I did not intend to eavesdrop, but as I sat eating my
breakfast after landing at Edinburgh Airport in July 2017, there was no
avoiding the conversations all around me.
An airport employee paused to chat to the man seated next to me, and this man expressed concerns about his future: ''Since Brexit,
you don’t know what’s happening. I could go over there, but it would mean
starting the business from scratch, like I did thirty years ago… My son was
born over there, to a German mother, in German-speaking Austria, so he has
three passports. Now he’s in New Zealand, has New Zealand residency and a New
Zealand partner."
Two middle-aged English businessmen discussed other
British airports: "Stansted is a horrible airport, full of the unwashed… At
Heathrow, as a slight extravagance, I get valet parking."
Seated at a table extremely close to me, just beyond the trellis, were a man and a woman who clearly
met up occasionally. He was English and she had a Central European accent. She
talked about helping someone find a cemetery plot in Shetland, and added, "She
speaks with a broad New Zealand accent with strong South African add-ons, so
it's quite frightening – all her vowels sound the same."
I have to admit this woman is correct. Increasingly,
the vowels in our New Zealand spoken English are reducing to just one sound,
and it’s a diphthong. Those of our vowels that remain distinct are not pretty, but they're ours. Nowadays, I take a perverse delight in accentuating the harshness of the two short "a"s that occur in my name – Ann Barrie.
When I was in Edinburgh in 2012, they were still laying the
tram track, and Princess Street was a mess. But now the 14-kilometre line
between York Place in New Town and Edinburgh Airport, with 16 stops, is up and
running, and it's fast and efficient. At the airport, a tramway
ambassador stood beside the ticket machines in case of difficulty, but I found
them easy to use, unlike the Parisian ones, which drove me to distraction, refusing
my credit card, and not accepting cash.
My hotel, conveniently located opposite Haymarket Station, had
the motto ‘Connect – explore – recharge’. My room was so streamlined and compact
that I spent an hour muttering about the lack of power points before I
realised they were discreetly hidden behind a red pull-down table.
The view from my window was compelling: the large clock face above Haymarket Station, the sweep of busy Haymarket Street, the Georgian buildings, church spires, backdrop of hills, even the construction sites – and I photographed it by day and night. Sounds drifted up: the hum of car engines, the bell ringing from the tram, the whirr of trains, laughter and singing from the pub next door.
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| Haymarket Railway Station, Edinburgh Photo: Ann Barrie |
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| Haymarket Railway Station, Edinburgh Photo: Ann Barrie |
My first night in Edinburgh, I watched the BBC News for the
first time since Malta in May. It was the 14 July, French National Day, and
also the 100th anniversary of the United States joining World War I,
and they were reporting on President Trump’s visit to Paris. "His crudeness has
not gone away," the news reporter said, referring to Trump’s clumsy remarks
about the age of President Macron’s wife, "but the French made nothing of this.
They don’t like Trump, but they came out to see him, After all, it’s the 14
July and they’re in a holiday mood."
I slept well, and went down to the Platform 5 Sports Bar
next to the hotel for their ‘big breakfast at £6.95. The plate was large and well-warmed, so hot, in
fact, that the butter pats were melting. Pride of place on the right hand side
of the plate were two fried eggs, joined at the hip, and cooked exactly as I
like them with the yolks still runny, and the white set but not hard. Peeping
out from beneath the eggs, toward the top of the plate, were two slices of
Lorne sausage (Bill made Lorne sausage at home, almost to the end of his
days); emerging from the other side was a large round of black pudding; and hidden
beneath was a mound of soft haggis. Sitting in front were the baked
beans. The left side of the plate, progressing from top to bottom, accommodated
a half tomato, a big thick rasher of bacon, folded over so it would fit, two
potato scones, and a generous serving of mushrooms. It was the kind of
breakfast that sustains you for hours, and one that Bill would have enjoyed.
The other pub I dined
at in the Haymarket area was the Ryrie's, an Edwardian public house, on the
junction of Dairy Road, Haymarket Street and Morrison Street. They offer a £6.95 two-course meal, and I chose carrot soup, followed by battered fish, peas and chips.
The pub is atmospheric, with a dumb waiter (shown to the left of the photo below) for the conveyance of hot
food to the bar.
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| Ryrie's Public House, Haymarket, Edinburgh Photo: Ann Barrie |
