My cousin Paul had invited me, last night, to go to his place to watch the Euro 2000 cup final between Italy and France. Their house in North Shields was apparently hard to find, so we'd agreed to meet during the late afternoon in nearby Tynemouth, a little town I wanted to reacquaint myself with in any case.

I have very fond memories of Tynemouth, since it was the destination of one of the favorite walks I'd go on with my Dad and our dog, Sheba, when I was in my very early teens. We'd take the pedestrian ferry "ower the watter" (Geordie, for "across the river") and walk along the quayside to Tynemouth. Since I was last here, as a kid, it's changed, but not unrecognizably: there are new "luxury condos", but the fish quay is still there - still a place of great character, though with far fewer fishing boats than when I was a kid. (I'm beginning to sound more and more like my Dad - "eeeeh, it's not like it was when I was a lad").

Right at the mouth of the Tyne, lies the Tynemouth Priory and Castle, the former is so old that it's been a ruin for 1200 years, since it was sacked by the Danes. Three Kings are buried in its grounds, including King Oswin of Deria (651). I have no idea where Deria is or was!.

Tynemouth Castle and Priory

A short walk back up the river brings you to the monument to Admiral Lord Collingwood, the other hero of the Battle of Trafalgar, and one of Newcastle's most famous sons (along with Sting - betcha didn't know that!).

The fishquay in Tynemouth (top), and Collingwood's Monument (bottom)

I got to meet Paul's son, who's also called Paul, the kid who'd sounded less than a bright spark over the phone. I think he's just shy - he's fourteen, and he's tall, blond and will be a great-looking man very soon. But he's not a kid with many words. I tried to get him to call me Uncle Keith (yes, I know we're really just 2nd cousins, but by my age, with two sisters and a brother, I should be an uncle by now!) to no avail.

It was nice low-key fun to spend the evening with Paul and Diane - it was as if I'd never been out of touch with Paul. They seem to have a great relationship, although I can see some grounds for tension: Paul has a way of saying the same thing several times during an evening. For example, he'll say "Eeeh, that Zidane's a great player!". Then he'll say it again to you, about half an hour later. It could get really old, and would certainly try my patience, yet Diane doesn't seem to mind at all. She's a tough, wise, flirtatious, engaging "character", and you'd expect someone like her to be a little bored with Paul, who's not too bright. Yet I think Paul's kindness and consideration, and his natural humor must make up for his being a little dull.

The soccer game was a great one, with France equalizing in the last minute of injury time, and then scoring a fabulous, winning sudden-death goal in extra time. The guy who scored the goal, Trezeguet, ripped off his shirt before he was embraced by all his colleagues. I've noticed this seems to be happening increasingly in major soccer, and it makes you wonder even more about the misty pool of sexuality.

Looking back on my trip so far, I think the most surprising part of it has been that perhaps the happiest times have been had with my family. Putting down a description of those times doesn't make it obvious why that should be so: after all, for most people, I think, family is such an ever-present part of their life, that it's taken for granted. But I moved away from my family completely thirteen years ago, and started that process even earlier than that when I moved to London at the age of eighteen. Over the last few years, I've struggled on and off with a sort of ... well, a sort of ... angst, for want of a better word. Recently, I've come to recognize this angst as being the realization that I haven't discovered a way of life that can give me long-term contentment. And I've often thought that the almost complete lack of family-feeling in my life is a large part of it. This trip has seemed to confirm that thought, to some extent: the big question, of course, is what do I do about it? I'm not foolish enough to think that family is all about comfort and warmth - but it provides for bonds and a security that you're assured of, and a depth of shared history across the family, the lack of which is particularly noticeable in America, where there is little shared cultural history.

Anyway ....

I woke up in the darkness this morning, and, looking round the room, I completely failed to recognize where I was. Worse than that, I couldn't even figure out which continent I was in - it was one of those very rare moments of ... travel panic, I guess you'd call it. For a few seconds, I couldn't even recall what stage of life I was in - was I still in grad school? Where the hell was I. Then I noticed my red suitcase on top of the wardrobe, and everything fell into place, and my heart returned to its regular pace.

Today, I had a mid-afternoon reservation on the train to Edinburgh (special note to Americans: this is pronounced "Edinburoh", not "Edinberg" :), which gave me plenty of time to work-out, pack, and have breakfast. The breakfasts at the Sea Hotel, where I was staying, are a particular high-point, since it's a full, custom-cooked english breakfast, included in the price. It really has the potential to be a wonderful hotel: great service, very nice large rooms (okay, a little ... "overstuffed" perhaps); the newspaper of your choice brought to your room in the morning, even modem ports (rare here) - and all for the reasonable price of fifty-five pounds per night (around $80). But, as it is, I'm not sure I'd come back: two big black marks are the awful noise from the fun-fair across the street, and the strangely hot bedrooms. Not to mention the horrible muzak in the public rooms. Eating breakfast to Lionel Richie is bad enough, but a muzak version of him is enough to put you off your kippers.

While I was working out, I watched Sky News, as usual. I'm amazed at certain things about England that have either changed since I lived here, or that I'd completely forgotten about. It certainly seems more liberated than I remembered: there was a news segment about young British vacationers going crazy with sex and drugs in Ibiza, and there were a couple of shots of topless sunbathers. Another thing is that the younger generation seems like even more of a generation of alcholics than it was when I was a teenager here. Saturday nights are complete mayhem in most British cities, when the pubs let out at 11.00, and the clubs at 2.00 in the morning. There's a growing realization of the seriousness of this problem, particularly with respect to drunken violence.

And the television, despite all my memories, is just as bad here as in the States. There are some very good individual programs, just as in the States. Actually, the quality of these good programs in this country is much superior than in the States, I think, with a much more gritty, realistic, "ballsy" feel to it than the saccharine, cutesy, over-produced feel to almost all American dramas. But there are vast oceans of awful, crappy programs in between the bright spots. And for some reason, not content with our own crap, we import American crap too: talk-shows, and even "Days of our Lives".

After checking out, I had a couple of hours to kill, so I stopped off in Old Washington Village, a small town on the way to Newcastle. Here's a very interesting story, if you're interested in American history. The landmarked building that is now known as "Washington Old Hall" was the property of a family descended from William de Wessyngton. In the twelfth century, William changed his name from William de Hertburn, to William de Wessyngton: if he hadn't done that, the capital of the U.S. would have been Hertburn D.C.! Wessyngton has gradually become modernized over the centuries to Washington (although some of the oldest residents still use the Wessyngton pronunciation), and, also centuries later, President George Washington's great, great, grandfather (or something like that), who were descendants of William de Wessyngton, emigrated to Virginia. So imagine that - America could have had a capital named after a form of indigestion :)

Outside Washington Old Hall in a light rain

I got to Newcastle with plenty of time to spare, so I checked my luggage in a locker, and went into town for a you know what.

The weather improved steadily as the train progressed northwards, through pretty countryside and coastal towns. By the time we pulled into Edinburgh's Waverly Station, the sun was shining, and I got out of the train to find it quite hot. I haven't been to Edinburgh since I was a kid, and when we used to come, we always went to the same few places - the zoo, and the castle mainly - so I can't claim to know the city well. But it's a beautiful city, and even more immediately striking than Rome or Florence, for the drama of its high hills, green spaces, blackened spires and columns, and the mighty castle set on a huge rock right in the center of it all, its walls merging with the bare rock at the edge of a sheer cliff.

The castle, up on top of a rock, and other striking buildings up high on the same hill.

I didn't stay long in the hotel, for the day was so nice. I set off walking round the city; the center is compact enough that you can really explore it easily by foot, despite the steep hills. I hadn't been walking long before I'd encountered two kilted men playing bagpipes, and enough interesting looking streets and buildings to wish I was staying here longer. I walked all afternoon, and it was only when I got back to the hotel that I realized I'd been walking almost non-stop for practically four hours.