Day One - Cambridgeshire - Cologne

Edinburgh to Stockholm - a Journey

The dawn chorus is LOUD.

Way before my alarm went off, the blackbird outside my window was celebrating the rising light. Midsummer is here! Hey! It’s the longest day! Woo hoo!!!

I look at my watch and groan. It’s a little before 4am.

Of course I’m not going to sleep again. I have an hour before I need to be moving…too little time to fully relax…but I have a long day ahead, so I lie still, willing my body to at least settle. It sort-of obliges and I lull into a slightly catatonic state for a while, hanging softly between consciousness and rest.

By the time my alarm does go off, an hour later, I am (inevitably) already up and checking the rucksack. From bed to front door, via a face wash and teeth cleaning takes less than 10 minutes. Annie has left me a packed breakfast at the door. Chopped apple, a flapjack, some cheese and biscuits… it’s a little parcel of love.

The walk to the station gives me a 15-minute chance to practice with the full pack. I haven’t backpacked for 25 years. My last pack was massive, a 1980’s turquoise polyester monstrosity, bought for a Venture Scout expedition - also to Sweden - when I was 17. This bag is compact, designed for women and packed as lightly as I know how (so…not that lightly). It sits, hoisted up, high on my hips, with the shoulder straps hopefully taking equal tension - like a triangle, with a solid base. So far, it feels pretty good. Later, I will continually forget to loosen the arm straps and the rough nylon will scrape my skin - for days, I will have little purple marks on my arms, that look vaguely bubonic. It will be day 3 before it becomes habitual to loosen everything before removal.

From Cambridgeshire to Kings Cross and over to St Pancras Station. Check in, Passport control and then into a holding pen which could well be a version of the 7th circle of hell - no windows, stuffy air, confused tourists mixed with obviously experienced travellers and a coffee queue that loops on forever. Sensory overload for me – lights, smells, movement, noise, all on top of a burgeoning hunger. I pop on my headphones, find a quiet corner and tuck into some apple from Annie’s parcel. When the first Paris train is called, the masses rise, shuffle, sort and decant themselves upward to the platform via escalators and lifts. Every shape size, age and representation seem to be heading to Paris on this warm summer morning. I take advantage and get coffee in a short queue. My first stop will be Brussels.

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Oh shit, no.

I’m already settled on the train, headphones on, audiobook lined up, coffee on the go, when four lads come into the carriage. I say lads. They are in their late 30’s. Maybe 40’s. Moving as one, giving a collective impression of meerkats, taking everything in, checking everyone out. Box-fresh trainers, variations on a uniform of shorts, polo shirts, tats and hats. The colours vary, the cuts are identical. I inwardly groan. The energy rolling from them is already attention-seeking and edged. The chances of them reading a book or quietly watching something on their phones is maddeningly miniscule.

I chastise myself for being so judgemental. They are allowed to be here. They might be perfectly fine.

The first IPA is cracked before we leave London, with a Waaayhaaay!

I’m conscious of the family to my left and the older couple behind me…my sense of responsibility kicks in, but this isn’t my circus. I put on my headphones, turn the Audiobook up loud and concentrate on looking out of the window.

They are, in their own way, harmless enough… but the beers flow and the cards come out and the swearing rises and escalates from bastard to fuck to c+nt. The blonde one diagonally opposite me laughs loudly with the others, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes and he flicks glances around, seemingly aware that people in the carriage are bristling, wishing them elsewhere. If he is aware that they are noisy and their gathering rowdiness feels slightly threatening, he doesn’t do anything about it. He sits and laughs uncomfortably as they insult each other. Part of me wants to reach over to him and say: just get up and go find somewhere to chill. Part of me wishes I didn’t care.

There is context, of course, to my hyperawareness. My body can’t quite relax in these situations. Muscle memory and emotional baggage from stuff long since passed means I have a high antenna for threat. The body keeps score. It’s a pain in the ass, quite frankly, but a reaction I’ve learned to live with. I know I’m not alone. Faced with unpredictability, rising verbal violence, even in the alleged good fun of it all, my calm self struggles to hang about. My attention is drawn to whatever chaos is running, anticipating how to remove myself, I can’t look or move away easily.

I wish it were different.

It never is.

Sometimes I get fighty. As I’ve aged, I am particularly more likely to call out a situation when I feel uncomfortable. As yet, sadly, I have not achieved the fight-level of asking four semi-pissed marauders to “settle it down a bit” before 10 in the morning. Maybe one day…

Time to refocus.

Calais, Lille, Brussels. The flat northlands of Europe spill out, industrial infrastructure mixed with agriculture and we move through it all with ease. I drink more coffee and message loved ones. I’m on the train! There is a group of dickheads! I resolutely do not start writing or reflecting - choosing instead to stay in the moment, semi transitory, ready for what comes.

I open ChatGPT and direct it to be a world- class tour guide, knowledgeable about Brussels. Design me an itinerary for around 4 -5 hours. Something arty, something fun, good food and somewhere “must see”. It suggests I visit the Magritte Museum, Sablon for the church and lunch and walk to Grand Place for the spectacle. It suggests I could have fun eating waffles. I feel we need to teach Ai something about fun.

The suggestions are useful enough as a basis for something. It’s fun to build an idea of the next few hours like puzzle pieces. The first thing I do is test the Ai assertion that the time from Midi train station to the art museum is a "leisurely 10-minute walk” - it’s 28 degrees out there. Ai has never walked a step in its life. I’m not messing about with theory. Google maps tell me it’s going to be a 22-minute walk.

I know which I believe.

The weather becomes a third entity when you travel. You have your plan, your stuff packed and then there is weather. Today, my companion is blazing heat. Adjustments will be needed. At Midi Station, I change into a soft, long maxi dress - perfect for keeping cool and moving freely. I take a scarf for exposed shoulders, factor 50 and a light hat. I am Scottish skinned. Sunshine and I have a very mixed relationship. I stash the big rucksack in a locker, take my small day pack and head out. I make the schoolgirl error of leaving on my trainers. By the end of the day, my feet will feel slow-boiled.

All stations are places of transit. People wandering and rushing, checking times and platforms, messing with luggage, staring at phones. Slow and fast paces co-exist. Brussels Midi station is all of this, with multiple languages on the go. Add in the rising temperature and the smell of waffles and my need to escape kicks in hard. I point Google Maps in the direction of the museum and ask it to do its thing… it calculates 27-minutes walking.

Outside, the heat is relentless – and it’s just after 11am local time, so it’s not going to cool off any time soon. I figure I’ll end up walking slowly in these conditions and the destination will take closer to 40 minutes, with stops and shade seeking. The concrete everythings around the station absorb and amplify each degree. Oh boy. This will be interesting. Stepping out into the heavy air, the fag smokers, the tourists negotiating decisions, the guys begging and the expensive looking taxi rank, my eye catches the bike parking and the plan shifts.

I interrailed in my 20’s. Back then, there were no mobile phones – just a lot of maps and hope. Now I can open an app, find a bike and point myself vaguely northwest within minutes. I appreciate this. I have too many forgotten moments of sweaty, frustrated, long backtracking walks in unfamiliar cities in my life – at least four or five of which led to arguments with whichever travelling buddy I was with.

Cycling in European cities isn’t for everyone, however, especially when you have been raised on the wrong side of the road. The good news is the cycle lanes are wide, clearly marked and have a lot of other users in them to mimic. The bad news is I’m hot, bothered, have no real sense of what the road rules are and have no helmet… oh and fast e-scooters and creepily quiet Teslas are a reality. I might be making bad choices. This will require a little care. I already know it will be fun though.

The bike is an e-bike. It loves to lurch forward and GO FAST! This is not helpful for me. The first few minutes, navigating the busy intersections around the station, on an overly-keen e-bike, means my nerves are shredded. I’m muttering to myself to breathe, with an added manta of “you can do this, you can do this.” I quickly get bored of the fear and I head into quieter streets, where I can pootle about and relax. I can’t have my phone out in the bike basket, it bounces around and I need to concentrate in any case. My solution is regular stops and patience with myself as I adjust my route.

The bike ride means I see things in snapshot, people and places and little vignettes of life. I have zigged and zagged hilariously, through neighbourhoods, past old ladies hanging up washing and kids playing football on a flattened building site. There are old men drinking mid-morning beers, smoking cigarillos and studiously playing cards – a very different vibe from the lads on the train… maybe they will get to here when they are 80?

Being on the bike also means there is cooling, moving air. If I felt I was cheating with an e-bike, this sense dissipates when I’m faced with the rising hill to the Art Museum. I arrive, barely breaking a sweat and feeling quite smug.

Brussels is, as you would expect, full of big beautiful, impressive old buildings. The Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique (AKA Fine Art Gallery) is no exception. It is blessedly cool, light and tranquil inside. I try to appreciate the Old Masters. I really do… but I like my art more modern. I have no understanding or context for the endless tortured or raptured expressions of women whose dress choices seem to be bare-breasted and ruby-nippled (Where are your clothes, Mary?) or buttoned up to the chin. Painting after painting depicting fat cherubs, serious men, demons, angels, souls ascending, others condemned… not for the first time, I recognise my educational limitations. Every now and again, something catches me – the landscapes that are also faces, the dark serious eyes of a young merchant that follow me, the huge impressive canvasses, curated against warm red walls… but it is Saul Steinberg’s 1950’s collage of a cocktail party, and the brooding massive blue-eyes projected over the stairwell that I really connect to and want to hang out with.

Not surprisingly, then, the Magritte Museum offers me something I can connect to. A glimpse into DaDaism, surrealism and the curated works of an artist trying to create in the thick of two world wars. Watching his art develop, his circle of friends and influences, his growing reputation in America, understanding more about his artistry, beyond a bowler hat and an apple, is…rewarding somehow.

But I’m art-ed out. I need sustenance and I have spent longer here than I anticipated – time to go back out into the heat and the city and explore.

The glorious Church at Sablon is a few moments walk away. There is a grand gathering outside – people dressed to the nines in bright dresses and sharp suits. It might be a wedding or a celebration of some sort. It’s enough of a crowd to steer me onward. I’m hungry and getting warmer. I don’t need to go to church right now.

The walk from Sablon to Grand Place takes maybe 20 minutes. I pause at an antiques fair and move between shaded parts of streets. I figure I’ll get a plat du jour and a glass of wine somewhere suitably touristy, but when it comes down to it, I feel uncertain and suddenly self-conscious about choosing a resturant. My indecision leads me to circle the square – if such a thing is possible – looking from menu to menu without real purpose.

In one corner of the square, a large car pulls up and decants a fretful looking bride, her three bridesmaids and a rapidly-speaking middle aged woman, who I assume is Mother-of-the Bride. The girl in white is young, dark haired and her dress skims her small figure perfectly. One bridesmaid, wrapped in chocolate satin, with lashes long enough to cast shadows on her face, is fidgeting with her bag, pulling out a phone, trying to get the attention of the others for a selfie. Without thinking, I step forward and ask: can I take a photo of you all. The mother regards me with a terrifying glare, assessing the likelihood of me running off with the phone. I assume she sees and overly-heated middle aged traveller with good intentions and she agrees. I spend a couple of minutes with the group. Once I have been established as an OK sort, I am asked to take photos from all phones and somehow the group seems less agitated after the exchange. They wobble off across cobbles, all in impossibly high heels and I silently wish them well.

Now. Food.

I choose badly. I haven’t researched and I’m now so hungry, I agree to somewhere that has Tourist Trap written all over it. I’m a girl fae Edinburgh. I know the difference between the quality of food on the Royal Mile and the lunch I’d choose, a few streets on. Never mind. Moules. Dry frites, a very acceptable glass of house rosé and a long glass of very cold water, all of which I could probably have got for a fraction of the price and double the standard if I’d gone a little further off the beaten track. It’s day one. I forgive myself. I keep my phone down, paying attention to the world around me…as I sit in this spectacular place, less than nine hours into my journey, I slowly decide I’m done for now and give myself permission to cycle back to the station, catch an earlier train to Cologne and offer myself an early night.

I wobble my way back to the station, more assured on the bike – or maybe wine-buzzed - choosing back streets over than busy main drags and within an hour I’m on the train, heading to Cologne. I marvel at German trains – So clean! So efficient! Such good wifi! The journey from Brussels is a little under 2 hours, uneventful and I settle in, listening to a book, writing and zoning out.

I’ve been to Cologne before, when I worked with Mazda Europe and I speak enough German that I can at least say: Ich Spreche nur einbissen Deutsch. Ich komme aus Schottland. Kannst du langsam sprechen? (I only speak a little German, can you speak slowly?) It makes me feel that I’m at least trying. Of course everyone has good English – doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.

When you step out of Köln Hauptbahnhof, you come face to face with the massive Cathedral. No warning, no gentle introduction – just one whacking great black gothic monument right in front of you. It’s breathtaking. Of course, every tourist in the known universe stops and takes photos. Sometimes very suddenly. It makes navigating the square…interesting.

The heat is even more intense here than it was in Brussels – perhaps the airconned train has dulled my acclimatisation. I huff the backpack and my body – they are not one – along hot streets to the hotel – a 15 minute walk, very different from the one at 5:30am this morning through the gentle Cambridgeshire village.

I dump everything in the room with relief. Cold shower. Long stretch to ease those back-pack holding muscles and I head out to find a beer and snacks. It’s nearly 9 in the evening and I manage a short walk and a local bar. There are still families around and everything feels friendly enough… Midsummer, light evening, warm and all good. But within an hour you can feel the turn. It gets darker, the families are less obvious. Time for me to head back.

Day one done.

Read Day Zero Here - Edinburgh to Cambridgeshire

Read Day Two Here - Cologne to Copenhagen

Read Day Three Here - Copenhagen to Stockholm (Almost!)

Read Day Four Here – Hasselholm to Stockholm