I decided that the spirit of 'Theatrical Journeys' required me to go to Edinburgh by public transport. What an adventure! Right from the word 'go'. Glasgow, like London, has those computerised screens at bus stops: and they lie to you just as much. I got on the first bus saying 'via city centre'. When it got near where I wanted to be, it suddenly turned off west. I pressed the 'stop' button, and was immediately rewarded, just like London with an illuminated 'stopping' sign at the front of the bus. Except it didn't. By the time I had struggled to the front, it had carried me about a mile. (I explained to my sister, when I got back, that, in London, old fogies like me can stay seated till the bus stops. She said there were notices on Glasgow buses telling her to do the same: but it doesn't work. This may be connected to the fact that all bus stops in Glasgow are request stops.) So I had a nice long walk up the hill I'd been hoping to avoid.
At the top of Glasgow, by the new Concert Hall, I had a rather unnerving experience: I saw a statue of a man I used to know, and, albeit briefly, in our youth, knew me. There, considerably larger than life, was Donald Dewar, Scotland's first First Minister. My sister tells me they call it 'the green man'.
Then to Queen's Street Station, for the Edinburgh train; there is one every fifteen minutes, which is as good as South-East London. But the ticket queue was more than fifteen minutes long, so I went in search of a machine. As I negotiated the menus, I puzzled over the difference between a 'std' day return and a 'cheap' day return. 'Cheap' was, as you would expect, much cheaper, so I got that, reasoning that it was probably not available in the morning rush, just like London. As we shall discover later, this was a bad decision.
The train was quite full. Since local councils, by-and-large, no longer provide free public loos, I struggled to the on-board loo 10 minutes from Edinburgh. Except, I couldn't operate it. A nice clergyman sitting right beside it had to point out the buttons to me, as I tried to open the door. He even shouted out how to close the door and lock it (another set of buttons). I guessed, from his tone, he had just seen a few sights he would rather have been spared. But why would a train loo need quite such high technology: just more things to put it out-of-action more often?
The Fringe E-Ticket Centre is just at the top of Waverley Steps, which lead out of the station. There are about 30 computers available to browse for shows and buy tickets. They give you a code and you go off to the man who keeps the printers working and he prints your ticket.
The choice of 'Beowolf' was a bit complicated. I had, in fact, chosen it the night before while thumbing idly through the main Fringe listings catalogue. I probably spotted it because the listing is alphabetical. I don't think I could have kept going all the way through. But there it was. And it rang a bell. Last Christmas, my son asked me if there was anything special I might like as a present. I said, very grandly, that I was at the throwing-away stage of life, and needed for nothing. "I'm into reading a lot now", I said, "Buy me a book: preferably one of the classics". And the swine bought me 'Beowulf', the new Seamus Heaney translation. Served me right, really, didn't it? Anyway, it caught my eye, and stirred a bit of guilt. "A faithful and dramatic rendition" promised the listings. So I rather fancied that.
The E-Ticket Centre's computer got me to the Fringe web site easily enough, but a search produced nothing. Putting the exact title (which is only one word) of a fringe show into the fringe web site search and it comes up with nothing! Fortunately, I had had the foresight to write down the venue address in my notebook. The fringe guide didn't seem to have a map (Turns out it's folded inside the back cover, hidden by an advert) so I wander out looking for a street guide. I find one down the side of the station, but it seems a bit forlorn searching for one street name in a whole map. My eyes sort of glaze over, then I realise I'm actually looking at, not the street name, but the venue name. The venue appears to be a park, but there, alongside the park, is the street I'm looking for. I memorise the map (ha! ha!) and head off to the venue. And I find it. It's a church, with the same name as the park it's in. And I get a ticket. "This had better be good, after all this trouble", I think, rather unfairly.
Time for lunch. I'm at the top of Leith Walk, and I remember, from times long past, a pub at the top of Leith Walk, selling 'Broughton Street Domestic Ale'. It occurs to me that such a pub might be more likely to be in Broughton Street than Leith Walk, so I enquire, and find Broughton Street is just round the corner. At the top of Broughton Street, I find 'Mathers', and dive in. Of course, there is no 'Domestic Ale' anymore, but there are several acceptable substitutes; and a reasonable and substantial lunch.
So, suitably provisioned and fortified, I find myself in a rather sparse audience, ready for 'Beowulf'.
This was a solo performance by Philip Wharton. He started in candle-darkness declaiming in the original Old English, which is not intelligible, at least, not to me. I have already noted that the performance lasts for two hours; you have already noted that I had a good lunch. "This is going to be very testing", I think. In so sparse an audience, it would be unforgivable to nod off.
But only the first stanza comes out in Old English, by way of scene-setting (in fact, he used Old English to start each segment of his performance). From then on, it was a captivating performance, on an operatic scale, declaiming as though to it's original audience (apart from the modern English, of course). It was a superb theatrical experience. I hung on every syllable. Mr Wharton got a spontaneous "bravo" from me at the end, a rare occurrence indeed.
Then another bedraggled trudge across Edinburgh, this time back to Waverley Station: where I slide my ticket into the automatic gate, passing through without pausing, as I always do: only to be brought to an abrupt halt. I try again: no luck. A railway attendant takes my ticket: "look!" he says, "it says 'restrictions apply'. You can't travel till 1820." "But", I think to myself, flippantly, "it's 2008". Then I get my glasses on and look, and it does indeed say, in tiny letters, 'restrictions apply'. Of course it doesn't say what restrictions. There is a notice at the barrier declaring the restrictions in quite large letters, but that's really a bit late, isn't it.
So it's a pint in the station bar. Station bars are full of people, like me, who don't want to be there. There is a strong atmosphere of grumpiness about the place. And the sort of loud music designed to keep the staff happy. So I get to stand outside and watch a bit of the world go by.
It occurs to me that the first train after 1820 will be quite busy. I make my way to the barriers, and there indeed is a scene reminiscent of the start of a marathon. In the interests of passenger exercise, the railway company has thoughtfully placed the train at the furthest end of the furthest platform. All those years of morning exercise finally pay off: I get a seat.
Glasgow buses are liveried in fetching shades of white and purple. I would be afraid to go out in Glasgow dressed like that. The driver of this one is a cartoon elderly Indian: sparse white hair, and even sparser teeth. I check with him that the bus goes along Paisley Road West as far as Hillington: "Aye", he cackles, in the broadest of Glasgow accents, "every day!"
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