One random day in January, I had the urge to see Arsenal play.
I had been a fan my entire life, watching from halfway across the world, never imagining I would actually sit in the Emirates Stadium. But the urge was strong enough that I fired up my spreadsheet and began planning. A thirteen-day trip. Arsenal, yes, but also everything I had wanted to see in the UK.
Visa. Flights. Trains. Hotels. Match tickets. I mapped it out to the minute, the way I managed projects at work. I knew which compartment of my bag each item would go into. I knew exactly which train to take from Heathrow, how long the walk would be, which direction to turn.
By the time I landed in London on a cold April morning with a runny nose from the flight, I was prepared. Or so I thought.
Thirteen days. Five cities. And more steps than I could have ever anticipated.
My first full day in London, I wanted a first glimpse of everything. Westminster. Big Ben. Buckingham Palace. I asked strangers to take my photos in front of monuments I had only seen on screens. Then I headed to the Arsenal Stadium for just a tour.
The neighbourhood was new, but somehow felt familiar. I wore my Arsenal shirt and walked towards the Emirates. The stadium tour felt surreal. The strangers on the tour felt like people I already knew. The stadium felt like home.
Afterwards, I wandered to 221B Baker Street, to that famous address I had read about as a kid whilst getting soaked into Sherlock Holmes stories. Then I met a friend in Covent Garden. We explored Soho and Piccadilly Circus until my legs begged for rest.
By the time I reached my hotel that night, I had walked 33,000 steps. My feet were already starting to hurt.
The next morning, I woke at 3am and could not fall back asleep. Jetlag, yes. But also excitement. I was catching a train to Edinburgh – Scotland would be the sixth country I had ever visited.
The city built from sandstone looked magical from the very first glimpse. There was something about the mix of old and new, something surreal I could not quite name.
I visited the National Museum, walked the Royal Mile. Then I climbed Calton Hill as the sun began to set. From the top, I could see it all at once: the old city and the new city blending together, the ocean stretching beyond, Edinburgh Castle perched on its volcanic rock.
The next day, I joined a walking tour through Edinburgh’s dark past. That is when I heard the story of Greyfriars Bobby, a Skye Terrier who stayed by his owner’s grave for fourteen years after the man died. A tale of loyalty, something that became a symbol of the city itself.
Isn’t travel all about collecting these sorts of tales to tell?
I visited Edinburgh Castle, explored the prisons and war memorials, saw the Crown Jewels. I had a ghost tour scheduled for the evening, but by then, my feet were screaming. I skipped it and went back to the hotel.
I was beginning to realise something: you could plan things on paper before the trip, and the planning did serve me well. But you could not ignore the human factor. If your feet hurt, you can not walk. Simple as that.
Then came Liverpool. Liverpool was not meant to be anything special. Just a Beatles stop between Edinburgh and London. But the city surprised me.
I visited the Beatles Story museum, took the Magical Mystery Tour bus around the famous Beatles landmarks, stopped briefly at the Cavern Club. But what stayed with me was not the music history. It was a conversation during a walking tour.
I met an Australian traveller who had left Sydney to travel. She worked at places where she volunteered, and in exchange, they gave her accommodation. She moved to a different city as her base every few months, carrying everything she owned, drifting from city to city with no timeline. I imagined the thrill of waking up and deciding my day as it unfolds, rather than checking a spreadsheet.
I wished I had more time with her, to hear more about her life, her choices, the way she moved through the world without watching the clock. But I had a train to catch. In thirty minutes.
I grabbed something to eat and made it to the platform with minutes to spare. Exactly as planned.
But I could not stop thinking about her. About the way she just existed in the world, whilst I meticulously scheduled every fifteen-minute block.
What was I searching for in all these steps? What was I running towards, or running from?
On Day 9, I went to see Arsenal play at the Emirates Stadium.
I had never imagined I would someday make it to a match, and yet here I was. Getting on the train full of Arsenal fans felt special but also somehow normal, like this was what I usually did on weekends. The walk from the station to the stadium was joyous. I sat down ninety minutes before kick-off, taking pictures, soaking it all in.
When the match started, I sang the team anthem “North London Forever” with thousands of strangers who did not feel like strangers at all.
We took an early lead. Then we conceded twice. We lost.
But walking back to the station, grabbing a meal on the way, I realised the result did not matter. This was the experience I would never forget. I had ticked something off my bucket list, but more than that, I had found a moment of pure belonging in a foreign city.
The days blurred together after that. A day trip to York, where I walked the medieval city walls. Another to Oxford, where I toured Christ Church College and pretended I was at Hogwarts.
By then, I had walked so much that my feet had adjusted to a constant dull ache. I had seen so many cathedrals and museums that they started blending together. Next time, I told myself, I will pace it better, and do one museum, not five. I shall rest more.
But somehow I knew I would probably do the same thing again. Plan everything to the minute. Walk until my feet hurt. Rush from one place to another. Because that is who I am..?
In thirteen days, I walked 266,828 steps across five cities. I saw monuments and museums, castles and cathedrals. I stood in the Emirates Stadium and sang with strangers. I climbed hills and walked city walls. I met a traveller who made me question everything about the way I travelled.
I do not know if I found what I was searching for.
The trip was exhausting. My feet still remember the pain. The jetlag took weeks to shake off. I almost fell sick from pushing too hard, planned too tightly, rested too little.
But here is the thing: as I sit here now, looking at a world map on my wall, my eyes are already wandering to the next destination.
Maybe that is the point of travel. Not the arrival, but the walk. Not the answer, but the question. Not finding home, but discovering it exists in unexpected places: a stadium in North London, a hill in Edinburgh, a conversation in Liverpool.
The search itself is what keeps pulling me forward.
Where to next?
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