When I was 18 – like with my 16th birthday – I decided a festival would be fun. How I came to this conclusion after Guilfest, I’m not too sure; perhaps I am secretly a masochist. The festival a couple of friends and I decided to go to was the Edinburgh Fringe. Here seemed a festival that suited us; one that had no sweaty muddy congregation of hideous people with all of their drunkard noise and stink. One where the night life consisted of sitting in theatres or pubs and being lullaby’d with laughter. Yes, the Fringe was a festival that would be more my style.
However, there were a few things that I hadn’t considered, a few things that slightly marred this luxurious idea I had of the few days we would spend. First thing, accommodation would cost close to a trillion pounds for a long weekend in a bed and breakfast. Instead, we opted to camp just outside of the city which cost about £60. Much more reasonable. Secondly, the cheapest way to get to Edinburgh was by coach, since none of us had a car to drive up. The coach was a 12 hour drive from London to Edinburgh costing about £30 return. This, too, seemed reasonable.
We decided that, since we wanted to get the most out of the short time we could afford to be there, that we would take an overnight coach on the way there, so that then we would have a whole day in the city without having to pay for a night of camping. This seemed smart.
We arrived at Victoria Coach station at 11:30pm, geared up with our massive rucksacks and our tickets eagerly in hand to embark on our vessel on which we would slumber to energize for a day of wandering the grand city of Edinburgh. We hadn’t realised that, actually, National Express coaches are not first class airliners, and their seats are not comfortable places to be for any extended period of time, let alone sleep. Not only that but the driver was obliged to stop every three or four hours so to wake himself up. Of course, if you managed to sleep, this also woke the passengers up too. That night, I think I managed to get a collective hour and a half of sleep. When we arrived the next morning at 11:30am, our next mission was to find where we would be staying.
This being my trip, I was sort of in charge of directions and knowing where shit was. If you have ever been somewhere with me, you will know that I regularly get lost, particularly when getting off the plane or ferry and trying to find the hotel. I have gotten myself lost in Islington and Farnham, both on journeys to see universities, and I have gotten myself and my girlfriend lost in Ipswich and Paris, both on the way to a hotel, as well as on countless other little occasions. In July I’m going to Venice with her and currently have a bet going on whether I will lose us again. I think the wage currently stands at my eyeballs, but she is willing to take my life. On the occasion in Edinburgh, my friends and I stepped off the coach and were immediately lost. I knew we had to get the bus to the campsite, and I knew the bus number, but I had no idea where to get the bus from. After walking down Leith walk with our heavy and awkward bags as per one local’s instruction, we realised that the bus stop was actually way back up the top of the hill we just walked down. Cross, sweaty, and desperately tired, we hauled ourselves back up, grunting and sighing like over worked mules, bleeding from inside our shoes, passers by crossing the street as we dolefully lumbered towards them.
Once the bus had taken us to where we thought we needed to be, we were instantly lost once again, not knowing at all where the campsite was. We walked, dragging our blistered feet, for about a mile, when we approached a bus stop and realised that we could have gotten off a stop later. The agony of the futility, the needless venture down and then up Leith Walk and now this painful trek down a meandering path, signpost-less, was about the same as the actual physical pain. Once we had found a signpost directing us to the campsite, we witnessed one of the most disheartening sights I have in my memory; the steepest hill leading to our resting place. It was like dying from having your legs crushed by a bulldozer, only to realise you must drag your bodily form up Everest before being allowed though the Pearly Gates and able to abandon your bones and flesh. It was only about 200 yards, but it took us half an hour, I swear.
The excruciating journey became a defining precursor for the rest of the Fringe. Being behind on sleep by a day and then missing a few hours each night due to relentless rain meant that we were never fresh. It was made worse for my friend who was told, before he came, that he had some sort of stomach problem meaning he had too much acid. This meant he couldn’t smoke, drink, or even have a cup of coffee, else he’d run the risk of being violently ill. My other friend, who is a general optimist, a spark of life and energy, seemed to become more subdued as the days continued and our moaning droned on and on. We never properly ate either, surviving on fast food lunches and cans of stuff that we heated on our portable hob after returning to the campsite from a gig. We became so hungry that, smelling rotten and looking dead, we hobbled into a pizza express and spent a lot of money on a lot of food.
I loved the Edinburgh Fringe. I have some genuinely great memories from that trip and we saw some genuinely great shows in a great city with a great atmosphere. Which, again, makes me wonder; did the good times outweigh the pain, or am I indeed a masochist. Eh.
PnL.x
Post a Comment