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.
