Gone Fishin'

Watch This Space....

The Prague Experience: 75-Minutes in a Central-European Airport

I’ve never actually been to Prague.

I have been to the airport.

But I’ve never actually been to Prague.

…if you see what I mean 

I was on my way home from Macedonia (how often do you get to say that?), and had to switch planes in the Czech Republic in order to facilitate my return. But with only 75-minutes between flights, any chance of exploring the capital was very much ‘out the window’. 

Not that I was going to allow this minor setback to defeat me, especially since Rule 89f of the Traveller’s Code states that, ‘a connecting flight is a whimsical and unacceptable excuse for failure.’ Instead I concocted a cunning plan to remedy the issue: with some clever use of airport resources, I was going to artificially recreate the feel of the city in all its glory right here in the comfort of Terminal 2. 

It was an optimistic plan, however, as airport resources are the single most frustrating thing known to mankind. Though they are seductively promising due to the variety of businesses, the range and quality of the products are somewhat up for question. Also, they never stock what you want unless you’re seeking a kilogram bag of sweets or a teddy bear dressed in national costume. 

© Amadeus Finlay

Nevertheless, I decided to persevere and so made a bee-line for a bar with hazy views of a very distant Prague. I ordered a local lager beer, a bag of pretzels and a plate of local meats. I pretended to read a Czech language newspaper. I smoked a cigarette given to me by an old man with a moustache and a fedora. Yes, you could still smoke inside. Then came the ceremonial acquisition of cardboard bar mats, in this case Pilsner Urquell, before I headed outside to inhale the air and pick up a handful of dirt. 

Now, this may sound like utter madness - and I assure you that it most certainly is - but I am on a mission to collect soil from every country on the planet. The idea is that after many years of bumming about the place I will be able to fulfil my desire to own a representative cross-section of the world. 

Which will be housed in a Bushmills whiskey bottle, kept in a box, and stored in a Northern Irish attic. 

But I digress… 

© Amadeus Finlay

The air was crisp and sharp, and the sky a vibrant swash of icy blue. But on a day such as this the ground was inevitably frozen, so I had to scrape the topsoil with my passport to get it to shift. This of course looked like the height of madness to anybody who witnessed my endeavours, but since my mantra is, ‘so long as you haven’t yet been arrested, proceed’, I was not worried. When the soil rummaging project was eventually complete and the crowds of onlookers had dispersed, I dusted myself off and dandered back indoors to pay homage to that great rigmarole that is gaining re-entry to an airport. 

“Why were you outside?” 

“Did you have any other reason to be outside aside from the reason you gave?” 

“Do you have any bags checked in?” I told him I’d gone to indulge in pedology, before changing tack altogether and asking whether or not it would be possible for him to stamp my passport. 

It transpired that it was not, and that asking the question had been foolish as this lead to me becoming the subject of further interrogation. A bag search and some intimate frisking followed before the guard decided I was less a threat to national security and more an eccentric - but harmless - nutcase, and so permitted me to proceed back to departures. I checked my watch: 24-minutes until the connection. 

Time to get a move on. I jogged to the nearest newsagent and bought a handful of postcards and a Czech dictionary. A flurry of yarn-spinning followed as I told the recipients of the postcards that I was, ‘in Prague and having a great time.’ Suitably vague, suitably suggestive, and suitably in line with the plan. Another objective reached. 

I then sprinted to departures – 12-minutes to go - and flicked open the dictionary. Page 69, the Czech word for objectionable: problematický. More flicking… page 24, the Czech word for conundrum: hádanka. Unconventional, but better than nothing. Satisfied that I had done my synthetic Prague experience justice, I stepped forth to join the queue to the boarding desk for the flight to London. 

But not before I introduced myself to the flight manager as Objectionable Conundrum...

My Arse and Parsley: An Anecdotal Eulogy

When I was 7 years old I accidentally set fire to my father's glasses case.

By accidentally what I mean is that I was testing the old adage that leather doesn't burn, but I assure you it was all in the name of science.

Gripped with panic, I impulsively threw the case in the river before spending the next three nights desperately constructing an elaborate excuse to defer the blame. When the inevitable, 'has anybody seen my glasses case?' was raised at dinner four days later, I informed the family that I'd seen dad set them down at the peat bog, but hadn't said anything as I had assumed he picked them up.

Little did I know, I was already fucked.

© Amadeus Finlay, 2012 

An extended pause followed, before my father, his eyes all-knowing, uttered the immortal words:

'My arse and parsley.'

I feigned innocence. What had I done? What did this mean? Did dad know something I didn't? Of course he did. Unbeknownst to me, dad had been down river that day, chasing some fine Antrim Glens rainbow trout along the banks of the Six Mile. When the devilish mistress that is fate had brought the charred remains into his path, there was only one explanation; that damn wee lad.

So here I was, caught, trapped, and telling tall tales. But wait a minute... how did he know it was me? I mean, of course I was guilty - who else would have done it -, but there was still reasonable doubt (I had learned this expression at a young age, the son of a law lecturer mother).

Simple. In my hurry I had failed to notice the charred cleaning cloth falling out of the glasses case as I fled my bedroom. And why hadn't I noticed it? It had fallen into the heap of unwashed laundry stuffed behind the door. So, what did I learn from all this?

Well, firstly, never lie to a cunning father, secondly, washing machines exist, and thirdly, 'my arse and parsley' is perhaps the finest expression ever uttered by a mortal man.

© Amadeus Finlay, 2012

Cow Bells and Crucifixes: Travels in the Swiss Alps

I have a terrible fear of Julie Andrews, and let me tell you why. 

As a child I attended a school that owned only three entertainment videos, and those were Jesus of Nazareth, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and The Sound of Music. But none got as much viewing time as The Sound of Music. 

Oh, how it haunted me, that operatic foghorn of a soprano in a striped apron, spinning atop grassy Alpine knolls clutching a guitar. It wasn’t long until the mere threat of Andrews’ voice made me shudder, and the sight of the woman cause feelings of dread that permeated to my shoes. 

In my childlike confusion, I found comfort in fearing the Alps, reasoning that if I never went there I would be safe. But a few months back I had the pleasure of visiting Zurich for the first time, during which I concluded that the Alps don’t actually exist due to the fact that dense cloud had hidden all trace of their presence. This was rather convenient of course, as it allowed me to earmark this vibrant little city as one of the world’s finest without the threat of Rodgers and Hammerstein. No Alps, no fear. 

Yet over time I realised the absurdity of my conclusion, and that what I was doing was running from my fear rather than confronting it. No, I should go back to try again I decided. Cartographers are rarely wrong when it comes to mountain ranges. 

© Amadeus Finlay, 2011

The film may have been shot in Austria, but where better to sort things out than my new-found best friend, Switzerland? 

It was because of this that I found myself in the Alpine foothills somewhere in the vicinity of St. Gallen, gazing upon the crystal-clear slopes of the Alps rising but miles from where I stood. Being prone to getting lost, however, I had decided to hire guide. She was a local girl, born just across the lake in the German town of Lindau. I had begun the day there, sipping on espresso in a certain Café Amadeus. But now things were different, no time for leisure up here. No, we were to go hiking, the guide insisting on leading us on a route rising ever higher into the sky. 

Marina - for this was her name - was a girl of purpose and experience, and she set a blistering pace as stormed up the slopes in her size 5 hiking boots. It was a hot day, and needless to say I soon fell behind. Within half an hour I was alone, and, you’ve guessed it, lost. 

But I couldn’t have cared less. 

Just like Zurich, rural Switzerland drips character and exudes charm. Rolling, tightly-knit hills sweep into fairy-tale glades populated by roving cows with their necklace bells. Alpine flowers, exploding with colour, poke through hill-tops crowned with evergreens and gorse. But it is the dong-dong calls of cow bells that dominate, and from every side a bovine rhythm section provides a dogged pulse to the riffing chorus of bird song. 

When Marina eventually tracked me down an hour later I was to be found in a happy daze at the summit, gazing inanely at a wooden signpost of the crucified Christ. Carved on its top was the elevation of the hill –1,045 metres –, and at its base a metal box for comments and reflections. How wonderful, I thought, I bet Everest doesn’t have this. Verging on ecstatic, I ripped out a page from my notebook and scribbled a note for posterity: First man from Ballyclare to reach the summit (or so I would assume). 

© Amadeus Finlay, 2011

Stunning view, lovely people, and the Alps most do certainly exist. Oh, and thank you for having kept Julie Andrews in her box. Happy to have laid my childhood fears to rest, I rejoined Marina and headed down the hill for a drink. 

There was a cafe in Lindau with my name on it.

© Amadeus Finlay, 2011

Connolly’s Irish Bar: Time Square, New York. 1.55am.

“Do you know that song ‘Sex is on Fire’?” asks the girl at the bar, shouting to be heard over the reeling sounds of The Dubliners, “Yeah, Kings of Leon. It always sounded like a vaginal disease to me.”

I don’t even know her name.

 “Where are you from, anyway?” she continues, mouthing the words rather than saying them.

“Just outside Belfast,” I yell, my face inches from her eardrum.

“You’re actually Irish?” (big grin)   

“Sure am,” I tell her, for this is the truth, “I have been all my life.”

A big cheer erupts from the far corner. It transpires that Meath has taken the lead against Kerry in the GAA. There is a rush towards the bar, “Guinness!” “Guinness!” “Two Guinnesses and a bag of pretzels!”

I turn my attention back to the girl in the white vest for she has no interest in hurling.

© Amadeus Finlay, 2011

“Do you see that drawing on the wall?” I ask, pointing to a sketch of Lough Neagh, “that’s where my Da’ and I used to going fishing.” Pause… “Have you ever been to the Ireland yourself then?”

“No! I would love to go,” she responds, all misty eyed and dreamy.

“Ah,” says the rogue, “well maybe you should come over with me some day. We can climb Slemish and gaze upon the coast of Scotland from atop the rolling moss of Shill-na-vogy.”

 …Whack for my daddy-o there’s whiskey in the jar.

An untimely roar prevents my friend with the brown pigtails falling for the Blarney, her cue for an impulsive response drowned out by a cacophony of jigging and head-banging across the bar. The excited splurge rolls towards us, a burly six footer with a Meath shirt making a beeline for my pint of Harp. Which he summarily knocks into and spills all over the brilliant white perfection that is the girl’s vest.

“This is Gucci you fucking asshole!”

“And this is fucking polyester!” he roars back, tugging on his green and orange garb.

I’m in trouble now, caught between a drunkard and a female scorned. Needless to say the girl storms off, taking her coat and exiting my life forever. But much more pressing is that she has left me at the mercy of a Leinsterman with the rhythmic talents of a drunken giraffe.

“Come ahead now,” he barks, “she had a face that could haunt houses!”

He points at my half-drunken beer.

“Get that down yerself there and stop being a miserable schnack.” And with that off he goes into the evening, grabbing hugs from random strangers by the bar and raising toasts to heroes of Irish culture:

“Up yours Bono! Long live The Corrs!”

© Amadeus Finlay, 2011

Somebody crashes into a barstool, but quickly recovers and orders a round of Glenfiddich. The barman asks the man if he’s drunk. The drunk assures him he is not, and solemnly promises to order a further round so he can prove his loyalty to the establishment. Which he dutifully does, before spinning around and crashing into the six-foot giraffe from Leinster. Chaos, whiskey everywhere. A disagreement is met, during which the aggrieved parties practise the time-tested art of drunken cross-examination by taking it in turn to accuse the other and protest personal innocence.

But it transpires that neither man was in the wrong, and so they step outside to share stories and chain-smoke a pack of French cigarettes.

What a marvellous place. The wood is polished, the music’s loud, and the clientele madder than a sackful of bicycles. It has the energy of a hyperactive Labrador as well as more shamrocks than the wallpaper in Michael Flatley’s bedroom. It’s a bit like Ireland looked in the mirror, fell in love, had a child, and sent it to New York to become a tavern.

Which can only be a good thing if you ask me. 

© Amadeus Finlay, 2011

What Would Jason Bourne Do? One Man’s Workout in Amsterdam

I knew only one thing of Amsterdam before I arrived, and that was if my feet were wet then I was in the canal. 

Otherwise I was cast hopelessly and perilously adrift in the Dutch capital with little plan of what to do until I flew back to London in 36 hours. The whole thing was an accident, having taken the wrong train in Hamburg when on a work assignment. It was only upon some desperate enquiring in Bremen that I discovered the only way to get home would be by flying from Charleroi, Belgium two days later. 

So it came to pass that it was on a rainy afternoon in November that I first discovered the mystifying city that is Amsterdam. It was a clueless existence from the beginning, my confounded uselessness further compounded by getting lost, yet again. I wandered around in the damp unable to find my hotel, burdened throughout by a bag of considerable weight. I finally resorted to getting a taxi to a hotel that happened to be the next town across. 

Which transpired was actually a hostel… 

Filled with utter lunatics… 

© Copyright, Amadeus Finlay, 2010

A sleepless night spent wearing my suit – for I had nothing else – and clutching the bag followed. At sunrise I decided that the following night would be spent at the airport, being skint as I was, before I cut my losses and fled the mad hostel once and for all. 

By late morning I was back in the centre of Amsterdam, but this time in the sun and among the convivial crowds of Vondelpark. Wandering further into town I came across cobbled streets lined by neat rows of trees, zipping around organised blocks of cafes, shops, and patisseries. Saturdays are good days to be in the Venice of the North. So I strolled to the canal side, suited and buited (sp?) to allow myself a brief Jason Bourne moment, before setting off in search of something a little different. 

You don’t come to Amsterdam to sit in Starbucks all day. 

But what would Jason Bourne do? Well, for one he’d get some cheese. And so I did likewise, prowling Runstraat and Leidseplein on the hunt for a lump of Edam and a chunk of Gouda. The air of Amsterdam soon ponged with the aroma of an unwashed Irishman and his bagful of curds, pigeons fainting in my wake. It was marvellously decadent, gorging on creamy grease and indulging myself in the moody, clean-cut beauty of the tall, thin buildings that characterise the city. 

And before I forget, there are bicycles too.

Lots, and lots, and lots of bicycles. 

But back to the story... later I befriended the area known as Nieuwendijk, floating into The Blarney Stone Irish Bar to ingest some Guinness and later to be adopted by three stag-trippers from Cork. Many larks were had, including genuinely inquiring of a lady of the night if she’d be interested in playing a round of Texas hold-‘em poker. She said no. 

The night wore on… 

It was at 6.55am when a security guard poked me and told me that it was time to wake up. Just exactly where I was, was an utter mystery. I scratched my head and gazed around in search of a sign. Looking up all I could see was what seemed like a, well, a clog. Across the way was a man with a suitcase, and then behind him at least 400 other people with suitcases. 

It was then that I remembered the vital missing ingredient to this most perplexing issue: 

Rule of Travel Number 265a - if your pre-booked accommodation is utterly awful, then you can always sleep in the airport.

© Copyright, Amadeus Finlay, 2010

Humility in the Face of Over-Whelming Intelligence

The orgy was going well until the postman walked in. 

Now that I have your attention, let’s talk about algebra. Algebra is in fact not a mathematical art-form, but rather a type of North African lingerie... Which is a bit like saying that unisex is what students do at the end of a heavy night on the tiles, or that Cornwall is a type of barrier made from foot bacteria.

It has been a strange morning.

I awoke to a bedroom filled with spiders, and a request from the landlord to take down the gazebo at the front of the house.  Which I dutifully did, and was rewarded with discovering that the nest of the mother spider was quietly secreted within the frame of said gazebo. Such an ironic turn of events, it was only fitting that I was overcome by clemency and resolved to relocate mother and egg-babies to a new – and far superior – home in an oak tree on the other side of the river.  

Happy with my accomplishments, I decided to leave the house to go visit David ‘The Vagabond’ Lancaster, during which I planned to have coffee and discuss the finer points of bagpipe use in rock bands. It was in this odd frame of mind that I added further peculiarity to the situation by pulling on an over-sized Liverpool football shirt, ripped tracksuit bottoms, and a pair of muck-encrusted trainers, just to see if I could convince people that I was a professional athlete.

Sportified, I set off in search of a chilled-latte (now there’s a contradiction) and a social engagement with a man fascinated by heraldry, only for this aspirant athlete to attract jeers of superiority from the local Tottenham Hotspur fans. Ah yes, I had forgotten that Spurs had stolen Clint Dempsey from under our noses at the tail-end of last night’s transfer window. How I hadn’t predicted this turn of events is beyond me, as rural Hertfordshire is crawling with Lilywhites.

Damn them, I decided; at least Liverpool doesn't think it’s a top four team. Hurrah for humility!

Dave had requested I bring along the fabled flatcap, but not for me to wear. You see, Esteemed Gentleman Lancaster has a habit of commandeering it for his ‘country landowner’ look, and when we go a-strolling in the great outdoors he will invariably bring along a manservant to shoot just to ensure that everyone knows where they stand. How far I can go with this somewhat fictionalised cartoon of young Dave is probably something I shouldn't discover when writing for a public forum.

So we got our coffee, found a suitable hollow in which to drink it – the coffee that is, not the hollow  – and thoroughly deliberated the merits of bagrock. We also discussed a lot of other maddog shite and gibberish, but recreating it here would only serve to further confuse an already cracked posting.

Here endeth the lesson.

Aimless Stumbling: Getting Lost in Zurich

All good travellers agree that the true test of a city is whether or not it can impress the visitor when it’s having an off-day. Considering that I arrived in Zurich amid a dense, moody fog the night after a rainstorm, I was in a prime position to test this theory.  

But evidently Zurich was ready for me, and no sooner had I located the airport’s train terminal than I was whisked into the town centre by the most luxurious set of wheels this side of the Orient Express. A few high-speed minutes later I was to be found in the magnificent neo-Renaissance central station, wandering among a lively concourse littered with restaurants and shiny happy people. Such a beautiful place, I thought, before reminding myself that I was here to critique Zurich the city, not Zurich the train station.  

Indeed, what of Zurich the city? Does it live up to the high repute of the aforementioned Hauptbahnhof? The answer, in short, is yes. Nestled in the heart of the Alps, Switzerland’s largest city is a splendid maze of intrigue characterised by meandering cobbled streets that twist, turn, rise and fall in an entirely unpredictable fashion. Steep-sided buildings dripping with all the cuddliness of a gingerbread cottage nestle alongside stooping remnants of the city’s medieval past. The atmosphere and appearance is certainly historic – if not always artistic – and the character is chic and sparkling. It is an excellent place to spend an afternoon, even if the visibility is no more than 100 yards.  

It was during this giddy amble through the old town that I got well and truly lost. Suffice to say it was entirely my own fault, but that’s neither here nor there. Feeling confident in my conclusion that Zurich is superior to sliced bread, I had decided to conduct a further experiment by seeing whether or not I could relocate the same Italian café plonked a couple of streets from the banks of the Limmat River. Well over an hour and several bridge crossings later, I sat down on a riverside bollard and realised that not only was I never going to find the café, but that I had no idea where the train station was. The city is certainly beautiful, but is also mind-bogglingly complicated to navigate in fog and without a map. If it wasn’t for the kindly retired couple who had witnessed my bizarre bridge-crossing behaviour I would probably still be there today.  

But one thing struck me about Zurich that surpassed everything else; where are the mountains? I had been told of a city surrounded by peaks, but having visited a Zurich shrouded in a fog thicker than a winter broth, my experience of the place and Switzerland as a whole lead me to two quite controversial conclusions:

Switzerland is, in fact, entirely flat, and the Alps don’t actually exist.

© Copyright, Amadeus Finlay, 2010

Self-Doubt in Toledo: Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple

I had never doubted myself until a fruit salesman in Ohio confidently informed me that that I hadn't lived till until I had visited New York. With my whole world shattered by uncertainty I decided to flee Toledo, heading east at breakneck speed in search of enlightenment as well as a life-changing dollop of reassurance. And I am pleased to report that I have never regretted anything less, for the moment I first set my eyes on the famous Manhattan skyline seven hours later I giddily conceded that the Big Apple had got me by throat. Life was suddenly worth living again.  

But it is an odd place to be, as New York is a celebrity city that is defined by its infamy and manifested in a way that is both entirely alien yet somehow completely familiar. There are the countless songs, the innumerable cultural references, the famous places and those yellow cabs; so much Americana all at once that you are almost sick of it before you arrive. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the raw, full-blooded reality that comes with stepping into the heart of downtown. The buildings are taller, chunkier, more solid and more defined in their appearance than any media form can ever hope to encapsulate. It is imperious and grand, but also mischievous and untamed. The city bustles the way every 1980s movie would have you believe. It is loud and it is energetic, with a constant purr from some unseen and unidentified engine. The people look as New Yorkers as should look; an alternative collection of self-made caricatures proudly existing as physical manifestations of the city that envelops them.  

Seeking a logical starting point, I headed to Time Square Metro Station to take the IRT Lexington Avenue Line south; at least this way I would be able to zip about until I got an idea of where I wanted to go. Which suited me just fine, for the iconic New York Metro is a standalone experience in itself, a baffling network of interwoven lines patrolled by a haphazard fleet of polished metal caravans. Austere, devoid of colour yet full of edgy charm, these rattling cuboids are the public transport equivalent of a fairground ride. So happy I was to be travelling on the Metro that I fell asleep, only to be awoken several hours later by a mechanic in the Bronx. Evidently I had gone all the way up and down Manhattan. Twice. All that remained for me to do now was get out somewhere in the depths of the city's northern end and wander around until I located my car.  

There was a fruit salesman in Toledo I needed to catch up with…

© Copyright, Amadeus Finlay, 2011

Reflections of A Self-Righteous Scrotum

There is a lot to be said for the idiom, 'you can't go home twice', and before today I never truly understood what it meant. If I'm honest I believe I mocked and scorned the notion as I have spent my life coming back home after work/school/holidays, but that was a dickheadish notion espoused by a self-righteous scrotum who actually knew better, but chose inflammatory intransigence nevertheless… 

ANYWAY! 

I was worried that the city I'd called home for four years would either be too alien or too much of a head mangle to enjoy. But despite all my fears to the contrary, Edinburgh was as marvellous and as homely as ever. The irony of this medium aside, not once did I experience a barrage of introspective reflection or wallow in the popular culture of sharing my feelings through staged piety. 

On the one hand I have long since got bored with the hipster culture that all social science undergraduates fall into, but also Edinburgh would never tolerate such a performance, the honest, self-effacing city that it is. 'Get over yourself and have two more drinks, a spade's a spade!' 

But I digress... 

48 hours in the Scottish capital is a fine way to pass the time, and as an entirely undiluted exposure the only way for a former resident to appreciate its wonder. But you can't go home twice. No, it would lose the magic. Just like a fling with a former lover, getting back into day-to-day life in all its cold, mundane reality would forever ruin what it has become. in my old age I enjoy the warmth and soft edges of English country life. Give me my brandy and an evening in the company of Holst, content in the knowledge that Scotland and all its edgy Celtic wonder is just up the road... it also gives me something to moan about when commuting in and out of London every day. 

Oh woe betide! I'm off to listen to Radiohead.

Puddle Hopping

It's not yet midday, but five hours of puddle-hopping have forced my hand.

Location: Shakespeare's Pub.

It's funny being here as the city looks as it ever did. It feels like I never left and I am pleased to see it was able to go on without me. Yep, it does not seem to have missed me in the slightest. Well. We all need to have the ego checked now and again...

Curses to you Edinburgh, you fickle feline-like swine!  Where was my welcome back party? 

I guess all the money was spent on the London Olympics.

 Damn those humble athletes...

Health and Safety During the Scottish Summer

Princess Street, 10.46 am. 

It's wet and I'm buying socks as my original pair is wetter than a fish convention. 

It's my own fault really as I tempted fate on the way up here and so it succumbed. Does fate succumb to temptation? Evidently. It's wet. There is rain. More clouds are predicted. 

My new socks carry a health and safety warning. 

"Wash when dirty."

What a Pong

Pizzas, feet, and late night TV.

All cheesy.

And so is this: Its 4.30. We've just pit-stopped again, this time in Scotland.

My ancestors came from this part of the lowlands, and every time I set foot here I can't help but feel I'm home...

Wensleydale, brie, Cheddar, edam…

Pit Stops: The Land of the Human Zombie

Pit stops: every compulsive spender's nightmare.

And at 1.47 in the middle of the night it is also the stomping ground of choice for the zombiefied human dribbler.

Nobody expects anything of you apart from your money, and when in such an arse-about-face frame of mind handing over your hard-earned cash is about all you can do.

Nowhere else is it the norm to pay two quid -a minor fortune - for a tin of fizz.

Nowhere else is it considered normal to drink a gallon of coffee with a side of burgers when the rest of the world is asleep.

And then there's the devil himself in the form of the all night fast food conglomerate that only needs to broadcast the first letter of its name to smash through your sensibilities and suck your wallet - and your health - dry.

Call me a cynic - 'cynic!' - but if you want to make a fortune, forget banking. Open a roadside service station.

Praying For Rain: On an Overnight Bus to Edinburgh

There is nothing better than being cast adrift on a bus on the open road. 

It is somewhere near midnight, lights off, blinds up, silence:  the perfect conditions for the paranoia of a wandering mind. 

Bugger, I think, where are we? 

The destination may be set in stone, but whatever the prearranged final Mecca the endless asphalt in-between casts the traveller adrift in the passionate embrace of loneliness. It is exhilarating, yes, but it also somewhat disquieting, as no matter how you look at it you have absolutely no control over your fate. 

And it is raining outside, which is never a good sign when heading on a resolutely fixed course of due north. Still, at least it isn't snowing. Well, not yet anyway. You see, Scotland is a highly unpredictable beast, even in summer. I remember once when I lived in Edinburgh I was walking through a vicious shower of freezing rain so determined that even the Big Issue sellers had scarpered. And I thought, 'yeah, summer, they must be lying to us...' 

But that was years ago, back when I worried about such things and thought that cowboy hats were fashionable. Today the rain doesn't concern me. At least not when the cricket is on. Bugger it, I decide, I'm a Celt and as such I am a member of the only race of human that is cold blooded and designed to enjoy misery. 

My mind is set. I hope it's raining in Edinburgh... But first of all I have to trust a driver to negotiate all this tarmac. Which isn't an easy thing on a road covered with puddles...

The rest of the story can be found here...:

1) Pit Stops: The Land of the Human Zombie
2) What a Pong
3) Health and Safety During the Scottish Summer
4) Puddle Hopping
5) Reflections of A Self-Righteous Scrotum