Edinburgh, Scotland and the Romance of a Train

“Piled deep and massy, close and high; Mine own romantic town”

-Sir Walter Scott, Marmion

In Peterborough, the station where I had transferred onto my train, I had thought about how the blankets of grey across the sky do not mean gloom. They just mean a cloudy day. Yes, no sun. But also, no sun in my eyes. The muted tones were becoming synonymous with the UK in my mind.

But that day, by the time the train was gliding toward Edinburgh, those grey clouds had broken up enough that tides of sunlight washed over the land between them. The hills and farmland sped by, but I was sitting still. Laughter bounced up the cabin. A family was sitting behind me a few rows back, and at the heart of their babble was a high note of wonder — a little girl, enraptured by everything.

“Woooah! Woooah!”

“It’s another train!” exclaimed a deep, gravely voice. He animated his voice to match her bright wonder.

“Look grampy,” she chimed, “here it comes! WOOOAH!!”

Their chatter pulsed through the continuous hum of the train, then fell back under it again and again, as tidal as the waves of sunlight breaking through outside. Occasionally, amused laughter burst from the whole group. I smiled. The world was new and bright to her, and she was bringing that gift to the whole cabin. It was going to be a good weekend, I thought. Later, a group of rowdy guys took their place in the back. It wasn’t hard to make out their loud voices, but I could only understand every fourth word through their thick Scottish accents.

When I got off the train in Edinburgh, I was surprised to find a flood of people exiting the station with me, many of them donning green and orange. The woman in the tourist information booth told me there was a big rugby match today: Six Flags Ireland vs. Scotland. Luckily these crowds only brought their excitement and energy, no disruptions or hassles for me.

Emerging from the station into Edinburgh was quite dramatic. In addition to the pockets of heart-warming human interaction I encountered on the train, arriving that way was worth it just for the visual effect. Waverly station is right in the middle of Old Town and runs underneath Edinburgh castle. So, when I walked up to street level, the slope to the castle and through romantic old buildings was my first impression of the city. One thing I loved about Edinburgh was its geography. It sits under the watch of two extinct volcanoes — the smaller Castle Rock to the West, where the castle sits, and Arthur’s Seat to the East, a much higher and windier hill that stands over the official residence of the royal family in Scotland. Other hills rise around the center like hands of the land cupping the city in its palm. Some of the houses spill out of the land’s grasp and trickle around the coast of the North Sea.

The entrance to my hostel was nestled right underneath the Castle. I was met by a friendly reception immediately inside the door. To the right was the check-in desk, to the left was a locked cage full of big backpacks and sacks. Passed that was the kitchen door. People were coming and going with cups of afternoon coffee. The receptionists asked where I was from. I told them I was American but studying abroad in London. Ah, gotcha, they said, cool. With swarms of young people arriving from all over the world, I’m sure they had heard that story many times. After getting my key, I wandered further underground, passed a couple of themed lounges with high ceilings, and reached a narrow, traditional-looking staircase.

The room was large and filled with at least eight sets of bunk beds. Each had a storage compartment, a safe, charging outlets by the bed, and a curtain to maintain some sense of privacy. And, since this floor’s theme was Harry Potter, my bed had a wooden nametag that said “Ron Weasley.” They didn’t skimp on décor, because the walls were spattered with murals. The hostel became a home base with a strangely easy sense of community.

Edinburgh itself seemed to have an easy way about it. I mostly wandered around during my visit, and it was all lovely. The Royal Mile, a straight street at the center of Old Town, entertained me for an entire afternoon. With Six Nations going on, the number of kilted bagpipers on the street was probably double the normal. As soon as one was out of earshot, I’d catch the notes of another just up ahead for continuous ambiance. There were bookshops and whiskey tours and fabric stores filled with traditionally woven plaid fabric, kilts, and everything else. I finished my first night with dinner at the pub and a pool game with some rugby fans at the hostel and went to bed exhausted.

On my second day, I visited the Scottish National Gallery, took a bus to New Town just to see the difference, and walked up Calton Hill to see the unfinished National Monument. Bundled up, eyes watering from the wind, I watched a group of older and younger kids try to clamber up the bracket of the monument’s huge foundation. The older kids, already on top, were weaving around the giant stone pillars, trying to reach around them and touch each other’s hands from opposite sides. They couldn’t do it and broke out in laughter at their failure.

By the time they left, the sun had set. Above the reach of any streetlights, the hill was becoming so dark that I could no longer make out the people fifteen feet in front of me. I almost climbed on top of the monument but awkwardly slipped down a couple times. I chuckled at myself because I had thought that I would do better than those kids. I held onto the pillar to feel like the wind wouldn’t push me off the hill, and then I looked toward the city. The lights were all on — human constellations shining through the thick night where the stars faintly answered back. The horizon line between them was a yellow glow over Edinburgh. I took a breath in, then sat down, taking it in until my body could not warm itself against the cold wind anymore.

On my last day, I took another wander around Edinburgh, scooting between the old buildings that sat almost on top of each other, and found other streets, apartment courtyards, and secret allies. Back on a main street, I found a small old church, which was no longer a church and now had a souvenir shop and UNESCO Heritage display set up inside. I wandered around and tried to imagine the kinds of people who would have gathered here when it had first been built.

I saved Arthur’s Seat for last. After my night on top of the National Monument, it seemed like the perfect way to take in the city one last time. Every stranger I met eyes with shared the same spark of exhilaration that I felt on those windy, open hills. Everyone couldn’t help but smile. Besides feeling like I was going to get blown off the mountain, the most memorable moment was thanks to a man who was out for a run.

He was wearing just a tiny pair of running shorts and shoes; he let his long hair do whatever it wanted. He zipped passed me and a couple that I had made friends with as we were climbing up to the actual “seat” of Arthur’s Seat. By the time we got one bend away from the top, we could look ahead and see that he had stopped to enjoy the view in a rather unorthodox way. I have to note here that I cannot over-exaggerate how windy it was; I was scared to stand near the edge of any hill, afraid I might literally be blown over by its force. This man had walked out to the very edge of the cliff and was perched on it with his legs slightly ahead of his body and his arms behind him, gripping the rock face. His hair was wildly whipping in the wind, and he was bellowing at the top of his lungs toward the city. The sound of his voice came in faint wisps when the wind blew it our way, but it was definitely a blood-curdling howl. He looked like a wild man that had crawled from a cave in the Scottish hills. We walked around the bend and lost sight of him for about a hundred feet, but we saw that he was still screaming when we got to the peak of the hill. And he hadn’t stopped when we kept going and eventually lost sight of him for good. Well, he’s either a little insane or he knows something the rest of us don’t, I thought. Most likely both.

You can just make him out in the picture below.

The train back glided through darkness, so instead of gazing out the window, I read my book and wrote in my journal about how I didn’t want to go back to reality. This time it wasn’t a little girl and her family, but a tired boy and his father still painted blue for the game. The boy fell asleep before their stop and his dad scooped his floppy little body up to leave. I used to pretend that I was asleep so my mom would carry me inside and tuck me in bed, and I wondered if he was using the same tactics.

On my second and longer train back to London, I fell back into my journaling and back into deep thought. The gentleman in the booth across the aisle from me was reading with his brows gently knitted together. A woman came along. She was loud, friendly, maybe ten years older than me, American. She asked the man if the seat across from him was taken; he shook his head and returned to his reading. She announced that she was whooped and was therefore going to the concession car to get a beer and we would like one too. The man accepted, I politely declined. Was I sure, she asked. Yes, thank you, I replied.

It was uncomfortable to be yanked from my thoughts by her conversation, but she slowly drew me in as she broke through small talk with the old man and got on to more interesting things. She knew I was listening, I think, and continued to address me across the aisle with a nod or a glance. She began talking about her plans to take a trip to the highlands with her friends, then the man revealed that he was from northern Scotland and could tell her all about the highlands. With that, I finally joined in.

We listened to his descriptions of the highlands, we asked each other questions, we shared opinions and plans, and we began to feel like we had always been this familiar with each other. They finished their drinks, and at some point they both got off at their stops. I was left with my own thoughts again, but this time they swam around with something deeper. And that something made me thank the world for long train rides and friendly strangers.