My Travel Diary in the UK

On an early July morning, I dragged my suitcase stuffed with clothes and anticipation, waiting for my flight to London amid the crowds at the airport. Weeks before departure, I had been researching extensively—from London’s museums to Edinburgh’s ancient city, every place name felt like it held magic, making me eager to visualize its real appearance. As the plane took off, I stared at the clouds outside the window, my heart brimming with excitement—my UK journey was finally beginning.

Touching down at London Heathrow Airport, I stepped out of the terminal and was wrapped in a cool breeze. Red double-decker buses darted past, black cabs lined up at intersections, and Big Ben loomed faintly through the mist in the distance. I walked along the River Thames; on the benches by the river, some people were reading, others feeding pigeons, and sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows. For my first meal, I had fish and chips—crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, served with tartar sauce. It was even more delicious than I’d imagined, only deepening my fondness for this city.

On the third day, I traveled to Cambridge. Sitting on a punting boat gliding along the river, I admired the ancient buildings and weeping willows on both banks, while the boatman occasionally shared stories about the colleges. As we passed Cambridge Bridge, I suddenly recalled Xu Zhimo’s poem: “Quietly I take my leave, as quietly as I came.” At that moment, the river flowed gently, and the grass by the bank swayed in the wind—there was truly a poetic tenderness in the air. In the afternoon, inside King’s College Chapel, the light streaming through the stained-glass windows filled the entire space with a sense of holiness. I sat in a corner, listening to the piano music drifting from afar, feeling as if time had slowed down.

A week later, I took a train to Edinburgh. Upon arrival, I was stunned by the ancient city’s profound gravity—Edinburgh Castle stood atop an extinct volcano, its gray stone walls having weathered centuries of wind and rain. Walking along the Royal Mile, I passed small shops selling Scottish kilts and whisky, while street musicians played the violin, their melodies tinged with subtle sadness. Climbing Calton Hill, the wind was strong, blowing my hair wild, but the moment I looked down at the entire Old Town of Edinburgh, all fatigue vanished. The distant sea merged with the red rooftops nearby, a breathtaking sight that left me breathless.

The most unforgettable moments of the trip were the little ones. For example, on The Shambles in York, seeing the prototype of Diagon Alley from Harry Potter, I couldn’t help stopping to take photos; by the lakeside in the Lake District, I met an elderly man walking his dog, who warmly recommended the best ice cream shop nearby; and at the British Museum in London, I stared at the Rosetta Stone for a long time, as if I could feel the warmth of history. The fried eggs and grilled tomatoes in the full English breakfast suited my taste perfectly, and fish and chips became my daily must-have—though high in calories, that sense of satisfaction was irreplaceable.

The two-week trip passed by in a flash. On the day of departure, I bought a box of English breakfast tea at the airport, wanting to bring a taste of this place back home. This journey showed me the UK’s diversity—from London’s modern prosperity to Cambridge’s scholarly atmosphere, and Edinburgh’s ancient vicissitudes. Every city has its own personality, and every corner hides a surprise. Closing this page of my journal, I thought to myself: Next time I come back, I want to visit more small towns, hear more stories, and record all these beautiful moments one by one.