The Ned Wood Archive

You walked into my life
out of my dreams

Placed at the very centre of this city, there’s a heart wherein I’ve carved my love for this place.  I love thy hills, the bones that shape thee.  I love thy nobility.  I love thy graceful buildings: the skin that gives thee beauty.  I love thy style.  I love thy culture, the high culture of the Usher Hall and the higher culture of Valentinos: the character that makes thee special. I love thy dark mystery.  I love thy hidden secrets.  I love thy summer sun and thy winter rain.  I love thy mornings and thy nights.  I love thy smile, thy celebrations, thy festivities.  I love thy streets, thy paths, thy wynds, and thy closes.  

I love coming back. I’m on a late train.  Lateish.  Dark already, but then it gets dark at 6 these days.  Late October.  I walk up the ramp out of Waverley and take a left.  The tall buildings framing Cockburn Street look like they are happy to see me again and I’m happy to see them.  I know this route by heart.  This is my home now.  Cut across the road before the tourist office and dive up the News Steps.  That right turn half way up the climb is where I always ask myself why I’ve got so much stuff in my holdall after I’ve swapped it from left hand to right hand then back to left hand again.  Out round the back of the bank, gentle rain falling, not enough to soak through, just enough to wet my hair and drip down my neck.  

The heart is near here – just round the corner. My heart is here too. Across the mile, now, and down George IV Bridge.  I’ve trodden these pavements so often, my shoes know the route automatically.  What they don’t know is where all the puddles are, so we’ve still got to be careful.  Sunday night.  It’s a bit quiet along the road.  Just my footsteps and the rain on my mac. The massive buildings that flank the street watch me as I pass, recognise me, and give me the slightest of acknowledgements – a barely perceptible nod – their way of saying that we disdain excessive signs of emotion, but we’d like to express our welcome on your return.

I’ve been down to London to see Elsa this past weekend.  Something we’d arranged ages ago.  She’s got a job down there.  Couldn’t tell you what, though.  And she’s got this place over by Marble Arch.   Couldn’t tell you exactly where.  Round some back street.  I might be able to find it again with a bit of luck.  Can’t remember what we did.  Don’t think we went to a gig.  Probably went out for an Italian.  Spaghetti House or something like that. Funny how I remember my return much better than my visit.  London’s a great place, though.  So much to see. So much to do.  She’ll really enjoy it down there.  But, you know what.  This place is more comfortable.  This place is more relaxed.  It ain’t so busy.  It ain’t so big.  It’s home.  I enjoy it.  Even when it’s raining.

The old, noble churches on each side of the road watch me pass by.  Like most Edinburgh folk, they don’t say much, but they recognise me and bow their heads very slightly in place of a greeting as I pass.  Like the stiff doorman at a posh hotel.

Nearer the University, the locals are a little more friendly.  The wee dog yaps when I pass and shakes a tail feather. I get a smile from the place that sells Spare Rib on the corner of Forrest Road and a bow from both of the pair of beasts guarding the entrance to Greyfriars Market on the other side of the road.  There are a couple more beasts on columns at the top of the walk down to the Meadows.  They both lift a hoof in recognition as I cross Teviot Place.  Only slightly raise their hooves, mind, so that they don’t look like they’ve been trained to do stupid tricks.

My hair’s dripping a bit from the rain.  My arms are getting bored with the holdall.  I’d taken far too much stuff down for just a couple of nights.  But I’m almost there.  The Meadows are empty, save for the trees and the rain. Yet, I still get a welcome. Ambling down the hill from Teviot Place and diagonally across Jawbone Walk, it seems as if the tres are queing up to wave as I pass. Then, when I get to the bottom of Marchmont Road, I can see that Warrender Castle and the Palace of Marchmont have put out a grand welcome.  On each side of the road is a guard of honour standing to attention all the way from Warrender Park Terrace to Warrender Park Road.  Bless ‘em.  These tall stone sentries have been out in the rain just for me.  They all step back as a salute, one by one, as I pass.

And finally, here we are, back home.  The flat’s been waiting for me.  Through the front door and in out of the rain, I can take off my wet mac and my wet shoes.  I dump them and the holdall on the floor of my room and lie back on the bed.  Take a minute to breathe in the old place and settle.  The familiar desk as messy as I’d left it.  The one chair trying to fill as much space as possible.  The TV at an angle by the window.  The pictures on the wall above my desk.  Everything as it should be.  Everything ready to welcome me back.

It’s almost quiet.  I can hear the occasional snatch of conversation and laughter.  Some folk in the kitchen.  I should go and say hello.  

I walk through the kitchen door and stop dead in my tracks.  Pall is there standing by the stove. I think there are folk at the table, maybe Gav, and possibly someone else.  I couldn’t honestly tell you because I didn’t notice them.  I can just remember some vague shapes here or there.  I wasn’t looking at them, I was looking at the figure in front of me.  I was looking at the long, simple, but elegant black dress she was wearing.  I was looking at her bright angelic face as she turned and took a step towards me.  I was looking at her warm shining Audrey Hepburn eyes as she seemed to recognise me.  I was looking at her wide beaming smile as she held her hand out to me as she’d done so often before.  In the cemetery at Newington.  On the footpath down by St Bernard’s Well.  Up on the crags.  In the closes off the High Street.  Among the greenery at the Botanical Gardens.  And now, here she was.  I was looking at the angel made flesh.

In the background, I heard Pall say, “Hi Ned, this is Susan.”

And that’s how it all started.