I arrived in Glasgow via Prestwick airport. My hopes to get far north were shattered in the first hour when the train that took me into town lost an engine. That delayed my arrival in town until after the train to Inverness had departed. The other options didn’t seem any better. I could get a bus to either Inverness or Fort William, but I’d be travelling in the dark and then looking for a place to stay in the middle of the night. After a quick stop at the tourist office, I headed for one of the backbacker places. It was only 2pm, but the light was already fading, despite the clear skies. I hadn’t realised how far north Scotland was. Certainly it was the closest to the Arctic that I’d been, but the difference in latitude from Brussels seemed only to be the same as between Sydney and Melbourne and I’d never noticed a difference in the length of the day there.
Two hours later, it was dark and I still hadn’t found a place to stay. The Lonely Planet was glued to my hand now – the sweat from holding it open at the map for so long had frozen in the Scottish winter cold. Three backpackers seemed to be closed for the season or missing entirely. The Youth Hostel was being renovated after a fire, I later learned. I checked into a Bed & Breakfast that cost a bit more than I wanted and seemed to cater for a higher class of clientele. I laughed again at my new ideas of class. When packing for the trip, I’d pulled out all my hiking gear and found myself panicking that I couldn’t be seen in a purple fleece jacket over a red fleece cycling shirt. ‘When did I start caring about how I look?’ I wondered. Certainly not in Japan, where I was comfortable using my gaijin status as an excuse for the holes in my t-shirts and jeans that were too big for me. It was Belgium, I realised, that had changed me. There was nothing to differentiate me from the Europeans who dressed up to walk the dog. Everywhere I went, I felt as though I was being judged by my clothes and so wore only the newer clothes, even making an attempt to match colours. In the end, I’d discarded my new fashion sense and worn the strange motley of comfortable travelling clothes and now I would have to learn to ignore the looks all over again.
Feeling much more settled, I packed the LP and my notebook into my day pack and stepped out into the cold dark city. The walk back to the town centre, George Square, took me along a brightly lit shopping mall that could have been any city. Any city where a number of young men walk around in kilts, that is. George Square, where the tourist office is located, was now bustling with people. They milled around, not with the social atmosphere I’d seen in Spain, but as though waiting for something – a concert if the men in bright yellow ‘land control’ jackets putting up speakers outside the City Chambers were anything to go by. It looked like they’d be a while, so I walked back to the hiking shops I’d seen in the mall to have a look at the latest gadgets. I didn’t see much that was new, but I found a pack I liked better than the one I was carrying, which was great for hiking when I’d need to carry tent, sleeping bag, stove and food, and have it with me all the time. It wasn’t suitable for backpacking when I also needed something to carry during the day. Other backpackers I’d seen since I arrived had compact packs that fit the sleeping bag, a change of clothes and some food. It was tempting, but I certainly didn’t want to carry a third bag around for the rest of the week. Perhaps on the way back.
When I tried to return to the square, I couldn’t get closer than fifty metres. The square and all the streets around were packed solid with people, like sheep in a pen. Who was playing to draw such a diverse crowd? There were young children, teenagers, families and many with grey hair. I could hear music, but there was nothing to see over the mass of heads. I should have been able to see the stage from here – I had a good view of the City Chambers. Then the music changed from hip-hop to Spice Girls and I realised that it was only a DJ. The main act hadn’t started yet. When it finally did came, I found it wasn’t a concert at all. At 6:30, a bodiless voice said ‘let there be light’ and the square was lit with colour. Draped between the buildings, christmas lights surrounded the park in the centre. There were leaves of Holly, red and white candy canes, and bells that appeared to swing. It was all done in great detail, each object lit up in three dimensions to give them shape from wherever you looked.
What really surprised me though, was that it was only the 16th of November. Christmas was six weeks away! But this was it. The official start of Christmas in Glasgow. Perhaps for all of Scotland, for as I continued my journey I found shops were increasingly adorned in red and green decorations and sporting Christmas sale signs. It was all too much. I decided the time was right for a drink. I found a likely bar, ordered a whiskey and sat down to plan the rest of my trip. The trains weren’t going to be any use to me. The connections were too bad, and they had a reputation for breaking down. I decided to take a bus up to Fort William, then to Inverness. From there, I’d see what my chances were of getting up to Thurso and Sutherlandshire. That decided, I ordered another drink. In Belgium, beer is cheaper than water, and if it wasn’t quite true for whisky in Scotland, I could at least get drunk here for the price of a single whisky at home.
The next morning, I rose early, dined on a ‘traditional Scottish breakfast’ of eggs, sausage, bacon, toast and a ‘scone’ which was more like a quarter of a savoury pancake. Suitably stocked up on energy and feeling like I wouldn’t need to eat until dark, I checked out and walked through the fog to the bus station. My bus wasn’t to leave for another hour and a half, which gave me ample time to visit the the Glasgow Cathedral. It wasn’t open at that time of morning – still 8:30, so I wandered around its blackened exterior, stepping carefully between the coffin-sized gravestone laid flat into the grass. It was difficult to make out much of the detailed Gothic stonework when it was all burnt and worn, and hazed by curtains of white, and while the size was impressive – probably five stories tall and a hundred metres long – I’d seen similar in Belgium. It’s fame apparently comes from its status as the only remaining Gothic cathedral on the Scottish mainland – the rest having been destroyed in the many wars over the centuries.