I wandered round the National Scottish Portrait Gallery this morning. Astonishing faces stared out from the canvases of the past. Charles and Henry Stuart, Mary of Modena, Walter Scott, William Dugdale, John Knox. There are so many stories I know so little about.
It's always interesting to read history from the other way around too. This is Mary Queen of Scots who sought solace and refuge with her cousin in England, Elizabeth. She didn't expect to be treated as a traitor to the crown and shunted around English castles as a prisoner. In Scotland, Elizabeth I is a side-note to Mary's story, and of course, to the narrative of Scotland. And that seems strangely as it should be.
Then, returning to the present, I checked out, grabbed my rucksack and headed for the tram. The tram took me to the airport, the airport took me to the plane, the plane took me to London and then two more trains carried me home.
I think time away gives you perspective. There's a bigger world out there, stretching far beyond the one you spend all your time locking yourself into. It's worth going to see it some time, to remind you of how little, or perhaps how much, your own bubble really matters.
Next up will probably be Cardiff. Do the Welsh have an equally strong and proud connection with their history? Is their capital the lively hub of arts, entertainment, culture and elegance that Edinburgh is? What will it teach me about Wales's role in the United Kingdom? What will I learn? Will there be high places to scramble up in the early hours of the morning? Will I like it? Will it pull on my ancestral roots and sing to my soul like a male voice choir on the hillside, calling me home? I guess I can only go and find out.
Not for a while though. For now, I have more rebalancing to do back here in England, and a lot of bubble to do it in.
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