Morning; walking; music

My first feelings outside this morning were of the chilly, refreshing autumn air; one for which I have been yearning for many days. I feel at home in cooler climates. In the grass, a rabbit hops slowly; other rabbits gather, too. A bird flies in front of me as I walk; many kinds of birds sing, heard by each other and the trees and me. In the song, I wonder. Do birds have their own community? Their own rhythm? A robin – or maybe a chaffinch – perches on a low branch at the bottom of the hedge. I stand still to admire its colours for a moment.

As I walk I take in deep breaths to embrace the morning air. In, out. I take in the comfort of the cold after an unseasonably warm summer. The breeze feels like home. I look around and see a faint love heart shape made by the leaves on a tree nearby; another tree is starting to turn auburn; a mint green tree catches my eye. The sun peeks through the grey clouds and starts to shine through the fields; the light is welcoming. The day is beginning.

Later, I arrive at a coffee shop, taking a seat by the window that lets me watch the world go by // the flow of people and cars and suitcases and stories is fascinating. I lift my coffee cup of the first time today and see the ways of sun shine through the window onto the drink. Sun-kissed coffee. Passing by, people are dressed up for shows and wearing festival t-shirts – the Edinburgh Fringe is in full swing. Some people walk fast, with a spring in their steps, others saunter.

With breakfast and coffee, I was ready to start my day.

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There is a long walk through the city that I have wanted to do for the longest while, up Blackford Hill. I used to walk there every weekend, revelling in the panoramic views of the city – views extending from the countryside to the sea, overlooking houses and church spires and more. It is a far walk – a few miles – and I have always convinced myself to do something else; to go to a bookshop, to go to the art gallery. But this morning, something made me think I should do the walk today.

I did the walk today, trying my best to remember the path I used to take – one that weaved throughout quiet neighbourhoods; one on which there was always a particular album to which I would listen. I wanted to follow the familiar, but also the new: to do a walk I have done, but to walk today; my memories of the walk are at least a year old.

Passing purple flowers and moments of humanity and bakeries and trees, and taking a few wrong turns here and there – there is one part of the walk where, even when I was well practiced, I was occasionally prone to reaching a dead end – I made my way up to the hill, the hill on which the last stretch is all grass, malleable grass, malleable in a way that makes me think how hard stone is; how much more grass there should be. What if our pavements were grass?

I looked up to what was the periphery of the sky when observed from the distance and was now beautiful grass, underfoot. There is one particular part of the walk, however, reaching the top, where there is a dip, and it looks like you might walk into the sky. But when you reach that point, the stone marker of the hill becomes visible. Down a bit, then up a steeper stretch, and you have made it. Reaching the top of the hill, I had to lean forward to stay balanced against the wind; a wind more intense now there was no protection from the buildings that surrounded me for most of my walk.

Atop the hill, a family speaking German take photos of themselves and the city. I think about how quiet it is up here, only the faint hum of cars and construction equipment and the occasional conversation audible. I look around at the landscape that first brought me here and made me want to keep coming back every weekend, and realise that it is just as awe-inspiring as ever: the views of Arthur’s Seat and all the rows of stone houses and the Castle and all the other buildings that make up the place we call Edinburgh are breathtaking.

I sit down on a bench and look out for miles: at the stadium and the sea and the hills and the churches and the castle, and imagine all the hopes and dreams there are around me.

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Walking slowly, except for the steep points where I feel like I need to speed up such was the gradient of the decline, I admired the landscape from many angles before descending the hill, and making my way back into the city. Two miles or so later, I was back on the concrete streets, now filled with music. The Fringe was in full swing.

A pianist played on the Royal Mile, one of the many hearts of the city – cities are too big to have only one heart. His piano did not have a front cover, so we – the large crowd assembled – could see every hammer pressed. I could feel the emotion in every note as the hammers touched the strings. The music the piano made was bright, and beautiful.

“If you enjoyed this music, it’s all my own.”

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Shortly thereafter, in the park, a guitarist plays faintly in the distance. The sound is mostly inaudible, but a few notes carry across the multi-tiered park that is Princes Street Gardens. I had to get closer, to hear what songs were being played – to hear the lyrics and to feel the rhythm of the music. Approaching, I heard the tail end of Year 3000, sung in the artist’s own, melodious voice.

“One outfit, one guitar – that’s all you need, right.” “You can’t [inaudible] your mistakes, you’ve just got to write songs about them.” The artist’s interstitial messages between songs were full of wisdom, whether or not she realised it.

I was entranced, as I was with the pianist earlier, and another guitarist earlier in the week. The transition to the chorus was joyful – at first, a moment of anticipation, then I close my eyes and start trying to identify the strumming pattern, and then, here comes the chorus. I listen and keep listening, tapping along to the rhythm. Here comes the bridge. People around me are smiling. I am too. One person lightly sways to and fro to the music.

Her voice reminds me a little bit of Maisie Peters.

The backdrop of the guitarist was Princes Street Gardens, the National Gallery of Scotland, and Edinburgh Castle and yet, in the moments when I listened to her music, staying for several songs, all the architecture fell into the background as I held on to lyrics, watched how she played, and enjoyed the moment. The music made me lose track of the world, and yet also, as music does, made me feel more connected than ever. We grow with words, with melody.