So it was a fine Easter. My friend Carl, whom I used to go cycling with, now works weekends. I had Easter Monday off and we could have our first cycle together since September last year. That day we had gone to Aberdour, and standing on the lovely Silver Sands beach he had looked at the cycle path as it continued along the coast and said how he wanted to go on, but we hadn’t time. So we arranged to meet in Dalmeny, just north of Edinburgh, both of us catching trains.
I got on at the Haymarket, to the west of the city. As we headed out, the light display pixeled out “Haymarket” and a voice said, “Next stop, Haymarket, South Gyle.” Is there a Haymarket in the South Gyle? “But isn’t that confusing?” I asked the conductor when he came around to collect the tickets. “It’s in a parallel universe,” he explained, deadpan, and went on about how we would come through a tear in the space-time continuum and be back in a place where there were not two Haymarkets.
At Dalmeny Station I waited on the platform for Carl. It was a beautiful spring day, but with the threat that the haar, the chilly sea fog that engulfs Edinburgh on such days, might come over us. Ahead I could see the Forth Bridge, with a slight mist just touching it.
Carl turned up, we left the station and found a cycle path new to both of us. “They’re always saying the world is going to the dogs, but it’s getting better for us cyclists,” I said. “Car factories closing all over the place. It’s lousy for the workers and I hope that they can make bicycles but it’s great to hear that the internal combusters are getting it in the neck.” This path was short but ran beautifully through the woods above the Forth until it emerged at South Queensferry. The signposting ceased at this point – it does this on the national cycle network, which is infuriating – and we faffed about a bit trying to find the way. I got to the top of a hill and waited for Carl. There was a long pause, then a van stopped, and someone leaned out and told me if that was my friend behind he had a puncture. I thanked them for being so nice and cycled back. Carl’s derailleur had slipped and had almost got between the spokes of his cycle, which could have caused an accident. He fixed it as best he could, said that he would have to be careful changing gear and we went on our way, over the Forth Road Bridge, through Inverkeithing, onto the Fife Coastal Route, thoroughly enjoying the smell of the sea and feel of the sunlight, retracing our steps that we had last taken on our trip to Aberdour and all the while exclaiming what a perfect day for cycling. I had hoped for daffodils and the black cherry in blossom. The daffodils were past their best now and had lost their freshness, but the cherry trees were in full bloom, as was the blackthorn, and were very lovely. As we climbed it grew cooller, and we had on one side splendid views of the Forth, and on the other younger daffodils and a glade of budding trees and spring sunshine – a materialisation of what I had fantasised this particular cycle trip would bring us. The paths were crowded with families cycling or walking dogs, and we said, “Lovely day,” to each other as we passed.
We got to Aberdour, where we had lunch in the Aberdour Hotel. The dining room had a stained glass ceiling and Art Nouveau looking carving round the fireplace. Seems it had been taken from the stateroom of a ship when it was broken up. We were sirred and madamed a lot by the waiters in suits. I stuffed myself with roast lamb and gravy.
Then we continued along the coast, up and down on a switchback path above the Forth. When you travel along the Fife coast you never lose sight of Edinburgh – it is straight opposite you, it drops behind you, but there it is, Arthur’s Seat in the mist, and the Pentland Hills trailing behind. In the Forth you see container ships, and islands which were monasteries or fortresses and were defended in World War II with pill boxes.
We cycled through Burntisland and then the path took us onto a very steep little road which we both had to walk up. Carl dropped behind to look through his binoculars at Bass Rock and Trapain Law, I stood on the hill, listened to the many larks and enjoyed the sensation of spring sunshine through a slightly chilly breeze.
We descended to Kirkcaldy, on to the promenade, and here the chilly breeze had turned into a wind, the sea was rough and waves were beginning to crash. It was a north east wind, and we were travelling north east. There were two choices of route, one by the coast and one inland, so we turned inland, which would be more sheltered, and after the usual disagreement about the route through the town, we began to head towards Glenrothes. No-one in the world would head to Glenrothes for its beauty, and we were soon going over roundabout after roundabout, always frightening for a cyclist, since you fear being cut off at an exit. It was getting colder. I put on the jersey I had brought but I was wearing thin trousers and the wind was getting through.
The signs pointed to Glenrothes centre, which is a misnomer, as Glenrothes has no real centre except for a covered shopping centre. It has no train station either, since it was a new town built in the great days of internal combustion imperialism (now crumbling – look upon its ugly monuments and despair!) We finally got through its housing estates and found our way to neighbouring Markinch, which does have a station. At this point we stopped and had one of those, Do we go on? I’ll go on if you want to go on conversations. We had had to drop the idea of getting to St Andrews – the wind was against us and it was too late – so we had settled on going to Falkland, where Carl said there is a good pub and we could then go to Ladybank and catch the train back from there. So we pressed on for a couple of miles, pushing hard through the freezing wind, until at a village called Star of Markinch Carl stopped outside the Plough Inn and said he had had enough. All right, I said thankfully, we can catch a train back at Markinch.
We entered the Plough Inn, ordered tea and coffee, then finding sofas and a wood fire to sit in front of, ordered whisky as well, and began to warm up and relax. I read the village newsletter, which was urging the villagers to come out from in front of the telly and join in at bingo nights and the like at the Inn, otherwise the village would end up as a place with closed doors. I guessed that this was now a village where the inhabitants commuted to Glenrothes or Kirkcaldy, or to Edinburgh.
(I look it up now and see that the name “Star” was a Norse word for a kind of grass the grew on the boggy land, which also grew flax, which meant linen weavers, who created the village. Now the industrial revolution, commuting and tourism (us) change these places, but who would want to live in a two roomed cottage, with one room for the loom?)
The way back to Markinch, was very pleasant, with the wind, which had dropped considerably as it does in the evening, behind us and with views of Loch Leven, famed for Mary Queen of Scots being kept as prisoner in Lochleven Castle, which stands on an island in the lake. Markinch Station had a ramp for wheeling your cycle to the southbound platform, the train soon arrived and travelled along down the coast, the same route that we had cycled up. We were back in Edinburgh in under an hour.
It wasn’t that long a cycle – about 30 miles or so – but the cold had drained me. I haven’t got a bath, which is wildly desirable after that kind of day, so instead I got into bed and switched the electric blanket on, to thaw out the marrow of my bones.
