Blue Skies In Edinburgh
And so he headed north, huddling in the cold of King’s Cross station, waiting for the first train to speed him up the country through the wind and the snow. In many ways it felt like a return. Not only had he spent so many summers in that ancient and mysterious land, but that’s where his roots lay. Scotland had always called to him, but he’d never braved it in the winter before. Not really. It had always been August, with glorious sunshine and the streets full of colour as the festival spilled from the countless venues across the city out onto the streets.
People joke that it always rains in Scotland, that it is a grey and cold and dismal place, but all of his memories, particularly of its oddly schizophrenic capital city, were good. His mental picture of this place was blue skied and happy, he couldn’t really imagine it any other way. He loved this strange place, divided in two, with it’s strictly regimented new town, laid out in a perfect grid in the eighteenth century, in stark contrast to the old town with it’s crazed and winding streets.
At the heart of the place stood the castle, ancient and imposing, stood atop the remains of a long dead volcano and overlooking the drained loch that had long since been converted into ornamental gardens. It was here they went, hand in hand, exploring places neither of them had been since childhood. They soaked in the history, not just of the castle, but of the land that had, ultimately, borne them both. The city looked majestic, covered as it was in a delicate frosting of freshly fallen snow, and yet the sun still shone, and the sky was blue. There were always blue skies in Edinburgh.
She huddled in to him to keep warm, as they braved the icy cobbles, arm in arm.
“This really is the perfect date,” she smiled.