The week began with storm Isha. After getting back from my day job the winds rapidly sped up to a howling fury. The windows of my apartment rattled as trash was audibly torn out of the large collective bins below. The roar gave the impression that the entire block was about to take off to find a distant wicked witch to land on. This is an increasingly regular late winter occurrence in the UK, particularly Scotland. Storms, driven by the overcharged jet stream, sent barrelling into this island with the fury of a boiling tempest bringing chaotic change. Yet this would be little consolation to the family of an 84 year old man who was in the passenger seat of a car as it slammed into a tree, torn from its roots, and lying across the road. This tragic incident happened in Grangemouth, near Falkirk, not all that far from Edinburgh.
This wasn’t the only death Isha would reap as she tore across the country. A total of four people across the UK and Ireland lost their lives. In some ways it is amazing that there were not more. Across the long, low, curve of the Tay Bridge near Dundee measured gusts of upto 172 kph (107 mph) with average wind speeds in many places measuring 156 kph (97 mph). Tens of thousands of people saw blackouts and there were countless injuries. I had thought it bad enough walking from the bus stop back home before the worst of the storm hit. The bluster and rain giving me feelings of being beaten back from what I truly wanted, like Catherine seeking heartbroken Heathcliff. Except what I sought was easy to find and I was hardly risking my life at that point. Another couple of hours though, and it might have been a different story.
The storm would continue beating at our doors until late the next morning when the sky brightened somewhat as if to give a moment of reprieve for the stockpiling of essentials. Before long the rain began to fall with an incessant liquid chill just in time for me to go out and meet up with my brother in law. He was down for a few hours for work and we had enough time for a coffee and bit of a catch up. Then I was having to head home as night fell and the wind began to pick up again. It had barely been 24 hours and now Storm Jocelyn was coming to visit. The 11th named storm of this mid/late winter season. Yet again I spent the night huddled in my apartment imagining I was about to become an unwitting astronaut.
Jocelyn proved to be less deadly but carried far more water. The rain was unyielding and entirely ended my plan to go out on Wednesday. I was stuck indoors, neither wanting to risk the storm’s fury or pneumonia. Each minute ticked by like a long decade as I felt increasingly fidgety and useless. The storm was not helping me find a new story. How was I meant to get out and wander, take notes of the things around me and report them back to you with all this going on? I paced around the apartment, sat in front of the TV mentally flagellating myself for getting nothing done, and ate nothing but comforting junk that spurred further self criticism. This storm was out of my control, a force beyond anything I could affect. I have no daughter to jealously protect, no power to control the elements. I am no Prospero.
Thursday rolled in with a gentle lull and a fresh payment into my bank account. I quickly ordered things I’ve been needing, got myself together, and left the apartment a little after sunrise. My journey was one of the longest I’ve done while still technically staying within the city area. Two busses and about 1 hour 30 minutes in total travel time took me to Queensferry, or South Queensferry for the pedantic. Named for its founder Queen Margaret who established the ferry crossing here in the 11th century. Across the firth from this point, in Fife, is North Queensferry that marks the other side of the crossing point. The crossing here is fairly treacherous, with outcroppings of rock and a broad expanse of tidal water to cross. It might seem crazy to establish any kind of crossing here. Yet, it was the closest point to Edinburgh that crossing was actually feasible without a somewhat elongated voyage.
It wouldn’t be until 1890 that an actual bridge would be attempted at this point in the Firth. The great stretch of rugged Victorian ironwork, painted a rich arterial red, that is the Forth Rail Bridge. Once this bridge was famous for having to be continuously painted due to its size, that the painters would have to start again by the time they’d finished. Technology has moved on somewhat since then and this is no longer the case but it doesn’t diminish the drama of this colossus of a bridge. The rail bridge was joined in 1964 by the first road bridge, a much more standard twin tower suspension affair. Both would be joined by the elegant, fan-like, Queensferry Crossing in 2017. The three bridges are like great monuments to their eras and Scotland meeting the challenges of its environment.
I may have been out for the first time in days but I found myself standing on a pebbly beach, strewn with remains of industrial history, trying to keep my sausage roll dry in the quiet rain. There wasn’t much open in The Ferry (as it’s often referred to), still being winter, there was little call for ice cream parlours and the like. Gift shops and other such seasonal outlets were obviously not about to be doing much trade. As such the cobbled old high street seemed semi-deserted. Only a few stragglers, like me, were braving the damp conditions. To me though, this was perfect. After the tumult of storms in quick succession I was about ready for this. Sunshine might have been nice but the peace brought by gentle rainfall and light mists with no wind was, in many ways, superior.
Standing on those pebbles, I looked out at the grandness of the rail bridge as it faded to pastels in the misty extremity of Fife. The rain was a gentle bird trot patter on the rocks and lapping water, an almost meditative experience. I was glad I hadn’t opted to stay in the slightly uncomfortable looking cafe I’d gotten my morning coffee and sausage roll from. There was somehow a greater comfort standing in the rain. Feeling it dampen and clump my hair, run down my cheeks and neck, cool but not cold. The kind of rain that compels images of holding a lover close, clasping the back of their neck, and sharing the warmth of each other's lips as the chill water works its way through your clothes. There’s a romance to quiet rain.
I continued my gentle stroll about the quiet old town and headed for the old harbour. Robust, dystopian, concrete walls protected this petite safe haven. A single narrow entry point adjacent to the main length of the space and at its deepest point. The tide was out and the harbour was almost entirely drained. I had expected to find this little spot housing small crab boats or other small commercial vessels. To my surprise almost everything in there was a private boat, with most of them being sailing vessels. The majority were bilge keelers, their twin fin keels standing the yachts upright on the mud. A couple were single fin keeled boats kept at the deeper end and leaned against the inside harbour wall. Not an entirely preferable solution but it does work. Getting to the boats at low tide looked to be a potentially nerve wrecking affair, using rickety ladders, strapped to the harbour wall by sodden mouldy ropes.
Draining harbours like this are more or less the norm on the Firth of Forth. As you head further out, to the east, there are more deep harbours and marinas. Closer inland the only ones that don’t drain are locked. That is they have lock gates to hold the water in the dock as the tide falls. This is a solution that’s regularly implemented around the world, but it limits the entry/exit opportunities. Of course tide does the same thing so it’s more gain than loss. Unfortunately it’s a relatively expensive gain, so it’s not really practical for all harbours. Certainly not for something as tiny as this little gem in Queensferry.
Part of future development plans for Edinburgh include adding lock gates to Granton Harbour, one of the largest single docks in the city. This is tied to adding a new tram route from Granton to Little France and the park and ride just past the infirmary. This would be kind of brilliant for me, but likely won’t get done until after I’ve left my current apartment. The entire plan would see a new science and technology centre and residential apartment buildings developed close to the harbour. The harbour would also see changes as the plan is to make it the largest marina on the Forth and the only marina on the east coast that can accommodate super yachts. Something that might work out well for the film festival. Of course these are just plans at the moment and there’s no telling whether they’ll ever actually see the light of day.
I made my way back to the high street and walked west to the edge of the old town centre. There, on the peripheries, as the newer housing estates take over, is something else quite unique and modestly beautiful. The Priory Church is only half of what it once was in building terms and is much less than half of what it once was in congregation terms. The ancient old church is Scottish Episcopalian and dates back to 1440, 336 years before Jefferson would write that “all men are created equal…” a time when there was little to no concept of equality in society. This little church had been through so much including a previous near death experience. As I walked around the church it sparked an interest. Questions about what we had gained and what we are now loosing. There was more to this place than I could have imagined, but that’s a story for another day.
Comments