Day one: Glasgow
On and off, I lived in the Glasgow area for about three-and-a-half years, and in that time didn’t have a single relation come to see me (the time my mother joined me on a car journey from Norfolk hardly counts, for reasons which aren’t really worth going into here), so it only seemed natural that Philippe’s visit should include a trip to the west of Scotland.
The only bit I’d worked out in advance was that we would leave the flat on an empty stomach so as to have a late breakfast (in Philippe’s case, a cooked breakfast, this being something he’d never get in France) at the Thistle Hotel in Glasgow, where I worked as a part-time waiter in early 2000. The train journey from Edinburgh was pretty uneventful - we’d both got something to read from the newsagent’s, which came in useful when conversation flagged - but it gave me time to work out a rough plan.
We managed to go all the way round the Glasgow underground during the course of the day; not much of an achievement, admittedly, as there’s only one line, a circular one at that, the round trip probably taking about 45 minutes. Our first stop was to walk off our substantial breakfast by wandering from one side of Kelvingrove to the other, punctuated by quite a few pauses so Philippe could take photographs.
Then it was back on the underground to Cessnock, from which we walked to the Science Centre, which turned out to be very much child-oriented so we didn’t bother to visit. Thankfully the banks of the Clyde in that area are of architectural interest (the Armadillo in particular providing another photo opportunity), so that little circuit wasn’t entirely wasted.
From there we returned to the city centre for a spot of shopping: Philippe was wanting a copy of The hobbit and got sundry other writings of Tolkein’s (two volumes of “Lost books”, which he tells me is part of a series of twenty!). I found myself a book of Austrian short stories edited and translated by one of my old German tutors, two excellent reasons for getting it, together with a second book you may hear about at some stage. Inevitably, I also got some sheet music - a book of Purcell songs and the vocal score for Haydn’s The seasons - and treated myself to a ticket for the Labèque sisters’ concert on the 17th.
We’d done a fair amount of walking by now so paused for a good hour-and-a-half for a natter over a couple of pints before heading back home, once Philippe had also got in a photo of the equestrian statue outside the gallery of modern art, which I reckon would look quite naked without the traffic cone invariably placed on its rider’s head by drunken students.
Back home, we had pizza in front of the telly: the final part of a series on British animation, followed by the nth showing of A close shave rounded off the day quite nicely.
The best thing, however, is that I’m not quite so disconcerted by how well we are getting on. Whether absence makes the heart grow fonder or not, I hope it’s not a temporary thing ...
The only bit I’d worked out in advance was that we would leave the flat on an empty stomach so as to have a late breakfast (in Philippe’s case, a cooked breakfast, this being something he’d never get in France) at the Thistle Hotel in Glasgow, where I worked as a part-time waiter in early 2000. The train journey from Edinburgh was pretty uneventful - we’d both got something to read from the newsagent’s, which came in useful when conversation flagged - but it gave me time to work out a rough plan.
We managed to go all the way round the Glasgow underground during the course of the day; not much of an achievement, admittedly, as there’s only one line, a circular one at that, the round trip probably taking about 45 minutes. Our first stop was to walk off our substantial breakfast by wandering from one side of Kelvingrove to the other, punctuated by quite a few pauses so Philippe could take photographs.
Then it was back on the underground to Cessnock, from which we walked to the Science Centre, which turned out to be very much child-oriented so we didn’t bother to visit. Thankfully the banks of the Clyde in that area are of architectural interest (the Armadillo in particular providing another photo opportunity), so that little circuit wasn’t entirely wasted.
From there we returned to the city centre for a spot of shopping: Philippe was wanting a copy of The hobbit and got sundry other writings of Tolkein’s (two volumes of “Lost books”, which he tells me is part of a series of twenty!). I found myself a book of Austrian short stories edited and translated by one of my old German tutors, two excellent reasons for getting it, together with a second book you may hear about at some stage. Inevitably, I also got some sheet music - a book of Purcell songs and the vocal score for Haydn’s The seasons - and treated myself to a ticket for the Labèque sisters’ concert on the 17th.
We’d done a fair amount of walking by now so paused for a good hour-and-a-half for a natter over a couple of pints before heading back home, once Philippe had also got in a photo of the equestrian statue outside the gallery of modern art, which I reckon would look quite naked without the traffic cone invariably placed on its rider’s head by drunken students.
Back home, we had pizza in front of the telly: the final part of a series on British animation, followed by the nth showing of A close shave rounded off the day quite nicely.
The best thing, however, is that I’m not quite so disconcerted by how well we are getting on. Whether absence makes the heart grow fonder or not, I hope it’s not a temporary thing ...
posted by Anthony at
09:35
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