The birds were confused again. At a little past 5am the distinct call I’ve come to expect chattered through the black. Perhaps it’s the streetlights, and all other artificial lights of the city. Yet there it is, even in this winter darkness, the call of songbirds welcoming the new day. They were starting the day with more fervour than I was. Unlike the week before there was no particular mission in mind. There was an idea, but it was a larger concept than could be managed in a single week without preparation. So, I was mostly resigned to a week of development, research and supporting efforts. All of it with only a smidge of direction. Sometimes I enjoy the free flow of open discovery, as I used to say when I was younger, “ride the wave and see where it takes you.” The sea born taoist’s philosophy. Today though, I have the urge to know an outcome, the security of assurity. Perhaps because I’ve only just got out of a period of significant insecurity.
My day job stretches across the weekend, so the majority of what most people consider the working week I’m technically off. I have been undertaking a Masters of course. Yet this move has proved to be entirely wrong. At least this particular course of study is wrong. I’d chosen a masters to qualify me to be a librarian. This seemed like an appropriate direction to go. I’m a philosophy graduate with a particular love for literature, history and art. The imagined future was one in a museum or similar setting, sorting collections and working with curators to deliver text and other sources to a knowledge hungry public. The last thing I imagined was a world of computer science frigidity. Yet that seems to be what I signed up for. This isn’t the fault of the masters or its convenors, although a little heads up might have been nice, it’s simply a mismatch to my wishes.
As the birds sang into the dark I made coffee. With my regular morning coffee and orange juice in hand I turned to a new morning ritual. Partially born from recent social media activity, starting the day reading at least one poem and a narrative nonfiction book for 15 - 20 minutes, has rapidly become one of my favourite parts of the day. With my plans being slightly more vague and not wanting to disturb neighbours so early in the morning, I extended my reading a bit. Before I knew it the sky was beginning to lighten, although lacking the drama I’d gotten used to from the autumn and early winter. For some reason there has been an extended period of overcast mornings. Even when the days are clear and bright, the early mornings have been blankets of grey.
When I eventually got out, after getting the apartment cleaned and laundry done, I made my way into the city centre. I was still on the hunt for White Album by Joan Didion. Having already read Slouching Towards Bethlehem I’ve been keen to read more work by this remarkable author and journalist from the New Journalism movement. The early days of what is now referred to as Creative Nonfiction, Narrative Nonfiction, or Literary Journalism. The bus into the city wasn’t overly busy, although the chill outside had led to misted windows that increased reliance on the “next stop” display. The gentle rock and rumble of the bus was meditative and almost lulled me into a doze before being rudely interrupted by the driver. Something was wrong with the bus and we were being asked to disembark and get on the next bus. I wiped condensation from the window and looked out to where we were. Not far from Surgeon’s Hall. I shrugged and got off the bus deciding not to hang around, I was close enough. What was more, I was also close to a favourite cafe, Press Coffee. Google Maps had been saying this place was temporarily closed for some time and I had the feeling that was probably wrong.
As it turned out my hunch was correct and Press Coffee was indeed open. I headed in. The cafe sits on the corner of Buccleuch Place on the edge of Edinburgh University central campus. With grand windows on two sides that are almost floor to ceiling in the 18th/19th century tall roomed building. Inside, the decor is more French salon cafe with ornate cast iron and marble top tables, curvaceous wooden chairs and checkered floor. Yet the interior is also quintessentially Edinburgh with the high ceilings framed by intricate cornicing. The walls are a cheery sunflower yellow, a bright, mood lifting touch I particularly appreciate in the winter. As I enter the owner, currently working alone in the near empty cafe, welcomes me with a modest smile and familiarity that I find infectious. I return the pleasantry and after placing my entirely generic and uninteresting order I ask, “do you know that Google maps thinks you’re temporarily closed?”
“Still?” She tuts, rolling her soft blue eyes, “twice I’ve informed them we’d reopened. I originally tried to get ahead and change it before we reopened, when that didn’t work I tried again after.”
Press Coffee, due to its proximity and connection to the university, closes during the winter vacation. I have to admit that I’m not sure about other vacation periods, but I doubt it, the potential footfall is greater entering the summer. The spring in Edinburgh is usually a lot more devoid of tourists but often warm and pretty enough that students and others stick around and get out more. To be honest spring is one of my favourite seasons in the city, as everything comes to life again, the Meadows blooms in a vibrant display of cherry blossom lining the paths. I tapped my card on the reader to pay for my uninspiring order and reply, “you’d think they’d have a system that would just let business owners have a log in and update their details.”
The owner directs me to take a seat whilst she gets my order ready and agrees, “you would wouldn’t you, and perhaps have something to indicate what information is official, from the business, rather than any old Joe.”
I sat on a small table against the back room giving me a view out of one of the huge windows and the cafe as a whole. I contemplated getting out my notebook but decided that, due to only staying briefly, there wasn’t much point. My flat white (I told you it was generic and uninspiring) arrived and hit the spot. I’m not sure where Press Coffee source their coffee from but it’s great. There’s a subtle fruity sweetness that complements the nutty flavours of the coffee. I took a moment to appreciate the warming, welcoming beverage on this chilly, damp day. I finish the coffee fairly quickly and said my farewells as I left the cafe.
Taking a bit of a detour through the edge of the Meadows, passing Upland Roast and its amazing hot chocolate, I walked up the broad foot and cycle path between the university and the Quarter Mile. This large development is an old victorian hospital complex that is now utilised as a combination of luxury residential, retail and some office space. The detailed and curved golden sandstone of the original buildings has been joined with contemporary glass and steel constructions. A combination that works to only highlight the qualities of the beautiful old hospital buildings.
My roundabout route took me up to King George IV Bridge and past Greyfriars Kirk, then down to the Grassmarket. This is entering the Old Town of Edinburgh, with the castle standing high above everything on its volcanic plinth. Many of the buildings are ramshackle, uneven and crooked constructions from the 16th century or so. Down in the Grassmarket it can feel like the city has been built on top of you with the road to the Cowgate being spanned by several bridges that house buildings of their own. These potentially dark and once eerie, threatening spaces, helped inspire many writers. You can always see why so many crime writers in particular seem to find inspiration in this city. Which is a little ironic considering Edinburgh is one of, if not the, safest cities in the UK.
I made my way through the old streets towards the Lyceum Theatre and Tollcross with one stop along the way. Armchair books is a bit of an Edinburgh institution and, like many places in this city, vastly over photographed for Instagram. Inside the shop I perused a while, indulging a little in admiring their antiquarian books. Armchair is a small second hand bookshop, reminiscent of some kind of fantasy magic shop, the kind of place you expect to uncover a dusty old book that leads to you making friends with a puppy-cute white luck dragon. Of course, I was hoping to find a the Didion I was after. Unfortunately that wasn’t to be, but I did find a Truman Capote that I’ve been meaning to read too.
My next stop was the Waterstones bookshop on Princes Street, hoping for the Didion and a chance to sit by the window of the cafe. Unfortunately neither was available. I did consider popping into the Starbucks close by, the other place you can get the same impressive view of the castle. Evidently the universe wasn’t ready for me to have this yet though, so I discounted Starbucks and caught another bus to fulfil some unfinished business. Strangely this second bus also stopped and booted everyone off after a couple of minutes. Thankfully, our replacement bus was already there for us. Before long Cramond Island was back in view and I was alighting to start my walk by the waterfront.
The walk to Cramond village was a little more hasty than last time as it was already past midday and I was starving. My target was, of course, the Cramond Inn. There, waiting for me, was the long awaited for treat of pie and chips. The pub is a very old, quirky, and crooked building of broad wooden beams and huge fireplaces, the floor carpeted in a beautiful victorian style pattern. I sat in a little nook, bookshelves to one side of me, small window in a deep recess of the thick wall behind me. The pie and chips was ordered along with a pint of bitter. I don’t drink alcohol very often. Not because I have any kind of problem, not even because I have a particular dislike of alcohol, it’s a bit of a weird personal issue. To put it simply alcohol reminds me of periods of my life at its most dark and hurtful. Times that often made me feel like continuing was futile. So I gain little pleasure from consuming alcohol. This time though was a little different. Perhaps it was mostly because of the pie, but there was a cosiness to the whole experience that made the whole thing feel homely and comfortable.
What I hadn’t noticed at first in the Cramond Inn was the sign telling you that the pub is a digital detox establishment. There are no phones, tablets or laptops allowed. I have to admit that this caused a minor heart palpitation. After all I’d packed my laptop so that I could write while out. Yet, as I enjoyed lunch, I quickly forgot about the pull to digital tools and simply took out my notepad and pen. As I sat and considered this unexpected blip something occurred to me: how much we’ve become dependent on these things, but also how that dependence seems to be slipping. For a while now there has been a growing trend towards people consuming cozy, cottage style content online. Along with the dark academia aesthetic that grew on Instagram, these desires for cozy, simple and nostalgic vibes originated in the pandemic lockdowns. With people forced to be cooped up and dependent on digital communications for work and school, the limits of technology became increasingly evident. All the problems that Facebook, in particular, became embroiled in sowed something of a discontent with social media.
Recently I’ve become more active on Threads, the platform from the Instagram folk to compete with the collapsing Twitter (now X). Yet my activity there is generally less than it once was on other social media and I’m using the other platforms significantly less, or not at all. This is apparently a bit of a trend. A recent New York Times (I think) article talked about how people are posting less on social media than they used to. A little after the article was published Adam Mosseri, Instagram CEO, posted a bit of a rebuttal claiming that people weren’t exactly posting less, rather they were posting in private direct messages or the notes function instead. That is, people are seeking to maintain actual back and forth communications with people they know and care about, rather than broadcast.
Threads seems to have been caught in some of this. Although it is essentially a predominantly open, broadcast style, text app the way people are using it is far more conversational. There are communities seeking civility and kindness, strong opinions and politics are extremely discouraged. Even the way Mosseri talks about Threads has begun to change. The ambition for the platform was initially stated as being, “the leading platform for conversation on the internet.” There seems little appetite amongst the users for such a mass appeal place. Whilst Xitter is embracing being the platform for fascists and Nazis, the users of Threads have been adamant that they want no part of such things. As some users started finding they were having rage bait appearing in their feeds, they were fast to block it and openly voice complaints without sharing the rage bait. Apologies came from Mosseri for their failure in algorithm updates that had led to some of this occurring. Not long after that a restatement of the ambition for Threads came as being, “the leading platform for kind and civil conversation on the internet.”
Perhaps, after seeking to be the biggest thing around, some of these platforms are starting to think it’s preferable to be the highest quality thing around.
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