The day in Edinburgh was crisp and clear when I stepped over the threshold of the hotel and into the waking solitude of a weekend morning. The city about me still dozed, with but a few shops open.
I stopped into a small cafe and ordered a bacon butty (sandwich), eating it while sipping at a cappuccino. While there, a group of three men in their mid twenties came in, looking a bit as though they were still recovering from the night before – or perhaps finishing up the night before. They ordered their own sandwiches, and left.
I stayed there only long enough to finish my meal and then returned to the hotel.
The hotel, incidentally, is called “Surgeons Quarter” because this is where the University of Edinburgh surgeons used to live. I think visiting professors still stay there.
In the room above, I gathered my things, including my 4 bottles of Scotch and a legal pad I used to take notes last night, when I met with a student via Zoom to write her letter. All was in order and I was on my way.
I climbed the hill and crossed the Royal Mile, navigating the curved streets we see so often in cities built and rebuilt upon themselves again and again.
And then I descended down into Edinburgh Waverley Station where I boarded the train for my 6 hour ride back to London.
The ride was uneventful, and the shepherdess chicken was decent. The trip southward took longer than the trip up, because the route was slightly different. All of that gave me time to write a great letter.
Eventually I reached Kings Cross again and took the tube to the hotel where I was spending the night. The hotel is well outside the tourist center, in the Docklands but I had a certificate for a free night, and this seemed a good use.
When I say outside the tourist center, I mean it. There was nothing nearby that I wanted to see. I wasn’t expecting the most exciting place in the world, but looking online I had thought there might be something to see. I was wrong. I tried to walk a bit, but the boredom was debilitating. And I had things to take care of, so heading back to central London wasn’t an option. The only thing left was dinner, in a nearby pub where they were hosting an “open mic night.”
With that I returned to my room and took in the view. In front of me lay one final meeting with a student and then a letter to write on the plane. Tomorrow this trip comes to a close and I go home.
But worry not, my friends. Butterblogger will return.
Until then: With love,