Edinbrugh, Scotland //
Going Forth
Escaping the city to climb Scotland's Forth Bridge
Date November 2008
Posted June 2011
Posted June 2011
As the sun rose on that Saturday morning I may aswell have been flying. The handsome black Volkswagen at my command effortlessly climbed over the summits, swooping down into the valleys with ease, its powerful diesel engine purring softly as together we navigated our way through the Lake District. Cares, worries, problems - all left within the confines of the city an hour or two ago.
At that time I didn't do anywhere near the mileage I do now, and long trips across the country were still something of an adventure. In recent years plane travel seems to have replaced the road-based jaunts, but now even the short crate hops over to relatively distant European cities are beginning to seem less exciting. It comes down to the need to move, to escape, to feel like you're going somewhere, doing something. For those this easily bored, nothing lasts forever. The known frontiers extend and we find ourselves longing for something better, to build on what we've learned. In time there'll be the need to do something different, that next hit. Perhaps some extended time abroad. Maybe leave England for good.
When I look back I know that these will have been some of the best times: declining invitations to drink myself into oblivion on a Friday night, instead going early to bed and waking before the roads jammed with shoppers and DIY addicts frantically trying to reach the retail parks. I'd breeze off across mountain passes and winding back roads, reverting back to the motorways when necessary. The most memorable times I would always be alone, lost in my own thoughts, no need to talk, to discuss music or route choice. Even if it was only for 48 hours, I was free from the densely populated city, the adverts, the air-conditioned offices of the client I'd been sent to work for. On Monday the workdroids would ask me what I did at the weekend. The easiest answer was the one they always gave each other: "Not much. Had a load of beers, you know".
Often there were others met along the way. This time it was loops and zero, swept up in Edinburgh and transported over to the Forth. Here we took in the sight of our prize, stretching off over the water resplendent in her red paint. Somehow between last train and first maintenance worker we would negotiate the trackside and clamber onto her damp steelwork, pushing on up the structure to reach the top of one of the pylons.
Here we surveyed our surroundings, glad to have finally achieved what most would consider pointless. Around this time our excitement was extended by the mechanical banging of a temporary workers lift rising from the riverside below. The first group of bridge workers were on their way up to the track level. Somehow we had to escape unseen.
After sleeping in the car I returned southward, once more by myself, through driving rain across the hills and mountains. By now it was Monday and there was that feeling of coming down, no doubt felt by all of those who'd set their senses ablaze all weekend long, even if it was in the dark confines of a nightclub or the airy expanse of a sports stadium.
Whilst in some ways this is an ode to a time passed, I'll always go back now and again. And right now an equally enjoyable and shiny black car sits out on the drive, glistening in the rain, petrol tank full. Around the table on which this laptop sits are a score of bags packed with climbing gear, warm clothes, food and probably just about everything I could really need. Where will it be this time?
At that time I didn't do anywhere near the mileage I do now, and long trips across the country were still something of an adventure. In recent years plane travel seems to have replaced the road-based jaunts, but now even the short crate hops over to relatively distant European cities are beginning to seem less exciting. It comes down to the need to move, to escape, to feel like you're going somewhere, doing something. For those this easily bored, nothing lasts forever. The known frontiers extend and we find ourselves longing for something better, to build on what we've learned. In time there'll be the need to do something different, that next hit. Perhaps some extended time abroad. Maybe leave England for good.
When I look back I know that these will have been some of the best times: declining invitations to drink myself into oblivion on a Friday night, instead going early to bed and waking before the roads jammed with shoppers and DIY addicts frantically trying to reach the retail parks. I'd breeze off across mountain passes and winding back roads, reverting back to the motorways when necessary. The most memorable times I would always be alone, lost in my own thoughts, no need to talk, to discuss music or route choice. Even if it was only for 48 hours, I was free from the densely populated city, the adverts, the air-conditioned offices of the client I'd been sent to work for. On Monday the workdroids would ask me what I did at the weekend. The easiest answer was the one they always gave each other: "Not much. Had a load of beers, you know".
Often there were others met along the way. This time it was loops and zero, swept up in Edinburgh and transported over to the Forth. Here we took in the sight of our prize, stretching off over the water resplendent in her red paint. Somehow between last train and first maintenance worker we would negotiate the trackside and clamber onto her damp steelwork, pushing on up the structure to reach the top of one of the pylons.
Here we surveyed our surroundings, glad to have finally achieved what most would consider pointless. Around this time our excitement was extended by the mechanical banging of a temporary workers lift rising from the riverside below. The first group of bridge workers were on their way up to the track level. Somehow we had to escape unseen.
After sleeping in the car I returned southward, once more by myself, through driving rain across the hills and mountains. By now it was Monday and there was that feeling of coming down, no doubt felt by all of those who'd set their senses ablaze all weekend long, even if it was in the dark confines of a nightclub or the airy expanse of a sports stadium.
Whilst in some ways this is an ode to a time passed, I'll always go back now and again. And right now an equally enjoyable and shiny black car sits out on the drive, glistening in the rain, petrol tank full. Around the table on which this laptop sits are a score of bags packed with climbing gear, warm clothes, food and probably just about everything I could really need. Where will it be this time?
