London was finally near.
That morning, I stood on the upper deck of the Beagle, leaning against the railing, breathing in the long-missed scent of the Thames River.
It was a scent only Londoners understood, mixed with the wet mustiness of mudflats, coal smoke, beer dregs, and old ropes. Being away for five years, homesickness was like an old cable tied to one's soul, a gentle tug would make one's heart tremble.
The sun was already high, the river shimmering with dazzling golden light, heat rising from the deck as we sailed upstream. Passing by Gravesend, then through the waterways of Limehouse, familiar landmarks emerged one by one. The dome of Saint Paul glowed faintly in the mist, and the Tower of London stood solemnly like an old soldier in the morning light.
