Ego

It was a frantic day of wrapping things up before leave. The following words sprung to mind: blood, wall, stone and brick.

In the Uber to the station, the driver was keeping it old school by playing the late 1990s Robbie Williams album The Ego Has Landed. As we’re from the same city I can confirm that the size of his ego is not helped by him being the most famous son that Stoke-on-Trent has churned out since Josiah Wedgwood.

The holiday to Scotland begins here, not withstanding some last minute emailing using the train wifi. I met Michelle at Peterborough station for the long journey to Edinburgh, our first pit stop. On the train, The Ego Really Had Landed. Some boozing rugby lads were insufferable. At one point after a barrage of misogyny an enraged Scottish man shouted at them from down the carriage.

When I remembered the train was due to stop at Durham, I offered Michelle one thousand pounds of cold hard cash if they didn’t get off there to go and do something university-related. Durham has a reputation and the sense of entitlement exuded on this train did nothing to dispel it.

Meanwhile eastern chunks of England rolled by, and in the far north-eastern part of the country, it becomes a lovely coastal route. Forested, rolling countryside around Durham, the scene of the Tyne Bridge in Newcastle (which the announcer pronounces with a northern inflection on the ‘a’), a glimpse of Lindisfarne Castle in the haze, charming and idyllic Alnmouth, and Berwick bathed in a gorgeous light.

This is the furthest I’ve travelled since March 2020 and excitement is already building. I whipped out a suitably Scottish book, Shuggie Bain, sent onto me by Clare’s mum.

Even this railway bridge in Peterborough was looking attractive in early evening sun, at the start of the long journey.