When I was still in high school, London was one of those places that seemed to exist somewhere between movies and imagination. I had seen it countless times on television—the red double-decker buses passing through busy streets, black cabs moving between old buildings, Big Ben appearing in the background as if to announce, without needing words, This is London. I recognised Tower Bridge and the London Eye long before I knew anything about the neighbourhoods surrounding them. From where I was growing up in the Philippines, London felt impossibly far away, almost like one of those places you could dream about without seriously believing you would ever stand there yourself. I never imagined that years later, I would not only visit London once, but return many times, until the city I once knew only through a screen would slowly become part of my own story.

Even now, I sometimes find that difficult to believe.

For the past five years, London has quietly become more than just a destination for me. Living only around three hours away means that what once felt like a distant dream can now become a weekend adventure, a spontaneous trip, or simply somewhere to go when I want to step outside the rhythm of ordinary life. There is something almost amusing about that when I really think about it. The teenage version of me would probably have considered a trip to London a once-in-a-lifetime event, while the present version of me can find herself checking train times and wondering where we should eat when we get there.

Perhaps that is one of the first lessons London has given me: sometimes we become so accustomed to the life we are living that we forget parts of it were once things we only dreamed about.

With every visit, I still manage to discover something new—a street I have never walked before, a tucked-away café, another restaurant, a neighbourhood I thought I knew, or simply a different view of somewhere familiar. London never seems to reveal all of itself at once. It changes depending on the season, the weather, the people you are with and even the version of yourself who arrives there. I have visited on bright days when the city seems almost cinematic and on grey British afternoons when the clouds hang low and everything looks unmistakably London. I have arrived excited and energetic, and I have arrived simply needing a change of scenery. Somehow, the same city manages to meet me differently each time.

Maybe that is why I keep coming back.

No matter how many times I visit, there are certain landmarks that never completely lose their magic. The London Eye remains one of my favourites. There is something about stepping inside one of those glass capsules and slowly rising above the city, particularly around golden hour, when London begins changing colour beneath you. The Thames catches the fading light, buildings stretch into the distance, bridges cross the river like lines drawn through the city, and for a little while everything below seems quieter than it actually is.

From the ground, London can feel relentless. People are rushing towards Underground stations, buses are pulling away, tourists are trying to work out directions, commuters are walking as though being three seconds late might alter the course of history, and somewhere in the middle of all that movement you are trying not to be the person standing in everyone’s way while checking Google Maps. But from above, all that urgency becomes tiny.

I have always found something comforting about that.

Travel has taught me that sometimes we need distance to understand the size of the things we are carrying. A problem can feel enormous when we are standing directly beside it. A disappointment can occupy our entire view. A difficult season can convince us that nothing exists beyond it. Yet looking across London from above reminds me that life is always larger than whatever happens to be consuming us at that particular moment. Not everything becomes smaller because the problem has changed; sometimes it becomes smaller because we have finally stepped far enough away to see the rest of our life around it.

Then there is Tower Bridge, with its beautiful towers rising above the Thames. I have photographed it more times than I probably need to, yet I still find myself reaching for my camera whenever I see it. There is something almost fairytale-like about it, especially when viewed from the riverbank. Boats move underneath, tourists stop for photographs, people walk past carrying coffees or conversations, and the bridge simply stands there, magnificent and familiar.

Walking beside the Thames near Tower Bridge has become one of those simple London experiences I never seem to tire of. I like letting the noise of the city surround me while the river moves steadily beside it. There is something about being near water that makes me reflective. Perhaps it is the movement—the reminder that nothing stays exactly where it is forever. People arrive, people leave, cities change, relationships change, plans change, and somehow life keeps moving even during the moments when we feel stuck.

Standing there has made me realise that travelling is not always about discovering somewhere new. Sometimes a place makes you rediscover something about yourself.

When I was younger, it was simply one of the symbols that meant London to me. Now, whenever I find myself near Westminster and look up at that familiar clock face, I think about time differently. Five years of London adventures sound like a long chapter when written in a title, but living those years felt much faster.

That is the strange thing about time. We notice individual days when they are difficult or exciting, yet entire years somehow disappear quietly behind us.

When I look through photographs from my earlier London trips, I do not only see the landmarks. I see previous versions of myself. I remember what I was worried about at the time, what I was hoping for, what I thought my future would look like, and the things I did not yet know were coming. Some worries eventually disappeared. Some plans changed. Some prayers were answered differently from what I expected. Some dreams became real while others simply stopped being important.

Big Ben remained in the background.

I changed.

Perhaps that is one of the most beautiful things about returning to the same destination over many years: the place becomes a marker of your own becoming. You can stand somewhere familiar and quietly think, The last time I was here, I was a different version of myself.

Travel becomes an accidental diary.

Away from London’s grand landmarks, one of the places I always enjoy returning to is Notting Hill. There is something wonderfully different about its colourful houses, leafy streets and artistic character. After the grandeur and rush of central London, Notting Hill feels playful, almost whimsical. Walking through its streets sometimes feels like wandering through a painting that decided it wanted to become a neighbourhood.

Portobello Road is where I inevitably end up, particularly when the market is alive. Vintage treasures sit beside antiques whose histories I can only imagine. There are clothes, books, little objects I absolutely do not need but will still stop to examine, and food smells drifting between conversations and crowds. People come from everywhere, yet somehow everyone seems briefly connected by the simple act of wandering.

I think this is where London taught me another lesson I have had to learn repeatedly in life: not everything meaningful needs an itinerary.

I like knowing where I am going. I like plans, schedules and having some idea of what happens next. But some of my favourite travel memories were never carefully arranged. They happened because we walked down the wrong street, became hungry earlier than expected, changed plans because of the weather, stopped somewhere because it looked interesting, or simply decided that our feet had officially resigned from further sightseeing.

Sometimes getting a little lost is how we find the things we remember most.

Perhaps life is not very different. We spend so much time worrying about whether we are following the correct timeline that we forget there may be beautiful things on roads we never intended to take. Not every delay means we are behind. Not every detour means we have gone wrong. Sometimes the unplanned route becomes the story we tell years later.

Of course, no honest account of my London adventures would be complete without food. London’s food scene has become a journey of its own for me, and some of my strongest memories of the city are attached not only to places but to plates.

At Bon Gusto, I found comfort in hearty Italian dishes served in a warm, welcoming space. There is something particularly satisfying about finally sitting down to a proper meal after spending hours walking through London. By that point, your feet are negotiating their working conditions, your phone has collected hundreds of photographs, and suddenly a plate of pasta feels less like dinner and more like a reward for survival.

Then there is Burger & Lobster, where simplicity becomes its own kind of indulgence. A juicy burger or buttery lobster sounds like a straightforward choice until you are hungry enough to want both. Some travel memories do not need a profound philosophical meaning. Sometimes happiness is simply good food after several thousand steps.

And whenever I crave something vibrant and full of flavour, Chinatown has its own pull. The streets change as you enter, filled with restaurants, signs, lanterns, shops and that unmistakable energy created when cultures find a home within another city. Little Korea has been one of my stops for bibimbap, bulgogi and kimchi—food that feels comforting, bold and satisfying after another full day of exploring.

Over time, I have realised that food is part of how I remember travel. I may forget the exact route we took from one landmark to another, but I remember sitting down exhausted after walking all day. I remember conversations across the table. I remember laughing about something that happened earlier, deciding what to order, promising we would try somewhere different next time and then returning to somewhere familiar because we already knew we loved it.

The London Beyond the Postcards

After visiting repeatedly, I have realised that my favourite London moments are not always the obvious ones.

Yes, the landmarks are magnificent. I will probably never stop photographing them even though my camera roll already contains enough pictures of London to convince someone I am conducting a long-term architectural survey. But somewhere between the major attractions, I began noticing the smaller things.

The Underground announcements. The bus journeys where I stare out of the window and watch neighbourhoods change. Coffee carried through cold streets. Unexpected sunshine after a grey morning. The Thames turning silver beneath an overcast sky. Walking without a strict destination. Sitting somewhere simply because my feet have declared negotiations over.

These are not necessarily the moments that make it onto travel brochures, but they are often the ones that make a city feel personal.

There is a difference between seeing a place and slowly knowing it. The first time you visit somewhere, you collect landmarks. After enough visits, you begin collecting feelings.

London has given me both.

When I look through photographs from my London trips over the past five years, I do not only notice how the city looked. I notice myself.

Different hairstyles. Different seasons. Different worries waiting for me back home. Different things I was hoping for at the time. Different versions of the woman standing in front of the same landmarks.

That may be one of the quiet gifts of returning to a place repeatedly. The city becomes a marker of time.

The London Eye remains where it is. Tower Bridge still stretches across the Thames. Big Ben continues counting hours without caring what any of us are doing with them. But I have changed between visits. Life has changed. Priorities have shifted. Some things I once worried about no longer matter. Some dreams have disappeared, while others have unexpectedly become real.

And somewhere in all of that change is the girl I used to be.

I think about her sometimes—the high-school student who knew London through films and photographs, who could not have predicted where life would eventually take her. If I could sit beside her for a moment, I would probably resist telling her too much. I would not spoil the story. I would simply tell her to keep dreaming, even when the dream feels embarrassingly far away.

Because she has no idea yet.

She does not know that one day London will no longer be somewhere on the other side of a television screen. She will hear the Underground arriving. She will walk beside the Thames. She will look up at Big Ben instead of looking at a photograph of it. She will cross Tower Bridge, wander around Notting Hill, eat her way through different corners of the city and return enough times that London will begin carrying memories rather than merely expectations.

Some dreams do not announce themselves when they come true. One day, you simply look around and realise you are standing inside something your younger self once imagined.

A City I Will Keep Returning To

London is still only a few hours away from where I live, but distance has never been the best measurement of what a place means to us. Some places are thousands of miles away and leave almost nothing behind. Others become part of our personal history.

For me, London has become the latter.

I will continue returning for the landmarks I never seem to tire of, the neighbourhoods I have yet to properly explore, the food I have not tasted and the photographs I will inevitably take even when I already have almost identical ones from previous visits. But I think I will also keep returning because London reminds me of possibility.

Sometimes I imagine sitting beside my high-school self again, somewhere back home in the Philippines, while London appears on the television. I wonder what she would say if I showed her photographs from all these visits. I think she would stare at them for a while before asking the obvious question.

We really went there?

And I would probably smile and tell her, Yes. Many times.

I would not tell her everything else. I would not explain every road life takes before getting there. I would not tell her about every disappointment, every change of plan, every difficult chapter or every unexpected blessing. Some things are better discovered while living them.

But I would tell her to keep dreaming.

Not because every dream comes true exactly as we imagine it. Life does not make promises like that. Some dreams change. Some disappear. Some lead us somewhere completely different. But occasionally, something we once considered impossibly far away quietly becomes part of our ordinary life.

And when that happens, we have to remember to notice it.

Because human beings are surprisingly good at becoming accustomed to their blessings.

The extraordinary eventually becomes familiar. The place we once dreamed about becomes somewhere we complain about the train journey to. The landmark that once took our breath away becomes another photograph in a camera roll. The life we prayed for becomes the life whose inconveniences we grumble about.

There is nothing wrong with familiarity. It is part of living. But every now and then, I think we owe it to our younger selves to stop and remember.

Gratitude is sometimes nothing more complicated than remembering when your ordinary life was still one of your dreams.

So even after all these visits, London remains special to me.

It is there in the view from the London Eye as the city turns golden beneath me. It is in Tower Bridge standing over the Thames while the world moves around it. It is in the face of Big Ben reminding me that time is always passing. It is in the colourful streets of Notting Hill, the clutter and character of Portobello Road, the food shared after long days of walking, and the countless photographs containing versions of myself I can no longer return to.

London has become part of my story not because it is perfect, but because I have lived enough little pieces of my life there for the city to carry memories of me.

And I know there are still hidden corners waiting to be found.

There will be more streets I have never walked, more food I have not tried, more photographs I probably do not need but will take anyway, more unexpected detours and hopefully many more moments beside the Thames when I remember just how far life has travelled.

The next time I return, I want to remember to look at London through the eyes of the girl who first saw it in movies.

Because somewhere in my life right now, there may be another London—another dream that still feels distant, another place or possibility filed quietly under maybe someday.

I do not know yet what it will be. But London has taught me never to underestimate someday.

After all, there was once a girl thousands of miles away who looked at this city through a screen and never imagined she would have the opportunity to visit it again and again.

Now I can stand beside the Thames, look around at the city that once seemed so far away, and understand something my younger self could not have known yet:

Sometimes the distance between a dream and a memory is simply a life you have not lived yet.

And maybe that is why London will always have a small piece of my heart. Not only because of what I have seen there, but because of what the journey reminds me about life—how quickly it changes, how quietly dreams can arrive, how much beauty exists in unplanned moments, and how important it is to recognise the blessings that have become so familiar we almost forget we once wished for them.

London was once somewhere I watched from afar.

Now, it is somewhere I return to.

And somehow, after all these years, a part of me still cannot quite believe that I get to say that.

With love,
Anj