rain, Rock Legends, and Roadside Resets
Liverpool
I slept in that morning, which made everyone mad at me—but I was sick to my stomach and needed the extra rest.
When we finally emerged, the rain was already coming down—fitting for a city that’s built entire anthems out of melancholy. Our first stop was The Beatles Story museum, walking through their climb from local lads to legends. It pulled together everything we’d glimpsed on Mathew Street the night before and laid out the stories behind the songs.
From there, it was Beatles bingo: Penny Lane with its barber shop and bank, Strawberry Field where Lennon once sneaked in as a child, Eleanor Rigby’s grave with its quiet irony, and even the shopfront Tony Slavin—the “barber showing photographs” from the lyrics. For my ex-husband and ex–father-in-law, this was pilgrimage. For me, it was watching a city map turn into sheet music.
Bolton
We left Liverpool behind and cut through Bolton, where I finally managed to eat at Ye Olde Man & Scythe after days of jetlagged nausea. It wasn’t glamorous, but it felt like salvation. Sometimes a roadside meal is the most sacred stop of all.
9/21 — Wands, Walls, and a Hard Goodbye
York
We’d arrived late the night before and stayed in an Airbnb inside a building formerly known as Woodmill Quay. It had that old-world charm mixed with modern quirks—creaky floors, exposed beams, and the sense that history had seeped into the walls.
Our first stop the next morning was York Minster, a cathedral so massive and intricate it almost felt alive. The stained glass glowed even under gray skies, every window a sermon in color. Its sheer scale was overwhelming—stone arches vaulting toward heaven, history carved into every detail. It was impossible not to feel small inside it, like your heartbeat was just one echo among centuries.
From there, we wandered into The Shambles. It felt like stepping straight into the world of Harry Potter—narrow, crooked timbered buildings leaning toward each other like they were sharing secrets over the cobblestones. It was beautiful in a way that made time feel elastic, as if stories and spells might spill out of the doorways at any moment.
As we explored, we stumbled across a film crew set up right in front of Woodmill Quay. Watching the cameras, cables, and clapperboards was a surreal twist—like York itself had turned into a movie set, its stories still being written in real time.
Clifford’s Tower rose nearby, a weathered stone sentinel with a view that stretched across the city. Beautiful, yes—but heavy with history, its walls once soaked in violence and fire.
That day, beauty collided with grief. I found out my family dog, Juno, had passed away back home. The news gutted me. To stand in a place that felt so magical, yet carry that ache in my chest, was surreal. York will always be marked in my memory as both wonder and mourning—proof that even on the brightest days, shadows still walk beside us.
Dover Arrival
By evening, we drove south to Dover and checked into our Airbnb, perched with a perfect view of Dover Castle. Its silhouette glowed against the night sky, a silent sentinel watching over us as we settled in for the night.
9/22 — Cliffs, Castles, and Cauldrons
The White Cliffs of Dover
We began the morning at the cliffs themselves—chalk-white, windswept, and impossibly vast. They seemed to hold back the sea with sheer defiance. Standing there, you could almost feel the weight of wartime vigilance pressing against the roar of the waves. It was eerie and breathtaking all at once, the kind of view that makes you feel both tiny and eternal.
Dover Castle
From there, we turned inland to Dover Castle, the “Key to England.” Its history runs the full span of English defense: medieval fortification, royal residence, and World War II command center. We climbed towers, ducked into tunnels carved into the cliffs, and wandered stone corridors echoing with centuries of footsteps. It was less a castle tour and more a time machine, every wall telling a different era’s story.
Warner Bros. Studios (Harry Potter Tour)
That afternoon, we traded cliffs for cauldrons at Warner Bros. Studios. Walking into the Great Hall was like stepping back into the pages that shaped my imagination. Costumes, sets, butterbeer—it was all there. The kind of place where your inner eleven-year-old takes over, tugging you down Diagon Alley and onto the Hogwarts Express.
We were the very last group of the day to walk through. Security literally trailed behind us, keeping us moving, but I didn’t want to leave. Every corner was spellbinding: Dumbledore’s office, the potions classroom, even the actual Hogwarts Express. I could have spent an entire day wrapped up in that place. Rushed or not, it was unforgettable—absolutely my favorite stop of the whole trip. #Hufflepuff4ever
London Arrival
By nightfall, we were in London. Double-decker buses rumbled past, lights shimmered off the Thames, and the city hummed like it had no off switch. I was exhausted, but wide-eyed—finally in the heart of it.
9/23–26 — Museums, Monarchy, and Beer-Battered Bliss
By the time we hit London, the old-timers were running on fumes. Late starts became the norm, and eventually, they bowed out altogether. My ex-husband and I, though—we were the opposite. Rushed, relentless, determined to squeeze every last drop out of the city before it slipped away. Every spare minute became a chance to see something, absorb something, let London imprint itself on us.
Day One
We started at the Churchill War Rooms, where history wasn’t just preserved—it was entombed. The underground bunkers still smelled faintly of dust and tension, maps frozen mid-battle, phones and typewriters waiting for hands that would never return.
From there, we made our way to Elizabeth Tower—Big Ben—only to find it disappointingly swallowed by scaffolding. Still, the clock face peeked out like a stubborn survivor. We ducked under Westminster Bridge to re-create the famous Windows 10 screensaver photo, laughing at how touristy and ridiculous we must have looked.
A Thames River Cruise followed, giving us a slow glide past bridges and landmarks that stitched London together from the water. That evening, we collapsed into The Anchor for our first taste of heaven—beer-battered cod and drinks that soothed every aching step.
We capped the night with the London Eye, rising above the city in glowing pods, and wandered through Piccadilly Circus, London’s version of Times Square—screens blazing, neon buzzing. But the dazzle dimmed a little when a man approached my ex–stepmother-in-law, asking if she was on TV. She, being the sweet woman she is, was flattered and kept chatting until we realized something wasn’t right and pulled her away. A reminder that in big cities, glamour and danger walk hand in hand.
At some point, we found ourselves sprinting through the Tube to catch a train. My ex-husband darted ahead and slipped through the doors just as they closed—leaving us behind. For a split second, panic clawed at both of us. Then it hit me: just get off at the next stop. We reunited minutes later, a little breathless, a little shaken, and laughing at how dramatic we’d both made it.
Day Two
The next morning took us to the Tower of London. History here doesn’t whisper—it howls. Betrayal, executions, imprisoned queens—every stone seemed soaked in blood. The Crown Jewels glittered in their glass cases, but it was the ghosts that caught me, the weight of lives lost to ambition.
From there, we crossed into The Globe Theatre, rebuilt but reverent, alive with the spirit of performance. For a theatre geek like me, it felt like a homecoming. Standing there, I could almost feel the ghosts of actors past, the buzz of an audience hanging on every word. Of course, back in Shakespeare’s day, people used to stand through plays as long as a Taylor Swift concert—and piss right where they stood. Somehow, knowing that made me love it more.
We ended the day as we had before: back at The Anchor. My ex-husband ordered his pints like a proper pub-goer, while I stuck to my Pimm’s Cup—a minty, fruit-laced drink that tasted like summer in a glass.
But London wasn’t done with us yet. We made our way to 221B Baker Street, home of Sherlock Holmes, complete with the iconic statue. And later, Leadenhall Market, its ornate Victorian glass roof glinting above shops that felt half like history, half like Harry Potter’s Diagon Alley.
Day Three
We walked past Parliament, soaking in the grandeur from the outside, before slipping into the Italian Gardens at Kensington Gardens. Formal, symmetrical, and a little too perfect, the gardens felt like London showing off its softer side.
From there, we paid tribute to legends. At Abbey Road Studios, we joined the pilgrimage of tourists risking life and limb to recreate the iconic crosswalk photo. Later, we trekked to Highgate Cemetery, a maze of ivy and angels. I left a pen on Douglas Adams’ grave—a small token for the man who reminded us not to panic.
Based on the photos, can you guess which stop I enjoyed more? 😂
By the end, we were spent but unwilling to stop. London hadn’t given us everything—but we had taken as much as we could. And then, before dawn on my birthday (and my ex–stepmother-in-law’s, too), we boarded the train to Paris, hurtling toward the next chapter.
9/26 — Palaces and Pilgrimages
Versailles
My ex–father-in-law would have happily packed this day with wall-to-wall D-Day history, which to my ex–stepmother-in-law and me did not sound like much of a birthday celebration. So we compromised: we squeezed into yet another tiny rental car and drove from Paris to Versailles.
The palace was gilded excess in every direction. The Hall of Mirrors glittered endlessly, reflecting chandeliers and footsteps into infinity. The gardens sprawled with mathematical precision, fountains rising like choreography against the sky. It was decadence on display—beautiful and suffocating all at once, as if the walls themselves still remembered the guillotine waiting in the wings.
Normandy Arrival
By nightfall, we were in Normandy. Our Airbnb this time was nothing like the sleek apartments of earlier stops—it was someone’s actual home. We climbed the narrow staircase into their attic, our beds tucked beneath sloped rafters and a window overhead framing the stars.
That evening, our host shared his family history with us. He claimed his family had once been wealthy, having invented the French croissant. We were skeptical until he pointed to the framed newspaper clippings on the wall, confirming every word. Strange, intimate, and oddly magical—that night felt like stepping into a different story altogether.
9/27 — Croissants, Coastlines, and the Cost of War
Morning in Normandy
We woke to the smell of fresh croissants drifting up from the kitchen—our host had prepared a full breakfast, the kind that makes you feel like family even in a stranger’s home. That’s when I decided: he was officially my French Grandpa.
After breakfast, my ex-husband and I slipped out with the host’s dog and walked down to Omaha Beach. The sand stretched wide and silent, the tide rolling in under a rising sun. It was surreal—watching light pour over a shoreline once thick with smoke, gunfire, and bodies. A place where the world cracked open now glittered gold with morning. Bittersweet doesn’t even begin to cover it.
The D-Day Tour
Our quiet moment didn’t last. My ex–father-in-law pulled up behind us, eager to stick to his itinerary, and we were rushed into a full day of D-Day history. We climbed into bunkers still scarred with bullet holes, walked the endless rows of the American Cemetery where white crosses and Stars of David stood in solemn symmetry, and traced the coastlines where battles had turned the tide of history. It was sobering, overwhelming, and heavy in a way no book or film can prepare you for.
Back to Paris
By evening, we were back in Paris, the city of light pressing against the shadows of Normandy. The whiplash was sharp—wine and laughter in the streets after a day spent walking with ghosts.
We headed straight for the Eiffel Tower. At night, it glittered like a spell—every sparkle a reminder of why it’s one of the most iconic sights in the world. But the magic cracked at the edges. Outside, vendors aggressively pushed knock-off souvenirs into our hands, and even at the tippy-top there were warnings plastered everywhere about pickpockets. It was dazzling and disappointing all at once, the beginning of my distain for Paris.
From there, we took an Uber up the hill to Sacré-Cœur, winding through narrow streets lined with shuttered shops and darkened windows. Even closed, the storefronts gave the sense of a neighborhood caught between day and night, waiting for the morning to bring them back to life. At the top, the basilica loomed—hauntingly beautiful, white against the dark. Below it, a crowd of people gathered, laughing and playing music with the whole city of Paris sprawled out behind them like a living backdrop. It was one of those moments that felt both sacred and alive.
Finally, we swung past the Moulin Rouge. We couldn’t afford tickets to a show, but there was no way we were skipping it entirely. We snapped a selfie under the famous red windmill, grinning like tourists, content to steal just a sliver of its glitter without stepping inside.
9/28–29 — Lights, Legends, and Letdowns
Paris at Full Speed
For our last day, my ex-husband and I kept the same relentless pace we had in London, while my ex–father-in-law and ex–stepmother-in-law slipped off to do their own romantic wandering.
I had dreamed of visiting the catacombs, only to find them closed for construction that weekend. And though Disneyland Paris whispered my name, there just wasn’t enough time.
Parc Monceau
We began our last full day in Paris at Parc Monceau, a garden straight out of a painting—lush greenery, flowerbeds bursting with color, and winding paths that begged you to linger. Originally designed in the late 18th century, it was a favorite haunt of Monet, and standing there, it wasn’t hard to see why. Every angle looked like a brushstroke.
Place de la Concorde & the Luxor Obelisk
From the gardens, we made our way to the Luxor Obelisk at Place de la Concorde. Rising nearly 75 feet tall, this 3,000-year-old Egyptian monument once stood at the entrance to the Temple of Luxor before France acquired it in the 1800s. My love for ancient Egypt made it a personal highlight. Beneath its golden pyramidion, the obelisk felt like a fragment of another world, out of place yet perfectly at home in the chaos of Paris.
Fontaine des Mers
Next came the Fontaine des Mers, one of the ornate fountains that grace the same square. Bronze figures of tritons and nereids sprayed water into the air, a theatrical centerpiece surrounded by honking traffic. Paris at its most extravagant.
Breakfast Misadventure
By then, our stomachs won out, so we ducked into a café for breakfast—one that, unfortunately, didn’t cater to tourists. The servers spoke no English, and with my French limited to “bonjour” and “merci,” we relied on Google Translate to stumble through the menu. The result: a meal that was edible but nerve-wracking. My honest advice? Unless you have a decent handle on French, avoid ordering blind.
Musée Rodin
We met back up with my ex–father-in-law and ex–stepmother-in-law at Musée Rodin. We stuck to the sculpture gardens, where The Thinker brooded eternally, muscled and meditative. For a moment, even in the bustle of tourists, it felt like he was staring straight through us.
Luxembourg Gardens
Splitting off again, my ex-husband and I made our way to Luxembourg Gardens. Fountains sparkled, statues dotted the walkways, and children pushed toy sailboats across the Grand Basin. It was one of the rare places in Paris that felt peaceful instead of overwhelming.
Fontaine Saint-Michel
From there, we stopped at Fontaine Saint-Michel, its winged Saint Michael locked in eternal combat with a dragon. Water thundered around him, dramatic and defiant.
Shakespeare & Company
Wandering through a stretch of shops, we grabbed ice cream cones and stumbled across Shakespeare and Company. A legendary bookstore crammed with English-language titles, it was crowded. I ducked inside for a few minutes—long enough to inhale the smell of paper and possibility—before retreating back into the street.
Notre-Dame Cathedral
Next was Notre-Dame. We stayed outside on the grounds, taking in its Gothic spires and gargoyles. At the time, it felt fine to skip the interior—but when the fire gutted it in 2019 (literally months after we visited), regret hit hard. To have been inside before that loss would have been unforgettable.
The Louvre
Our last major stop was The Louvre. It could take weeks to do it justice, but we skimmed the highlights: Mona Lisa, tiny behind her glass wall; Venus de Milo, radiant in marble; and the Great Sphinx of Tanis, massive and silent, a reminder of how deep time really runs. By the end, our feet throbbed and our brains were full. We limped back to the Airbnb, packed our bags, and tried to sleep before the early flight.
The Return
On the 29th, our Uber driver—who spoke no English—got us to Charles de Gaulle after some creative Google Translate acrobatics. If the Eiffel Tower started my disdain for Paris, this airport cemented it.
First, they weighed our luggage at the gate and insisted we check it. We sprinted across the terminal, only to be told our bags were fine. We sprinted back, out of breath and irritated, only for the gate agents to give us grief again. So we ran back, slammed the bags on the counter, and begged them to just check the damn things before we missed the flight. It was pure chaos: overcrowded, understaffed, and confusing at every turn.
The one saving grace? A last-minute grab of macarons—sweet, colorful souvenirs for the long trip home.
By the time we finally boarded, I was equal parts relieved and exhausted. My body returned to Michigan, but part of me lingered in cathedrals, castles, and cobbled streets across the sea. A reverse haunting, as if Europe had claimed a piece of me I couldn’t take home.
Final Thoughts — Ghosts Worth Returning To
Yes, I will definitely visit the UK again. Next time, I’ll give myself a day to recover from the jetlag and focus more on my interests than my ex-husband’s (sorry, Beatles). I want to see what we missed that first day, wander deeper into the corners that called to me, and soak up more of what felt like home across the sea.
As for Paris? I’ll give it one more chance—for the Catacombs and Disneyland Paris—and then I’ll consider that chapter closed. Two visits will be plenty.
Even now, I find myself missing the UK in small, strange ways. Like when I’m at a restaurant here and the waiter keeps circling back, working for their tip. In England, no one hovered. Meals lingered. Time stretched. It felt like permission to just be.
The trip wasn’t perfect—too rushed, too crowded, too much crammed into too little time—but it still left me haunted in the best way. The castles, the cliffs, the theatres, the pubs, the cobblestones—they’re all still with me. And one day, I’ll return to walk among them again with my two beautiful daughters.
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