Off the Rails Coffee Shop, adjacent to Queen Street Station (Glasgow)

 

A pleasant place to have a coffee while waiting for a train to the next destination. It has the aesthetic of a 1940s-1950s American coffeeshop, albeit with a heavy emphasis on British teas and treats. I enjoyed watching people walking in, having a coffee, perhaps a pastry, a check of their phone, or meeting someone before a journey. From Queen Street Station, trips can be a few minutes or several hours and this small coffee shop is where many of us are preparing for the day. As people get a takeaway coffee, or a sandwich, a woman next to me has a text conversation that brings a big smile to her face, maybe a grandchild or a long-lost friend. An elderly couple wander in, needing directions for how and what to order, as well as some assistance navigating the train system. There is communal help for the confused travelers before we all move on to our next task or adventure.

Shopping in Dundee?

Navigating the pedestrian traffic in Edinburgh during rush hour can be challenging. Walking on North Bridge early one evening, I found myself behind two elderly women, each wearing rain coats, knee-length skirts, and scarves to protect their white hair, coiffed by an old-style permanent. I was enjoying the banter between the two about the best bus to take to Dundee, apparently there is good shopping there, when one of the women noticed me and apologized for being so slow. Although I indicated that I was in no hurry, she moved and stopped to let me pass. Meanwhile, her companion continued on blithely about buses and shopping, until she glanced to see that her companion was no longer beside her and then turned to see me. She soon joined the chorus of apologies. I was quite happy to walk behind, and ease drop on the conversation, but felt obliged to pass.

Overheard at the Edinburgh Airport

The four women behind me in the security line at Edinburgh airport were discussing having their carry-on luggage inspected. One woman commented, “I make sure I have all my liquids, and anything else they might be concerned about, out of my bag because I don't want them going through me knickers.” One of her companions retorted, “I just have new ones that I have taken out of the package yet, so they won’t.”

A Conversation about Life and Death in Ancient Egypt

At a special exhibit on ancient Egyptian burials at the National Museum of Scotland, I was looking at the sarcophagus of the priest Nehemsumut, circa 840-815 BC. There was a group of grade one children, on a class outing, in the same area. I was pressed by the assignment sheets they were using as a lesson examining burial practices and using impressive vocabulary words. A little boy, with blond hair, wearing his school uniform blue jumper, engaged me in an earnest conversation:

Boy: That's a mummy.

Me: Yes. It is very cool, isn't it?

Boy: You know the mummy in there is still alive!

Me: Are you sure?

Boy: Yes. He’s really alive!

Boy’s friend: (with analytical skepticism) I think he’s dead.

Me: (nodding, earnestly) I think he is dead too. 

Kindness

Standing atop Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh a few weeks ago, I met Tam and Jan. The three of us struck up a conversation after Tam was enthusiastically asking everyone who was their favorite NFL team. He was an American football enthusiast and there were plenty of Americans at the summit that morning. I am not sure how Jan got into this conversation since he was leading a group of Dutch high school students to Edinburgh, but this is the nature of unexpected encounters. Tam was a life-long resident of Edinburgh and, clearly, very proud of his city. He said he had not been to the top of Arthur’s Seat since he was a boy and that he promised himself that once he retired he would again walk up to the top.

Tam was musing about being on the top of Arthur’s seat and all the different people, from all over the world were there sharing in the moment, taking photographs, meeting each other, and having a good time. It made him very proud that people would come to Edinburgh and share in this experience. It was very different from what people saw on the news about people. Jan and I agreed that wherever we traveled people tended to be nice, friendly and considerate. I commented that it was a very few people who made it difficult for the rest of us.

It seems to be universal that most people are kind to travelers. The kindness and generosity of people has been in great evidence on the trip this year. In Leigh Fermor’s account of walking across Europe in the 1930s, he found people were incredibly kind and generous. For example, a gift of eggs from a young girl, offers of a place to stay, food, parties, tours, and encouragement of all types were a theme in his books. The most intriguing events, however, were the times when he would misplace, leave behind, or lose his journal. When this would happen people invariably kept the notebooks where he recorded his thoughts, musings, ideas, and the languages he was trying to learn. In one case, a lost journal reappeared thirty years later. During the turbulent times that would come after his journey across Europe, a world war occurred, the onset of communist regimes made communication difficult, and deaths, births and marriages all occurred. Life happened, ‘twas ever thus.

On this trip, I have had similar stories, although nothing as dramatic as Leigh Fermor. At Newark Airport, before leaving on my flight to Europe, I had dinner at Chinese dumpling restaurant. Toward the end of my dinner I was interrupted by a student’s inquiry. Thirty minutes into the flight I looked for my notebook to continue making notes. I could not find it and had a sinking feeling that I left it behind in the airport restaurant. At the first opportunity, I looked in my rucksack in the overhead bin – no luck. Obviously, that early in the trip, the journal did not have many entries, but I had made several research notes, notations and plans. Certainly, a loss; but not a disaster.

Fate intervened. Two and a half hours into the flight, as we neared St. Johns, Newfoundland, the pilot announced that one of the guidance systems for the airplane was not was working. Because regulations require a backup when flying across the Atlantic, we would have to fly back to Newark for a replacement. Although an inconvenience, it was serendipitous in terms of my notebook. I returned to the restaurant to be told by a server it was closing; I explained that I was looking for my journal. A young woman came forward and said she wondered if someone would return for it. I handed her a small reward, which she initially refused, but accepted it after I said the least I could do was to buy her a drink or a cup of coffee.

Four weeks later, I was taking a bus to Mousa to see the famous broch. At the small history and information point near the dock, I reached for my notebook to jot down some interesting points. After a few minutes of searching my pockets and backpack, I came to the realization that I must have left it on the bus after I had been jotting down observations and places I would like to visit during the trip. On the boat, I was stewing about my forgetfulness, especially considering my adventures at Newark. This time, even though it was my second notebook of the trip, the loss of notes would be more substantial. I was giving myself a pep talk, see the broch, take notes on your phone, when we arrived at the island of Mousa, and I will inquire about the notebook later. The son, and assistant captain, came out on deck and said, “Those of you who rode the bus down today, someone left a pad of paper and pen…” I confessed it was me. “Good,” he said. I’ll give you the bus driver’s name and number and you can decide where to meet him. I had a wonderful time on Mousa, occasionally concerned that I might have written something that would have been taken out of context. When the excursion returned to the mainland I called Robbie, the bus driver. He asked where I was staying and he told me to meet him at a bus stop near my hotel at about a quarter to six. He warned that he was on the return trip from the airport in Sumburgh, and that he may be a few minutes late, depending on how many people were getting on the bus at the airport. Nevertheless, the number 6 bus arrived right on time. Even as the bus was rolling to a stop, Robbie was reaching under his seat to retrieve my notebook. I handed him a £10 note and said I wanted to him to have a pint or a cup of coffee on me. He smiled, thanked me, and said, “it was no bother.”

Translating English (Part 4)

I was having dinner in Paisley sitting next to an elderly Australian couple making plans for the following day. She was spending the trip researching ancestry in Scotland and told the server that her family had emigrated from Scotland in the 1930s. Now she was working on her husband’s family. Later, after not paying attention for quite a while, I noticed that the man was trying to teach his wife how to say “American,” with an American accent: uh-mur-a-cun. She was trying to make the E a long E and could not quite get the hang of it.

Overheard in Lerwick

I was in a shop that specializes in fishing equipment, work clothes, and tourist items. It was, what the locals would call, a bright day. As a matter of perspective, to myself and the widget on smartphone, it was 55F and mostly cloudy with patches of blue. There were some rain clouds in the distance. As such, this was the exchange I heard:

Local man buying provisions: “It’s a beautiful day.”

Female shop attendant: “Yes. I wish summer could be like this every day.” (Pause with a slight sigh) “You live and hope.”

Breakfast in Edinburgh

I was having breakfast, in the hotel, on a Sunday morning. Sitting next to me were two young women from Northern England. They were attending a Hen Party and recounting and analyzing the events of the previous evening. Over the course of their conversation a couple of older women came by the table and inquired about the evening. The younger women noted that everyone else turned in early and they were left to their own devices.

We had acknowledged each other with good mornings when they sat at the table next to mine. The young woman to my immediate left, a blonde wearing white jean and a black top, was in her mid to late 20s. She looked ready to hit the pubs again, rather than having a morning after. Her breakfast companion, sitting across the table, a brunette with a pink top and black yoga pants, was of a similar age. I am pretty sure neither woman was wearing their natural hair color. (too blonde, too dark)

I was engrossed in the morning’s news, note really paying attention, until I heard the brunette opine, “I really like that boy…”

The blonde quickly finished her thought: “The one who sucked your face?” and chuckled. There was a momentary lull in their conversation. I glanced over and smiled, and the blonde caught my eye and gave me a knowing look.

After a few minutes, the brunette got up to get another croissant. The blond looked me in the eye, smiled broadly, and shook her head ever so slightly. When her companion returned, she was situating herself in the chair and said, longingly, “I really like that Irish boy from last night…”

Measuring a Mile

Mile post in Athlone, Ireland

I keep track of the miles I walk as a way to motivate myself. Arbitrarily, I do not tabulate any walk that measures less than a mile. A mile, which is a Roman term derived from 1,000 times the left foot touched the ground (a pace) –  mille passus – seems like a sufficient minimum exercise. Although, again, this is completely arbitrary.

In the United States, the measurement of a mile is commonplace and widely understood. Yet, the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, the combination of streets that runs from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace, is one Scots mile. A Scots mile is 1.12 English miles. Because the measure of a mile varies depending upon the stride of the individuals, measurements in different places also varied. The differences between Scots, English, Welsh and Irish miles led to great confusion. We never stop to think about what an arbitrary nature of the English mile and how it reflects the history of English dominance over the British Isles, and later the subsequent British Empire. It is little wonder that much of the world opted for the more rational metric system.

Scones and Coffee

Food and drink are important aspects of any travel experience. For me, a must when travelling in Scotland or Ireland is an afternoon coffee and scone, which often substitutes for lunch. The scone is even better when it is served with clotted cream and black currant jam. Having it in a coffee shop, where you can slow down a hectic day of travel, people watch and savor the treat is the preferred way to enjoy it.

Edinburgh Palimpsest

This building on Nicolson Square offers a glimpse into Edinburgh’s not to distance past. The fading painting reads: “N. Martinot / Manufacturer of Baskets Foreign Bask…ugs Mats / Fancy Leather Goods Walking Sticks / Hardware & Woodware”

Gold Post Box

Some of the post boxes around the United Kingdom have been painted gold in honor of gold medal winners at the London Olympics. This box, which is on Hunter Square in Edinburgh, honors Chris Hoy, a gold medalist in cycling.

On the Trail of Sherlock: one last post from my 2013 European sojourn

My 2013 sojourn to Europe had a subtext, at least in my own mind. I have been re-reading several of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic Sherlock Holmes stories while on the trip. Meanwhile I have also visited a few places that have some connection to either the author or the great detective. It is odd that despite the fact that these are fictional stories and characters there are a number of places and sites that commemorate Sherlock Holmes.

The Sherlock Holmes Museum - 221B Baker Street, London

In some ways I am embarrassed to admit that I visited 221B Baker Street while in London, call it a guilty pleasure. Of course, this was the iconic address of the sleeping rooms inhabited by Holmes and Watson for many years. Today, the building houses the Sherlock Holmes Museum. Although it is a piece of kitsch, the building itself was a late nineteenth century boarding house complete with 13 steps to the first floor, which is stocked with period pieces to makes it look as if Holmes and Watson once lived there. Sitting by the fire, imagining yourself in consultation with Sherlock is a thrill for many fans who visit the museum. It is very popular and it makes me wonder how many visitors have actually read any of the stories as opposed to seeing one of the Robert Downey, Jr. films that deviates far away from the original story lines.

One aspect of the Holmes stories that provides fascination for many is the references to locations in England, Scotland and throughout the continent. One gets the sense that Conan Doyle’s love of travel and exploration by his descriptions and references. But it is in London, in the dingy days of industrialized pollution, that most of the stories that place. The references to the great fogs, composed of “greasy, heavy brown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in  oily drops upon the window panes” (“The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Places”), gives a sense of late nineteenth century London that was dirty and gritty. Walking the streets of London today, one can still see the effects of the so-called fogs.

Despite this, it is clear that like Holmes, Conan Doyle loved London. The references to the infinite variety and order within London details his admiration. London itself becomes a character in many of the stories, such as The Sign of Four. Note that in “The Red-Headed League” Holmes acknowledges his penchant for knowing every corner of the city. As much as Holmes loves the city, he was distrustful of the countryside. Holmes, referring to the farms and rural residences of the countryside, says to Watson:

You look at these scattered houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought that comes to mind is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with which crimes may be committed there…This always fills me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside (“The Adventures of the Cooper Beeches”).

Sherlock Holmes Statue - Picardy Place, Edinburgh

It is in Scotland, specifically Edinburgh, that one can find the origins of Holmes. Conan Doyle was born at 11 Picardy Place in that city and a statue of Holmes, reportedly considering the grave of his creator, figures prominently in the square. At one corner of the roundabout is the Conan Doyle Pub, which honors the author’s literary legacy.

This is just an introduction to the links between Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes and my sojourns. I hope to bring further updates in the future, perhaps with a visit to Reichenbach Falls someday. Nevertheless, it is not far from the truth to say that Holmes, in some part, inspires this blog. In “A Scandal in Bohemia,” Holmes tells Watson, “You see, but you do not observe.” In my travels, I hope to be more Holmes than Watson.

Bobby

It is a cliché to say that the British love dogs. My earlier entry on Station Jim is a dog story that is rather obscure (and bizarre). A much more famous canine tale is that of Greyfriars Bobby in Edinburgh. The legendary story of Bobby is one of fidelity and faithfulness, which is why it probably has lasting appeal.

The story goes that Bobby’s master, a policeman by the name of John Gray, died in 1858 of tuberculosis. From the day of the funeral until the day Bobby died on 14 January 1872, the Skye terrier kept a vigil at his master’s grave site. Dignitaries from around Britain came to meet Bobby and later a drinking fountain was erected in his honor. Since that time books and films have been written to celebrate the terrier’s devotion to his master and duty, including the 1961 Disney film Greyfriars Bobby: The True Story of a Dog.

Ah, but this great story may not be quite what it appears. Naysayers note that there is evidence that the whole legend was cooked up to boost tourism along Candlemaker Row, the street where the statue now stands. In fact, there might have been a second dog to carry on the story after the original Bobby died. Frankly, seeing a dog lay upon a mound of dirt for days seems a little far-fetched; however, this is not to say it is impossible. What the legend points to is what we want to be true. We want dogs (and people) to be true and faithful companions. Thus, even if the story stretches the truth a little we will buy into the myth. The habits of dogs, unquestioned loyalty, is what we want in our friends and companions. 

Prestonpans

I was on my way to North Berwick for an afternoon of exploration and a possible visit to the Scottish Seabird Center. The train began to unexpectedly slow, we had just left a small station that I could not have said what was the name. I glanced up just in time to see a weather-worn monument on the right side of the train. It was seemingly in the middle of nowhere; a couple of farmhouses, but nothing much else. I tried hard to make out anything written on it, but despite our slow rate of travel time had ravished the monument making it difficult to read from a distance. The monument was destined to be a notation in my journal; another scrap of information unlikely to be pursued. The train crept along for another few minutes until an alarm sounded and it came to a complete stop.

An announcement soon came: There was a failed service ahead. This was one of the times when my understanding of the Scottish accent failed me. I thought the conductor said that there was a field service ahead. Were they working on the tracks? I had no idea that that may mean. Listening in on a few inquiries, and making one of my own, I determined what was happening. The train that left half an hour previously had broken down and we could not go around. We were to back up to the previous station, which I now learned was Prestonpans. The train would either let us disembark there to wait for the next train (which may or may not be soon depending on the removal of the disabled train) or we could return with the current train to Edinburgh. If we returned, the help station would make other arrangements for us. I was weighing my options when all of the sudden the monument once again passed before my window.

I decided to leave the train and explore the area. North Berwick would have to wait for another time. I ended up spending about two and half hours walking and exploring the area. It was a serendipitous afternoon, which will be chronicled elsewhere. Nevertheless, I managed to have an up-close inspection of the mysterious monument after all.

It turns out that the monument is dedicated to Colonel James Gardiner who died of injuries from the Battle or Prestonpans on 21 September 1745. The battle was the first major encounter of the Jacobin Rising of 1745. Mortally wounded, the Colonel was taken from the field and died in nearby Tranent. The memorial, which is currently in bad repair, was erected by public subscription in 1853.