Sorry I Missed You, Saint Abbs
On my last two full days abroad my initial plans to return to beautiful Glen Coe and bleak Rannoch Moor fell through, leaving me with a large amount of time with nothing to do. Sitting in the epic expanse of Nick's chandaliered living-room, I formulated a plan: in my remaining two days, I would walk from the capital of Scotland to England. An arbitrary and somewhat silly goal, but for me, an epic quest nonetheless. I set out from New Town in Edinburgh at about 11 o'clock and made my way through various suburbs, housing projects and polluted creeksides for eight miles until I reached the gloomy port town of Musselburgh, when I saw at sign: "Berwick-upon-Tweed (first major town across the border) 51 miles". At this point it was already two in the afternoon, and I realized that there was now way I could possibly reach my goal of the Coldingham Sands Youth Hostel before it became dark and cold. Disheartened, I caught a bus back into the city.
On my way back to Nick's flat, I happened to pass the primary Edinburgh bus station and saw an airport-style bus schedule with a bus heading south-east in half-an-hour. I ran as fast as I could back to the flat, grabbed my backpack, and got back to the bus. I arrived in Coldingham after dark, having no idea where the hostel was. The small village was dark and deserted.
After wandering miles in the dark, I came to an RV camp, and sat down until I happened to see an old woman walking her dog pass by. I chased her down, scaring her, and asked her where the hostel was. Another mile or so out of town, in the dark. As I wandered, the only thing I could see was the road and the sheep staring back at me from their darkened pastures.
While climbing up the hill where the hostel was supposedly located, my heart sank. No lights. No sounds. At the top of the hill, the grand house sat in silence, a note on the front door stating "Closed for Winter". My guidebook had said it stayed open until November. Preparing to spend the night huddled up under my jacket and towel, I went back down the hill, happening to pass by the only house with its lights on. To my luck, it was Bed and Breakfast! 30 pounds later, I was the only guest, awkwardly conversing with the elderly Scottish couple about California and exchange rates. At seven AM, before the sun was up, set out again, but not without taking the cheese sandwich, banana and water bottle lunch the couple insisted on packing me.
The trail to England wound out of Coldingham for twenty miles up and down sea cliffs, across rocky beaches and through fallow autumn fields, often along ancient-looking stone walls.
I passed several small fishing towns, Eyemouth and Burnmouth, with the thick smell of ocean rising from them and the squawking of gulls swarming their harbors.
After five hours, dodging angry dogs in fields and flying balls at a seaside golf course, and passing through miles of alternately beautiful and apocalyptic scenery, I was tired, and still nowhere near the border.
I decided to trespass away from the coast through various farms until I reached the A1 freeway. After two hours of climbing hills and honking cars, I made it!
I walked another mile or two to Berwick-upon-Tweed, ate some lunch and enjoyed the slightly different accents before catching the bus back to my temporary home of Edinburgh.
On my way back to Nick's flat, I happened to pass the primary Edinburgh bus station and saw an airport-style bus schedule with a bus heading south-east in half-an-hour. I ran as fast as I could back to the flat, grabbed my backpack, and got back to the bus. I arrived in Coldingham after dark, having no idea where the hostel was. The small village was dark and deserted.
After wandering miles in the dark, I came to an RV camp, and sat down until I happened to see an old woman walking her dog pass by. I chased her down, scaring her, and asked her where the hostel was. Another mile or so out of town, in the dark. As I wandered, the only thing I could see was the road and the sheep staring back at me from their darkened pastures.
While climbing up the hill where the hostel was supposedly located, my heart sank. No lights. No sounds. At the top of the hill, the grand house sat in silence, a note on the front door stating "Closed for Winter". My guidebook had said it stayed open until November. Preparing to spend the night huddled up under my jacket and towel, I went back down the hill, happening to pass by the only house with its lights on. To my luck, it was Bed and Breakfast! 30 pounds later, I was the only guest, awkwardly conversing with the elderly Scottish couple about California and exchange rates. At seven AM, before the sun was up, set out again, but not without taking the cheese sandwich, banana and water bottle lunch the couple insisted on packing me.
The trail to England wound out of Coldingham for twenty miles up and down sea cliffs, across rocky beaches and through fallow autumn fields, often along ancient-looking stone walls.
I passed several small fishing towns, Eyemouth and Burnmouth, with the thick smell of ocean rising from them and the squawking of gulls swarming their harbors.
After five hours, dodging angry dogs in fields and flying balls at a seaside golf course, and passing through miles of alternately beautiful and apocalyptic scenery, I was tired, and still nowhere near the border.
I decided to trespass away from the coast through various farms until I reached the A1 freeway. After two hours of climbing hills and honking cars, I made it!
I walked another mile or two to Berwick-upon-Tweed, ate some lunch and enjoyed the slightly different accents before catching the bus back to my temporary home of Edinburgh.