Edinburgh and Coming Home

It’s a funny kind of “coming full circle” to find myself back in Edinburgh, the place where I grew up and went to school, just before I leave the country for god knows how long. It feels kind of nice, a neat way to tie things up. It feels like closure.

Because coming to Edinburgh, to me, is like settling down by a warm fire and falling asleep. Safe, familiar and welcoming. The overwhelming feeling I have is nostalgia – that firm but soft grip pulling on your heart, like only your home town can do.

Things I’d briefly forgotten about suddenly surround me - the banal minutiae of a city that seemingly hasn’t changed at all. The way the sun rises over Arthur’s Seat and floods the hills with gold. The lingering, smoky scent of the tannery in the air. The crowded skyline as seen from North Bridge, a thousand windows looking defiantly back. This is a place that is unique, and not just to me.

Because I’m always proud to tell people I’m from Edinburgh. I lived here from the ages of 14-22, arguably my most formative years, so I tend to go with this rather than other but no less important places I’ve lived, like Sheffield or Essex. I’m proud because it’s a magnificent, multi-faceted city that I’ve been lucky enough to see in all seasons and times over the years.

I love Christmas time, when a million tiny festive bulbs are strung from the trees; Prince’s Street Gardens resembling an ocean of stuttering light. Bavarian-esque Christmas markets occupy every public walkable space, selling intricate wooden ornaments, handmade Christmas decorations, chewy coated nuts. Children skid like bambi on the ice rink and parents look on, clutching mulled wine. The castle looks down on it all, grand and unchanging. Hogmanay, when the sky erupts with colour to the sound of a million cheers.

I also love the Fringe, an excuse for three weeks of drunken debauchery disguised as an arts festival (actually, it’s both). The city strains at the seams as the population triples in size, revellers packing themselves into pop-up venues and pubs which are never quite adequately prepared for the mayhem. Clubs are open later, people are happier, everything is funnier, more chaotic.

I’ve seen my city shaken and confused following the 2014 independence referendum, “yes” signs being peeled bitterly from windows, protests and anger filling the streets.

And then there’s now, November, in between seasons. The revelry of the Fringe in August is long forgotten. It’s cold, the streets are quieter than normal – people are thinking about Christmas but aren’t quite ready to commit to it yet. Ice gathers in window corners and barren trees line the symmetrical pathways in the Meadows, where freezing walkers run to catch their dogs. It’s the perfect time for reflection.

Because I’ll miss it here. I’ll miss memories on every corner - knowing everything, being an expert on my city.

I’ll miss the UK in general.

But spending my last three weeks in Edinburgh feels like a pretty good - and fitting - send-off.