CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
Another beautiful day in the hilly city of Edinburgh, and we've got a couple of hours to kill before our train. That in mind, I'm sitting in the park on Princes Street, self-indulgently reflecting on my time here, whilst I listen to a very average bagpipe player up by Waverley Station. He's better than some we've heard, but he's still very average.
It's occurred to me this morning that while I've certainly enjoyed Edinburgh, I don't feel like I've really connected with it at all. It's not the first time I've been here, but as there's been a 21 year gap, it may as well be for all that I remember about it. I've got distant family in this part of the world (not in Edinburgh itself, otherwise I'd have met up with them), and it's where my Dad was born, but I definitely feel like a visitor. I suppose unless you're spending time with family, when you're visiting the city and being in the same places as the tourists, you are a tourist. I don't feel any shame in that, I just thought something might click into place while I was here.
In other news, I remembered to count the number of pubs and bars on Leith Walk, this morning. Twenty three, most of which were open and populated. And with the sole exception of the Theatre Royal bar, there isn't one (not. one.) that I'd consider safe. The 'posh' pubs are the ones that don't have bars (iron or concrete) across the windows. Seriously. I know I keep mentioning it, and I know it sounds snobby, but there's something very scary about a mile-long street of people getting pissed before 10:30am. For once, I'm not even jealous.
Oh, also worth mentioning: They've got free wi-fi in Princes Street Gardens, Edinburgh. Free, mind. East Coast Rail can definitely fuck off. Got to use their train again shortly. Hmmmf.
Goodbye Scotland. It's been emotional.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
These words come to you from The Elephant House, on Edinburgh's George IV Bridge. This coffee shop is where J.K.Rowling used to come to when she was writing the first Harry Potter book. Other authors who've worked here include Ian Rankin and Alexander McCall-Smith. And now me. Just as I'm a volcano-climber, I'm also now as officially a writer as I'm going to get. It's difficult being this great, but I'm managing.
The Elephant House is rather nice, just on the comfortable-side of 'quirky'. The food's great and arrived quickly, but if the counter service is is a little more "leisurely". We queued there for 10 minutes easily, and there were only two customers in front of us. No wonder Ms Rowling had time to write a fucking book...
This is our last full day in Edinburgh, and we did the touristy-thing of walking around the castle and taking photos of everything. Not that anyone could criticise, as we were surrounded by a) other tourists, and b) the staff of the castle, who are effectively profiteering from us. As clichéd as it is, I highly recommend the castle if you get the chance. The views alone are worth it, but there are a lot of exhibitions too, as well as the National War Museum.
After the castle, it was a walk down to Greyfriars and a mooch about the vintage-shops in Grassmarket. I've enjoyed Edinburgh very much, and will definitely return. Although I may go for a city-centre hotel the next time round. The part where we're staying (opposite Leith Links) is fine, and obviously Edinburgh is lovely, but Leith Walk in the middle is fucking terrifying.
I other news, my crippling hangover lasted until the early afternoon, and I honestly thought I was going to throw up on our way into town this morning. Since I caught the sun on my mountaineering jaunt the other day, this would have resulted in a man with a bright red nose, being sick in the street before 10am. The people of Leith would have embraced me as one of their own.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to Adam…
…aka BawBag™ (his choice of pseudonym, not mine). We went to The Academy together, as well as hanging out at Lucasforums for a few years.
Ours was (IS) a bromance born eight years ago, of drinking, swearing and Star Wars (in common with a lot of my friends), and this man is at least partially responsible for the best/worst hangover I've had for some considerable time. Ow. Ow, my fucking head.
We met last night for the first time in real life at The Conan Doyle in Edinburgh, which rounded off a day of Miss Magpie and myself strolling around Princes Street and Rose Street, spending a bit of time in The National Gallery of Scotland, then heading up The Royal Mile for something to eat.
They've got some decent beer at The Conan Doyle, including the one that's made my head hurt.
If you ever fancy hanging around a Jedi Outcast/Jedi Academy server with someone who enjoys beating the shit out of people with lightsabers, I can give no higher recommendation than BawBag™
Day three? Dehydrating.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Wear sensible footwear • Take plenty of provisions and equipment • Always follow the path
These are just three of the mountaineering-rules I didn't follow properly today when I climbed a volcano. A pair of trainers, a bottle of water, and a "ooh, is that the path? [2 minutes later, clambering over rock] Ah, no. No it isn't..." attitude got me 251m (823ft) above the city.
Not the flat ledge at the front, but the highest of the two peaks behind it. That's Arthur's Seat, an long-extinct volcano in Edinburgh. I'll be honest, I'm gutted it's not classified as a mountain as I really wanted to put '& Mountaineer' on my business card. Ah well.
Miss Magpie and myself started around 12:45, and I was at the peak at 1:20 or so. Miss Magpie climbed about 66% of a volcano today, before deciding to rest and enjoy the scenery. I won't lie, I was a little short for breath at the top.
So with the 1½ mile walk from Leith into town, the same back again, the walk up and around Regent Gardens and on to Holyrood Palace and up the Royal Mile then half way back down again, we've probably done around 8-9 miles. Early night, then into town tomorrow!
Day two? Tiring.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
So, first night in Edinburgh, a little tired from the travelling, and we didn't want to go too far from the guest-house. Looking at a map, we aren't too far from the Leith Waterfront, which we've been led to believe has been all redeveloped and that. So, rather than openly carry a map around in the early evening (may as well hold up a sign saying 'please mug me'), we judge the general direction and set off for a stroll.
I'm going to go out on a limb (an unresearched limb at that), and say that we had to walk through the old town before we got to the waterfront. We passed probably eight or nine pubs, none of which looked remotely safe. You know that bit in Trainspotting? "Pardon me, may I use your bathroom?" Yeah, all like that or worse.
All of a sudden, we came to a very respectable looking street of bars and bistros opposite the river, which we guessed is the waterfront. We looked over the bridge, but it seemed to go all residential and scary again, so we stuck to this street for the evening. After a walk up and down, The Shore looked worth a punt, and we popped in for a pint of 80/-. Well, I say popped in, we sat outside as it was packed. Looking at the well-to-do bar, Miss Magpie said to me before we entered "Do you think we'll be horrified by the prices?". To which I answered "I get the impression that in Leith, we'll either be horrified by the prices, or horrified by their knives. There seem to be no half-measures here." Friendly staff in The Shore, and two drinks were under £8, so it's already better than anywhere in London.
After being (politely) pestered by a man asking for money to feed his dog (and definitely not his habit), we headed along to a bar called The Waterline, and settled in with some Belhaven Rabbie (very much like Newcastle Brown). Again, a lovely bar, very friendly. A little more pricey than The Shore, but I was on bottled beer, so it's to be expected.
After a while, a pub-golf group came in. I've nothing against pub crawls, and this lot were well behaved, but they were in for ages. This seemed to suggest that as far as the "nice" pubs go, there really is just that street, and a large group of blokes in their mid-20's don't want to go into the regular pubs of Leith. I can't say I blame them.
An acoustic covers duo, The Jaywalkers started up, and we spent the rest of the evening watching them. Miss Magpie has started hearing things in Scotch, and when they introduced their rendition of Bob Dylan's Hey Mr Tambourine Man, she genuinely heard it as Hamish The Tambourine Man. I think it would be marvellous if all bands in Scotland had to adapt their cover versions to be overtly Scotch.
She asked if they knew any Del Amitri, and before you shout cliché, the singer said they only know one. He later said that he'd left the words at home so they couldn't do it. I was under the impression that any band playing within the boundaries of Scotland was legally obliged to know at least 80% of Del Amitri's back catalogue, but evidently not. That's like any band who plays London not knowing Chas & Dave songs, I ask you.
The Jaywalkers are very good, by the way, and seem wasted playing covers. They could quite easily have slipped some original songs into their set, but hey ho. So after a very chilled evening, we took a chilling walk back through the old town and briskly walked through a deserted Claremont Park to the guest house.
Day one? A success.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
I'm on a train as I write this. The excitement, eh? Whizzing through the English countryside at speeds approaching the limits the frail human condition can stand! Isn't it..? Hmm? Nah, me neither, really.
As we left King's Cross, I picked up my copy of Andrew Martin's 'The Necropolis Railway', a Victorian murder mystery set around the railway sheds of Waterloo, and the passenger opposite me was reading some book or other about 'Great Rail Journeys of the UK' that she'd bought from WHS (sticker still on the front). Distracted by the movement, and looking out of the window of this unfamiliar train, the landscape got greener as we got faster and left London behind. It occurred to me that we'd be in Edinburgh in just four and a half hours, and how marvellous these new fangled trains are! Maybe I should pull out my laptop and fuse the age of steam with this digital contraption at my fingertips? At the very least, I should see if I can get free WiFi*.
And so, I opened the computer and set about writing a piece regarding my childhood fascination with all things rail-based… Then I remembered I'm not that fussed about them, actually.
As a nipper, we made most of our journeys by car, with my mum taking the wheel for journeys around as far south as Scarborough, and as far north as Edinburgh (we lived just outside of Durham, so that's about a 150 mile radius, I think). Day trips to Blackpool (and there were many) were courtesy of Bob Smith's Coaches of Langley Park, and once I was old enough to be knocking about on my own, I'd get the bus over to Newcastle for records and beer etc. There is a train line that runs from Durham, through Chester-le-Street and into Newcastle, but we just used to end up getting the bus (the cheaper, but slower option). I think the train stations seemed so far away from where we wanted to be that we couldn't be arsed to walk the extra distance, and pay more for the journey.
On the occasions that we went on holiday 'daan saaf', we got the train if it was with my parents, but went by coach if it was with my grandparents. My granda had a great distrust of trains. "You don't know where they're going," he'd say, "there's nothing on the front like there is with a bus." The big boards with the destinations, stops and platform numbers would be pointed out to him, but four-wheels was his style, and he preferred the coach (after a life of pit-work, he worked in the garage of Bob Smith's and got a lot of free travel. Being "coaches" rather than "buses", they frequently didn't have the destination on the front either, but if you're in another town and you see a Bob Smith's bus, I guess that's the one you want. Either way, I suspect the irony was lost on him, sadly).
It wasn't until I moved to Margate in 1993 that I started getting the train regularly. I got a job over in Whitstable, and the easiest way to work was to get the Connex SE (at the time) line along the Kent Coast which travels from Ramsgate to Victoria. it was only a 20 minute journey, but I felt like a proper commuter. Which is to say it quickly became expensive, tedious and in no way 'exciting'. There's very little excitement to be had waiting for your delayed train due to some selfish bastard who's jumped in front of a train, apparently so wrapped up in themselves, that they don't stop to consider me getting home from work as a priority. Honestly, I ask you. I made the commute until early 2000 when the business moved down to Broadstairs, which was close enough for me to cycle (and sometimes walk) every day.
Once I moved to Oxford in 2001, I was using the train for visits down to Margate, and quick jaunts into central Oxford and Reading. But still no great train romance, and I'm so used to the journey I just blank it out most of the time with a book or my laptop. Like I'm doing now. Oh.
Anyway, I'm on my way to Scotland (then Newcastle) with Miss Magpie, for a week of mooching around and doing touristy things and that. I haven't been to Edinburgh since around 1990, so I'm not going to try and remember any of it (in fact, these may be the last words of mine you read, when I'm stabbed in a pub for having an English accent. I know what you're thinking, "oh, you shouldn't say things like that". But me saying things like that is my insurance policy. My way of making sure it doesn't happen, because that would be ironic, wouldn't it? So ironic, in fact, that it's probably more likely to happen because of me writing this. Oh). And like the bad Geordie I am, I haven't spent any leisure-time in Newcastle for the best part of 8 years, either. I shall pay my penance in many public houses, I assure you.
I'll be posting up a few photos of things that catch my eye (so probably bad grammar on signage, rather than breathtaking architecture), as will Miss Magpie. Her pictures will be prettier than mine, but they'll be taken in the same places. Think of it like a comics-crossover. Like when Marvel did Secret Wars, and everyone was appearing in everyone else's comics. Only there'll probably be less superheroes in mine...
Anyway, I'm going to go and enjoy the train journey now, and pretend I'm not trapped in a speeding metal tube with jabbering children and a lady sitting opposite me who, while she's pleasant enough, won't keep still (and hasn't even started her new book about 'Great Rail Journeys of the UK'. The sticker on the front of her book was 'Buy One, Get One Half Price', but I've no idea what other book she bought. She's not reading that one either).
The only age of steam I shall be experiencing is if I buy a coffee from the pleasant man with his inconvenient snack-chariot.
Post Script: Left Oxford, beautiful sunny day, looking to be a scorcher in the afternoon. Arrived in Edinburgh, pissing with rain, go figure. Many thanks go to the beautiful people of Twitter for letting me know that it's Summer in the South, and Grim Up North. Always.
*Oh, and East Coast Railway? If you're going to offer 15 minutes of free WiFi, maybe you should make it not shit-slow and laggy and barely connectable. That way, I might be tempted to actually pay for some extra minutes. As it stands? Fuck you, I'll be posting this up at Starbucks. Cross Country offer free WiFi for the whole journey, and web pages load in under a minute! Tch.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
