Please, someone, rescue me. The Fringe is rising like a river approaching flood: I can hear the crunch of ruined relationships and broken, temporary trysts beneath my feet when I enter the bar. Red Bastard told me what my problem is, Boris and Sergey made me laugh even in the jaws of hell and yet, and yet...
I'd like to say that it was dark when I set out, my bike not quite fully fixed and the chain still clunking whenever I change out of bottom gear. This is dawn for me, although the sun is up and woke me before my alarm. It's six-thirty and the hottest July I can remember. After the gentle trip around the Borders, and the ironic problems I had getting back from Edinburgh, I am hitting the part of my Giant Quest that excites, and worries, me most.
The Aberdeen train is so early, but will get me into the north before the working day begins. Being the go-getting, dynamic blogger, I fall asleep as soon as it leaves Queen Street station. Given the length of the journey, it's a mouldy old train, the stock more ancient than that which plies the line between the twin capitals. No internet connection, and I feel justified in sleeping off the three hours.
When I wake up, it is as if the line has narrowed and the forest is surrounding us.
The next time, I looking over an abyss that is green and glistens with sunlight.
There are real hills here, the ones that climbers get aroused by and tramp up and down and tick off of their extended lists.
The reflection of the hills and trees in the water is the sort of thing that would make a good photograph, if only my reflection on on the window was not so jarring.
I wake up to a text from a beautiful woman. It is half past eight. We are entering the city, the Granite city.
I take it slowly, wheeling my bike into the town and onto the High Street. Locking up, I oil the chain again, wipe it clean with a yellow cloth which then stains my yellow water-proof. I am self-conscious, that I look like a tourist. I try to destroy this impression by going into Oxfam and buying a book about Matthew Bourne. I figure that the sort of person who buys a thick paperback is not going to be seen as a day-tripper.
The huge pannier I have to lug into the shop does not help.
The tourist information point is helpful: they give me a map of the road out to Drum Castle. I realise that the trip will be all on the main artery across the top of the country. I never break free of the settlements, the commuter villages of Aberdeen. Aside from my disappointment at not getting big swathes of open countryside to sigh and swoon over, I'm intrigued by the way that Aberdeen has a different model of urban sprawl to Glasgow. While the West Coast Wonder incorporated all the settlements within its mass, Aberdeen is more like a series of outposts, with short passages of countryside between them. No need for the parks that are the lungs of The Dear Green Place...
It's brief, but sudden: a tremendous sense of love for this country. Not in any nationalistic sense, or even patriotic. I enjoy the grandeur of Aberdeen's city centre: on a sunny day like this, the granite winks and glimmers. As I make my way towards Drum Castle, my bike chain settles and I feel more at home when I am on the road.
Discuss.
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