A sigh of relief from Edinburgh

We are drawn like insects to the windows. From the moment this cafe opens at nine the window seats are under siege.

I witness countless smug smiles sneaked at the floor when they win the prized seats.

I sit at a round wooden table, the steam escaping the teapot trails upwards in a prayer to the ceiling, towards books on mindfulness and meditation. The table fits in a curve reaching huge old, curved sash windows, closed with a brass clasp on each.

Here on the second floor I sit at the height of naked, winter trees. The cold wind stirs the finest branches, ever moving tree tops cast in its spell are blurred. They move to the pulse of the wind like a sleeping heart beat.

A flag on the castle flies outstretched in perfect patriotic colours without a break in the wind’s strength. Seagulls launch off the rooftops towards the turrets but turn back opting for an easier ride.

There are few tables free. I see one near the windows but by the time I buy the tea it’s taken; beaten by a hundredth of a second. Smiles at the floor. Theirs not mine.

We move like pieces on a chess board jumping from one deserted seat to the next, racing to the side. Drawn to the light for the warmth like a moth? Not at all. It’s colder near this glass edge.

I sit facing a vast, wintry sky, pierced by dark spires and Edinburgh castle on the hill. The buildings are so grand and bleak and tower so high above me that I feel small.

Small is good. Shrinking me, shrinks the dramas of my week. That’s why sitting at this window is addictive, doing its very best to justify overpriced coffee.

I am mesmerised by the skyline rich with faded sea-green, beautifully round, no-expense-spared, old cupolas, near black belfries and steeples and thousands and thousands of terracotta chimney pots; twenty-five a house. The skyline is a Scottish museum piece, loved by the artist in every one of us. It’s a miracle all the detail fits inside the rounded windowpane.

The steep slopes below the castle’s heavily mossed walls stand sheer on rock hugged in steel gauze to stop the murdering of unsuspecting walkers and lovers in the gardens below.

We are not moths attracted to the light. We are drawn to the window for the sigh. It’s meditation though we might not think it. We grasp visual perspective and lose the frown. Those of us who say we don’t meditate are mistaken. These windows are worth a fortune in carrot cake, brownie’s and fresh coffee.

It’s odd to be double the age of every one around me. Twenty-somethings sit quietly tapping a laptop in every direction. Edinburgh is the second favourite university city in the UK with 75000 alumni between six universities. That’s the population of the city of Chester. That’s easily 45million pounds in computers and each one of them on WiFi or hotspots. I imagine this city glows in space and no wonder at the end of term it’s a ghost town.

The stone buildings this window frames, are a stark contrast to the bright detailed children’s books behind me. One of the perks of being born this decade: children’s bookshops are enticing. More colourful maybe than real life? But why not add a splash of colour to the imagination?

I had no idea a week ago that I’d be in this fascinating city today. I had no idea my son would recover so fast from a super nasty bug. I did that worried parent thing, it’s that yes, I know my kids are adults but when the phone goes out of the blue in the early hours, you know something’s not right. You do what you can.

We’re reminded from time to time that we’re parents for life. Looking back I think he’d have done fine without me fussing but I’m equally glad for that.

I sit in the soft arm chair and pour the tea and sigh in relief. I have bought tea and Claire Keegan’s ‘Small things like these’.

An English bookshop with a cafe inside; a double treat. Many years living abroad, a bookshop in my language is an oasis.

So tomorrow I travel south to see mum and celebrate her 80th. That’s a score to be proud of. It’s all very low key. Since her illness and the pandemic she can’t face planning anything at all in advance. She insisted, no party but I think only for the fear it would be cancelled. She won’t believe I’ll be there either until I am.

Organising any family do would have also meant seeing her two brothers under the same roof but they haven’t agreed on anything for three decades, ever since one went missing for weeks. His wife left to care for the baby and work. He voluntarily reappeared but nothing was the same after that. So her 80th is deliberately underplayed.

I begin my journey. Journey two. This week my family is in the driving seat it seems. I thank my stars it isn’t a double earthquake. So much heartache.

The attendant asks for a donation. Three pounds will pay for water sterilisation for a family for a week.

God, if you’re there, help them. Please.