Edinburgh Parking Quotes

A park in London. A patio in Prague. A tea room in Edinburgh.

From that day onwards I spent a lot of time on Park Bridge, and soon became aware of other boys with similar interests leaning out over the engines as they slowed down on their way into the goods yard, or cruised at speed further out on their way up the East Coast main line between Edinburgh and London. For Edinburgh was a rail centre, and I lived at the eastern end of a great loop of lines punctuated by stations, depots, tunnels, repair yards and goods terminals. I could watch the flagship engines of the London and North Eastern Railway rush by, a long procession of carriages drawn after them as they headed for Edinburgh Waverley - the company's very own station and a mecca for train lovers - or catch the smaller, older engines at the head of suburban and country trains. They were all trains, and that was enough for now.

Edinburgh is glorious, partly because of its grand buildings and its monuments, its parks and hills, but also – and, for me, more so – because of the brilliantly conceived and faithfully maintained straight and curved terraces of the eighteenth-century New Town that lies to the north of Prince’s Street. On the second evening of my lecturing engagement, full of good red wine from the cellar of the Roxburgh Hotel in Charlotte Square, where I was fortunate enough to be lodged, I treated myself to an after-dinner walk through the New Town’s stately terraces, and at no other time in my life – not even in Oxford or Cambridge – have I been so enthralled by the eloquence of stone.

They called it Petty France, a corruption of Petite France, and then the locals got tired of all the pretentiousness and so Little France it became. Can't see why they didn't go for Wee France instead, but who cares? There's a long history of the French coming over here doing Frenchy things too; there was that whole Catholic-Protestant malarkey where the Royal Infirmary is, and I park up in an empty bay But anyway, that's near A&E.