20 July 2026
Lisbon → London → Bristol → Cornwall
Budget airline travel is many things, but predictable has never been one of them. The adventure began at Terminal 2 in Lisbon. Calling it a “terminal” feels generous for the capital airport of a European nation. Seating is scarce, breakfast options are practically non-existent, and the overall experience leaves much to be desired. On the bright side, the queues for security and passport control were pleasantly short, so at least there was one small victory before take-off.
The flight itself… well, let’s just say it wasn’t one for the memory books. A screaming toddler and an equally determined baby provided the soundtrack from take-off to landing. Somewhere over the Bay of Biscay I found myself wondering what on earth was going on, while the familiar parental thought kept looping through my head: “My child was never like that.” Whether memory has become selective over the years is perhaps another discussion altogether.
Stansted was a first for me. I’ve always passed through Heathrow, so arriving here was a new experience. Passport control is now entirely electronic and biometric. Since the UK’s Electronic Travel Authorisation (ETA) is linked to the passport used during check-in, there was no interaction with an immigration officer at all. It took me a moment to work out exactly how the passport scanner wanted to be used, and I briefly felt like technology’s favourite fool before the gates finally welcomed me into England.
The best part of the day came moments later. My daughter was waiting just beyond the arrivals hall. She had landed a couple of hours earlier and had thoughtfully bought us lunch for the road. After months apart, that first hug made every delayed connection, uncomfortable seat and early alarm worthwhile.
Whatever misgivings I may have had earlier that morning while sitting in Lisbon’s rather uninspiring Terminal 2 had long since melted away. There is something undeniably comforting about being back in the UK, even if only for a visit. Munching on Vietnamese wraps, sipping passion fruit lemonade, and later tucking into a classic coronation chicken sandwich somehow felt quintessentially British. The contrast with the morning’s rather bleak airport experience couldn’t have been greater, and suddenly the day’s small inconveniences seemed hardly worth remembering.
Our next challenge was getting from Stansted to Heathrow in time for our long-distance coach. Rather than taking an expensive direct transfer, we opted for the Stansted Express followed by the London Underground. It turned out to be an economical and surprisingly straightforward combination, although it does involve a fair amount of walking. If you’re travelling light, I’d happily recommend it.
We reached Heathrow with about two hours to spare before boarding our coach to Bristol. There is something wonderfully old-fashioned about long-distance bus travel. Unlike flying, there is no pressure to be constantly moving through airports or racing to make connections. Once you’re on board, all that remains is to settle into your seat, watch the countryside unfold beyond the window and simply enjoy the journey.
England, dressed in full summer green, did not disappoint. Rolling hills, ancient hedgerows, golden fields and sleepy villages slipped past the windows one after another. It was easy to understand why generations of poets, painters and writers found endless inspiration in these landscapes. Seeing them in person, rather than through photographs or films, felt like quietly stepping into the pages of a favourite novel.
In Bristol we changed coaches for the final stretch south. This coach quickly earned the nickname the school bus. It seemed to stop at every university town along the route, three in total, as students hopped on and off with backpacks, headphones and takeaway coffees. It wasn’t the fastest way to travel, but it certainly felt like a far more authentic slice of England than speeding past everything on a motorway.
More importantly, it gave us uninterrupted time to catch up. Over the years we’ve discovered that we make excellent travelling companions. Long journeys somehow encourage conversations that never quite happen at home, and before long the hours simply disappeared.
As I write this, it is 23:08. Between flights, trains, the Underground and two coaches, we’ve both been travelling for around sixteen hours. Our final destination is now only two stops away. My legs are protesting, my backside has officially had enough of coach seats, and a proper bed has never sounded more appealing.
Tomorrow, the Frog finally reaches Cornwall.
FrogDiva Thoughts 