Trainspotting the British countryside
Hideously over packed and ready for a city break
I woke up in the still dead of dark. Willingly, if you can believe it. I left my house before sunrise, under the watchful eye of the moon. She glowed brightly and strong, the morning after her belly turned full. Making her presence clearly known for the final few minutes where the sky remains her domain.
I’m not a particularly early riser, especially in winter. I’m a serial snoozer, just five-more-minutes! But equally I don’t really enjoy sleeping in. My Goldilocks routine is to wake at a “reasonable” time (deliberately vague and up for debate) and be productive whilst in bed. I coax myself out of slumber with a couple of short podcasts, followed by some reading and then usually pulling a tarot card. I am then ready to face the day, having successfully cheated my way into winning myself extra time in bed. Result.
When you have a reason to wake up early and the reason is an exciting one of course everything changes. I am taking a trip to Edinburgh and so this morning when my alarm went off I practically skipped, leaped and jumped out of bed. The poor thing probably wondered what on Earth was happening, accustomed to my usual sloth pace. Carpe diem!
It’s still morning. Still! Funny how much of it there is when you’re up and at ‘em. If Beyonce really does have the same 24 hours in the day that we do, I wonder if she’s discovered this yet? I am travelling at speeds of up to 125 mph on a train going straight across the British countryside from London. I grew up in a village and since living in London I’ve had a renewed appreciation for rural beauty and expanses of green spaces. We pass fields crisp with due, as sleepy fog lazily withdraws. Rays of sun dance across rivers and streams. I spy sheep and horses and cows. Abandoned outbuildings, derelict and overgrown. The harshness of the foamy North Sea, lapping along the coast. It’s like watching a slideshow on a Windows desktop screensaver. I’m soothed. We pass towns I’ll never visit, lives I’ll never cross paths with. I daydream about the ways my life could look entirely different to the way it does. I’m grateful for the way it is. I’ve ridden this same train journey before, but everything seems new. I don’t want the journey to end. I love staring out of the window. Until, that is, we’re 4 hours in and I’m desperate to stretch my legs.
My sister lives in Edinburgh, and this week she’s graduating from the Master’s degree she’s been studying for there. So, my other sister and I planned a trip to visit and celebrate with her. After a difficult few weeks on the job hunting front, a couple of nights away is exactly the right remedy. A bit of perspective and some much needed headspace.
Edinburgh is enchanting. A mystical city rich with history and gorgeous architecture. What’s great is that we get to explore like locals. My sister has already picked out a hoard of new pubs and bars and restaurants and cafes we didn’t go to last time and probably never would have found otherwise. I’ve been scouring Instagram and TikTok to get a feel for what they’re all like. Quaint and ornate, with cosy interiors and candlelight. Each place is like the set of a movie. Like a 90s or early 00s rom-com. I half expect to see a young Hugh Grant appear on my screen.
Finally, we draw into the station and make our exit waiting to be collected like children at the school gates. In the distance, bagpipes were playing. Our arrival had been announced. My sister joked that wherever you go in Scotland you’ll be able to hear the sound of them if you try hard enough. My ears are peeled.
November night, Edinburgh
Norman MacCaig
The night tinkles like ice in glasses.
Leaves are glued to the pavement with frost.
The brown air fumes at the shop windows,
Tries the doors, and sidles past.
I gulp down winter raw. The heady
Darkness swirls with tenements.
In a brown fuzz of cottonwool
Lamps fade up crags, die into pits.
Frost in my lungs is harsh as leaves
Scraped up on paths. – I look up, there,
A high roof sails, at the mast-head
Fluttering a grey and ragged star.
The world’s a bear shrugged in his den.
It’s snug and close in the snoring night.
And outside like chrysanthemums
The fog unfolds its bitter scent.