I left work early to catch the 4:15pm to Edinburgh Waverly, but Chris always gives himself too much time, you know this. I killed time with a refreshing Amstel in Piccadilly station. While the beer hit me and gave a warm buzz all problems were there, but for some reason you have a little clarity that it is going to be alright. The buzz went when the train arrived delayed, and I needed the loo too many times.
The train was stupidly crowded all the way from Manchester to Preston. But when the crowds thinned to where all had seats the jollity of the passengers came out. I realized I was heading in the right direction. I took out my GPS as soon as we left Carlisle so I could see when we crossed the border (me and borders, I don't know). I didn't need the GPS, the Scottish passengers would let me know when we crossed. The beers were cracked open and a gentleman was inviting all around him to play 'name that tune' from the music on his tablet. The prize for a correct answer was a Rowntrees wine gum. I won two.
I picked a hostel which I knew wouldn't be far from the rail station and I chose Smarts Hostels off The Royal Mile. A great place with a neat studenty bar. Only £10 a night. But this isn't important at all. Although the Scottish breakfast in the morning for £4 was one of the things you come north of the border for. And yes haggis was there to be enjoyed. The truth was the following Saturday it filled me until evening.
That evening I left and walked towards the castle in the intermittent rain. The Christmas lights were up, and I don't think there are many cities which can wear Christmas as well as Edinburgh can. The American tourists, were shuffling to the good eateries, after a day spent doing everything they could. The streets were clearing and it was just me, my camera and a million thoughts.
I walked past the vibrant bars on The Royal Mile. A mash-up of tourists looking for and finding the welcoming Scots. Edinburgh professionals winding down their week at work, and I wanted to be there with them. But I couldn't go in. I had drunk in Manchester and on the train, and I wasn't in a safe mood to be drunk. I finished my walk and returned to the Hostel Bar. I sat there with a pint of Guinness, uploaded my photos and read some before taking to the crisp white sheets of my allotted top bunk. In the limited space of a hostel dorm, there is something cosy and safe about your little allocated piece of space. I'm not going to pretend that my co-dormers were ideally considerate, but I slept ok. The only complaint was a mistake of my own making. Keeping my bag as a pillow, I slept awkwardly and carried a painful neck for the remainder of my weekend and a little into the following week.
I woke up before 8am and was one of the few to take early advantage of the Scottish breakfast. Hash browns, sausages, bacon eggs, haggis, everything. My mind flitted like a remote control surfing the TV, as it couldn't decide whether I was basking in contentment of the moment, slurping sweet tea as the sun rose without hurry. Or the magnitude of the future weighing me down. I am pretty sure that the contentment and peace won overall. I set out and walked the streets of Edinburgh before most others had. I crossed the bridge taking me to Princes Street, while other hostellers slept off their hangovers, and the American tourists were complaining about their breakfast at The Caledonian. It's the park I wanted, near the Scottish National Gallery. I walked through it not knowing what I wanted. It started to rain and I sought shelter with the fickle comfort of a Marlboro Light. I can't wander these streets all day. I needed out the city. I looked at google maps and then the train timetable on the old iPhone and there was a 9:38am train to Perth, and the fare was only £16. I had time and made my way to Waverly Station and took the 1 hour journey north of the city. Why Perth? What's so special about Perth? Nothing. I went because I could.
As the train leaves Edinburgh it also leaves the charming touristy bit and you see the houses famed by the film Trainspotting. We all know council houses exist, but these were miles and miles of gritty 1980s style damp-stained morbidity. I grew up in a council house, but this was something else. A child growing up there would see little else, especially in my era when cares were scarce amongst the poor. But still I saw the soul, I think. And this seemed as part of Scotland's fabric as the scotch-soaked lamp-lit bars pulsing the Royal Mile.
Then the countryside. The snow had fallen a little. The train made several stops and on and off jumped rosy cheaked families with technicolored hats. The kids excited about a journey they knew well. Wrinkled chain-smoking Catholic women, impatiently waiting for the train to arrive to light up another Lambert & Butler. And the big men, all very big men.
When I got the Perth I didn't know why I bothered. I recognized nothing much from my stop here in 1996 on the way to Pitlochry. I wandered a bit, taking in the churches and forcing interest in the history. Book shops always make me happy, so why wouldn't the local one? I was forcing it far too much. Trying to be cultural, when I only wanted to be in bed and warm. The snow fell a little and I found a Costa Coffee. I found a table in the corner and sat nursing a Gingerbread Latte, and nibbling at a chocolate and caramel shortbread, which I bought only as I thought I should. I looked at the families opposite. The matriarch calming the child with a hot chocolate and the father wiping his misted glasses, just like me. Happy bastards. I picked up my phone. Found my sister in the contacts and texted "Dan, how's you.... I'm in Costas and so fucking lonely!" There would be no breakdown beyond that. I took the train back to Edinburgh as the sun set. Tonight would be Saturday night and the pubs would not intimidate me. I was going out. And if it had to be on my own, then that's the way it had to be.
Back at the hostel I showered. There is something about Lynx Africa that makes everything right. Then out I went. My first stop was a backpackers bar called The Backpackers Bar. I sat there with Guinness after Guinness, pretending to be interested in the soccer. I lubricated my confidence enough to get into the next door establishment, Whistle Blinkies. A swinging place hyped as the place for live music in Scotlands capital. It was nothing like The Dublin Castle in Camden. No one here was making any attempt at taking themselves seriously. Good basic guitar sounds. A pubby voice for the lead singer, and Heh Jude to finish a set. I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The cheeks were pink and cracked above the beard, the eyes were subdued. When did I get so old? But bugger me if that wasn't a smile. I came here to seek contentment and found a crumb of happiness lying on the timber floor. "Same again please!"
The next morning there was no hangover. Even if there had been that breakfast would have banished it immediately. I had a noon train to catch on Sunday back to Manchester. This time the journey was in daylight. The train less lively, but offset by the track winding through the towns serving The Lake District. The smooth green hills and little blue and red dots of North Face and Berghaus coats bobbing along the peaks. Sometimes all you can say is "Britain, you beautiful little Island".
