May the road rise to meet you

When I arrived in Oxford for my job interview I was spinning with excitement. I chatted to the Classics department, ran full tilt down the High Street, loopholed my way into Christ Church for free. I did my interview and joined two friends in a café. I bought them drinks, three stamps on a loyalty card, and gave it to one of them. “Since you’re local. You’ll be back.”

He gave it back to me. “No. You’ll be back. You’re getting that job.”

And I did.

Saying goodbye to Scotland for now is harder than I anticipated. I used to only describe myself as British, an identity my vague accent inflicted upon me: Scottish in England and English in Scotland, I’m ever the outsider. But I feel Scottish, really. I might not sound it, but I’ve lived here since I was four.

I’m moving to my hometown, on paper. I was born in Oxford and spent the first few months of my life in Wolfson College, my father a junior fellow. I was born there, but England wasn’t home for long.

I’ve never been one for nationalism – yesterday in the kitchen over a smoothie my sister and I derided the concept of pride in a place you inhabit by mere chance. But I have a deep love for Scotland, its traditions, its forthrightness, its sweeping hills and sullen skies. The south of England just seems… less. And I’ll be so far inland. How will I clear my head without the smell of the sea? What background noise will I become so accustomed to that I hardly hear it, to replace the absent crash of waves?

J.M. Barrie’s 1922 rectorial address concluded with the following:

“Were an old student given an hour in which to revisit the St Andrews of his day, would he spend more than half of it in lectures? He is more likely to be heard clattering up bare stairs in search of old companions. But if you could choose your hour from all the five hundred years of this seat of learning, wandering at your will from one age to another, how would you spend it?”

In St Andrews yesterday I sat on a bench overlooking West Sands and wrote:

The salt smell hit me as I reached the Scores and I love it here, I love the sand and the seaweed and the open water, and I love the ancient town that sits behind it. I love the familiar suck and pull on my cold ankles paddling at East, the castle sunsets where I thought through my dissertation, the exhilaration of hitting 10k on the coastal path. It’s been difficult but I’ve been so happy here.

My favourite memories from my busy, hectic, friendly, stressful years are all moments of peace. I have a quote clipped from a travel guide in my scrapbook: “Slow down: you’ll miss it if you’re just passing through.” I’ve been thinking about it often, taking it out of context, applying it to everything.

In Edinburgh Mairi and I climbed Arthur’s Seat and looked down on the city, grey under the shadow of the volcano. I dangled my feet out over the edge of the Crags and into the beyond, windswept and sweaty and content.

Between Edinburgh and St Andrews, I’m leaving two of my favourite places behind, but I am moving somewhere I think may become a third. I’d always hoped to live there one day. I love home, but I’m ready to go. It’s time for something different.

January

Edinburgh

New Year bursts forth from a confetti cannon. We dance to an indie band and Christina tells me that everything is beautiful. Upstairs, they've left the microphone on, so we take the stage and sing terrible songs to an audience of each other. We meet so many people that night: Mairi is a butterfly, and she makes us move easily through crowds she met through simply saying hello. On the first day of the new year, the sun sets at the castle over the golden streets below. The trees along Grassmarket are lit Silvester-silver. By evening we are exhausted. The prawn crackers go uneaten and we drift gently from conversation into sleep.

January is busy. In Berlin, I sing karaoke with Kati and we wander along the Wall. In Dublin Eilis and I spot seals, drink hot chocolate, and walk on the beach in the dark, catching up after a year apart. In England I have work placements in two museums. And then it's back to St Andrews, a week late for my final semester.

Eilis and me at the river by her house

Henley 

The walk to the museum takes me along the Thames, high from recent rain. The air is cold and blue sky and water fade together with a golden morning mist low over the gentle waves. At the Marsh Lock the water rages into sudden rushing torrents, and the thin wooden bridge seems a paltry defence against the tides. 

I'm working in the museum's education department, shadowing various school visits and nursery groups. For the first time, I am 'Miss'. The kids are easy company. A nine year old boy tells me about his pet hedgehog. A thirteen year old girl says I laugh the way her uncle does. A three year old boy  tells me he knows magic to turn me into a skeleton. I would love to stay, showing young groups around the museum and rolling clay into balls for crafts, but sadly I have a train to catch. 

The prettiest little house on an island in the middle of the Thames

St Andrews

I walk along the beach, foam scudding across the sand faster than the rolling clouds, the North Sea white and belching up breakers as far as the mist-drenched horizon. At the end of the pier the town slips into fog. There are so many of us here, in this beautiful, hectic little place, yet for such a short time. In September, I wrote in my scrapbook ONE MORE YEAR, reminding myself how fast time passes. 

Now it has, but I've spent it well.

Photo by Fed.