September 2024

I am writing this in a coffee shop on my own. This is a very scary thing for me! It’s Sunday, and we had to check out of the flat. Husband has taken most of the luggage home on the train, and I have moved into a Premier Inn until after a seminar on Wednesday. Unfortunately I had to leave the flat very early (so helpful Husband could carry my case down flights of stairs before catching his train) but I cannot check-in to the next room until later. Hence the scary coffee shop.

Now of course, like most of our fears, there is nothing intrinsically scary about being in the city on my own. I am unlikely to have any problems. But fear is rarely rational, and I find it can stop us doing all kinds of things. Sometimes we have to physically force ourselves to go somewhere, or apply for something, or say something. Usually, once we have started, things are not so bad. I find that praying and distracting my brain with something (like writing a blog!) are a huge help.

I have a rough plan for the day. I will sit here, sipping coffee and nibbling a cinnamon bun until it’s time to go to church. To be honest, I am mainly going to church this week because it will be a safe place to wait for an hour—which is entirely the wrong reason. I should be going because I want to be with other Christians (I don’t—I have met enough people this week) or to praise God. And I do want to worship God, because I could never be here without him, but mostly I am going to hide. We all need somewhere we feel comfortable that we can hide and after a lifetime spent going to churches, this is one of my places. (A bit odd perhaps, if you are not a churchy person and feel the exact opposite about being in a church service.)

This afternoon there is a parade along the Royal Mile (the road down from the castle). There always seems to be something happening here. Earlier in the week they blocked the road to film a new Netflix series. It must be set in the past, because they were even replacing the street lamps with more authentic-looking ones for the era. There was also an old market scene, with baskets of bread. But I didn’t see any actors.

I will let you know if I manage to go to the parade. Time to eat the sticky bun, use the washroom and walk to church. 

*****

It’s Monday, though it feels like a month since I wrote the above. Church was fine, though a bit odd for me because it was a very high church, and they whooshed incense around, and marched up and down the aisle at unexpected times. But the choir was amazing, and best of all, I met a couple of other students that I recognised from last week, so it felt a good place to be.

Later I found the parade in the Royal Mile. There was dancing (I watched) and marching bands. Best of all, it seemed as if every horse rider within reach of the city had brought their horse to Edinburgh for the day. So many horses. There were a few soldiers, but most were hunters, a few children riding ponies, farmers on cart horses and posh-looking riding clubs. It was fabulous. As I walked home, I could hear their hooves on the cobblestones echoing round the old city as they were returned to their horse-boxes.

Today I started work. (I am considering the issue of assisted dying through the Hebrew Canon creation texts about people and animals.) I have decided which texts in Genesis and Job I will study, and went to the library to look at a Hebrew version with an apparatus (lots of footnotes) showing all the contested words. I admit that I had another wobble. I sat there, pleased to have found the correct book, but suddenly overwhelmed by the extent of my ignorance. The book was full of symbols and languages that I didn’t understand. I felt as if I was rowing a tiny dinghy on a stormy sea. Took a few deep breaths and reminded myself that nothing is intrinsically difficult. I just had to go very slowly, and try to understand a tiny bit, until inch by inch I made progress. It took ages, but I began to unravel the key, to investigate the notes. I discovered things like that ‘S’ meant a Syrian text (so I could assume the strange squiggles next to it were a Syrian word) and the author thought there was a mistake due to the ignorance of the scribe (so not a typo, but a misunderstanding). And so on.

I also joined another library and have another laminated card with my photo on it. The National Library of Scotland is a deposit library, which means they have copies of every book. I can reserve a book in advance, and they will take it out of deposit (this takes a few hours) and then I can read it in the reading room. There is a list of rules—no pens allowed, no liquids, no coats or bags. I leave all my stuff in a locker, though I am allowed a phone and can take photos if I ask permission first (which I do not entirely understand). I am hoping the National Library in London will be the same, as it was all very easy. (The only hard thing was finding proof of my address, but eventually found an emailed invoice.)

It’s good to be here. I have to remind myself to look at things, to notice the cobbled streets, to hear the bagpipes, to enjoy the history of the place. It has not been an easy few days, but as I gradually learn how to do things, and as places become more familiar, it is beginning to feel less scary and I can begin to enjoy it. Thank you for reading and sharing it with me. I hope your week goes well, and you find the determination to succeed with the things you are struggling with.

Take care.

Love, Anne x

Edinburgh University 2

I am so tired, and today I have a migraine. I have reached saturation point for encountering new people, in unfamiliar settings, and absorbing useful information. Feeling old and tired.

It is Thursday—and it feels like I have lived a whole month in the last few days! On the positive side, I have discovered lots about how to undertake a PhD, and met some friendly people, and I do believe that eventually, all will be well. But at the moment I am longing for familiarity and safety and to stop trying. It has all been an effort.

The week began on Sunday, with collecting my student pass. This had all been uploaded in advance, and we had been told to book an appointment, which was valid for 15 minutes. In practice, when I arrived at the allotted time, there was a long line of students snaking around the library square and out of sight. When I asked people if they had an appointment, they said no, they were just turning up on the off-chance (this seems to be the way new students do things). However, the library staff were seeing people in the order they arrived not the order of appointment—which didn’t seem to exist—so it was a long wait. It passed eventually, I chatted to some Mandarin-speaking students, and I ended up with my student pass. I am rather pleased with my pass, and it allows access to all sorts of exciting university buildings. First mission achieved.

Monday was mainly about learning the building of New College and meeting members of staff and other students. Only the postgraduate students were in the seminars, though we were a mix of Master’s and PhD students. There were some smaller meetings, when I discovered some more PhD students who planned to study remotely, and it was good to chat with them. The day ended with a guided walk, which I’ll describe in another blog. I met Husband and Son for dinner, which made a fun ending to the day. They told me about their day of whiskey tours and sightseeing, and I drank red wine and felt tired.

Tuesday were more welcome meetings. All the meetings were mainly fluff—nothing substantial was said but we learnt about the university and began to recognise each other. The main meeting was in McEwan Hall, in Bristo Square, which is the marvellous hall that we will eventually graduate in. It was very beautiful. Most of the university is very beautiful—I can’t quite believe I am here. Perhaps appreciating beautiful buildings is something that comes with age, as I’m not sure the younger students were necessarily noticing the ancient city. I also met my supervisor and the other PhD students working with her. It seems I am not the only one who feels like an imposter, hoping no one discovers that I’m not really clever enough to be here. Apparently this is a common feeling.

Wednesday was a full day of seminars, learning about things like ethics in research and how to avoid misconduct in academic writing. There was also an inaugural lecture, with members of staff wearing their gowns and processing into yet another marvellous hall, followed by more talking to strangers and trying to remember names and faces and areas of research.
Husband and Son spent the day in St. Andrews, which apparently has the best ice-cream parlour in the UK, and the beach where Chariots of Fire was filmed. They sent me photos of themselves running along the beach like olympic athletes (though to be honest, not so much like olympic athletes…)!

Today was a morning of lectures, learning about the workings of the library and discovering which research seminars were available to assist our research. It was helpful—probably the first day of actually useful material as opposed to fluffy stuff, but I was more tired. I have met SO many people, and have now got to the point when I cannot approach people to ask their names, because I probably already have, but I don’t recognise them. I have started to make a list of the main new friends I have made, because the names are a blur. I checked with one friend, checking that she was called Sarah. She said no, she is called something else, but lots of people have called her Sarah. I admitted that was probably my fault, and wrote down her correct name.

Then, walking back to the flat, I had a migraine aura and cancelled my plans to visit the main library.

Migraines are annoying, but there’s not much I could do to prevent it. I took pills, drank coffee, and waited for the worst of it to pass. If I consider what I have achieved this week, I am pleased. But between you and me, I am ready to go home now. I am sure that when I start, the fog of new things will become clear, and I will get into a routine of studying. In time, it will be fascinating. But the next few days are going to be hard for me. I am looking forward to going home.

Hope your week is not too hard. Take care.

Thanks for reading.

Love, Anne x

Saturday 7th September Arriving in Edinburgh

‘Welcome Week’ at Edinburgh University begins in September. I had my first ‘fresher’s Week’ in 1984–exactly 40 years ago, which is a nice round number. In case you’re interested, I don’t feel so very different, though perhaps I am worried about different things. In 1984, I worried that perhaps no one would like me, and whether I would manage to maintain my relationship with my new boyfriend, what would happen if they realised I wasn’t really clever enough to be there, and what if I was murdered. This time, I am worried less about what people might think about me (I’m old enough to be their mother, so it doesn’t matter if they don’t like me, though I hope that they will) and my ‘new boyfriend’ has now been my husband for many decades and came with me (maybe to check I wasn’t murdered, but mainly just for the fun of it). I am still worried though that someone will realise that I am not really clever enough to be here. Part of me doesn’t care—I am here because I have enjoyed studying theology with a passion and I want to continue—but managing to get a PhD would also be nice.

The train drivers unhelpfully went on strike, so we caught a train from Euston to Glasgow, and then a different train (from a different Glasgow station) to Edinburgh. The walk through Glasgow was quite exciting, with protestors and crowds and lots of police, including some on horses. Perhaps Husband would be needed to stop me getting murdered after all!

We arrived in Edinburgh and walked to ‘Hot Toddy’ for coffee. This is the only place I know, because it’s where my supervisor has suggested we all meet for a social gathering next week. It seemed nice, so we booked a table for dinner before walking to our Airbnb.

We have rented a flat in Grassmarket. It has a red door, and then is on the third storey, up lots of wide winding stairs. There’s no lift, and I have a dodgy back, so I worried Husband might not manage to carry up all the luggage, but he’s fitter than he looks, so we were fine. The flat is old, with sloping floors and peeling paint and wonderful views. It’s not the cleanest flat I have stayed in, but it’s good enough. It will do. The kitchen is well equipped, and it will be somewhere for me to hide when I am not doing scary new-student things and trying to look intelligent. (Actually, I don’t think I can manage to look intelligent, so I will just smile at people, and try not to talk too much, as I have learnt this is a good strategy in life,)

When we first planned to come, we had assumed there would be very little university stuff planned, so it would mainly be a week of tourism. But then my timetable arrived, and I had lots of seminars over 10 days. One difference with being an older student, is that I like to plan. It seems that 18 year-olds don’t think about university until they get here, so the university does not bother to tell you things very far in advance. Now I am older, I have to do things like organise someone to feed the chickens and sort out the goose and dog. Hence we had booked our train and flat as soon as we knew when term started, but before my timetable arrived. As Husband was not invited to the seminars (that would be terrible!) he quickly persuaded a son to also come to Edinburgh, to do tourism while I was busy. (This is an excellent reason for having children, so do try not to despair if your children are 10 years old and annoying. They do get better with age.)

We wandered round the city for a while before dinner. Edinburgh is built on hills. The castle stands on an extinct volcano, with a ‘tail’ formed in the ice age that is now a hill crammed with expensive buildings. The poor people lived in the valleys—the lower you lived, the poorer you were. There are lots of steep narrow staircases joining the two. It’s modern claim to fame is that Harry Potter was written here, and as we wandered along narrow streets, and saw exotic shops next to cobbled roads, it was easy to see how the city had inspired the books. It is very beautiful, but in a well-used historical way. There is still an undercurrent of poor—-though they are no longer confined to the valleys. You cannot avoid seeing the homeless, the addicted, the desperate, which always makes me pause when staying somewhere beautiful. Something is wrong, but I don’t know how to solve it.

We ended the day with dinner back at Hot Toddy. I went to bed exhausted, and nervously excited about the next ten days.

Thanks for reading and sharing the adventure. I’ll tell you more in another post.

Have a good week, and take care.

Love, Anne x

After our lovely afternoon in Anzio, we decided to explore a different town. Son 1 had lots of enthusiasm, but I had less energy, so we compromised on a short trip into the hills to Sermoneta. Husband had found the town in his guide book—a paper book, from many years ago—and Son informed him that no one uses those any more, and the town was probably long gone. But it wasn’t. I doubt it ever will be. This town is older than anyone living in it, and that has a certain permanence.

We saw the town before we reached it, perched high on the peak of a hill. The road was steep, and there were several parking places, and we were keen that Husband should drive to one as near as possible to the town, and he was keen to not end up having to drive through the narrow streets of an ancient town. In the end it was fine, there was a car park very near to the town that did not involve one-way traffic or cobbles.

We climbed the stone steps that led into town, and instantly we were transported into a fairytale of narrow paths winding past ancient stone buildings covered in bougainvillea, arched doorways, cobbled roads, towers draped in ivy. So beautiful.  We forgot about the sun searing down on us, and wandered happily past shops crammed with local honey and wooden puppets and fresh figs—all about to close for the afternoon. We explored the church, and the viewpoint, and watched a band of musicians who were setting up for an evening concert. Then we returned to the main square, and looked for a restaurant.

The main restaurant had a rather predatory man who tried to entice us inside with platters of cheese and meat, all at a bargain price. We have listened to similar patter before in Italy, and rarely does the price remain unchanged once we are actually sitting. We smiled, and continued down the road. Then, just as I was about to wilt and suggest we returned to the pushy man in the square, we saw a small restaurant with tables set alongside the road, and an old Italian man hunched over a glass of red wine and a plate of sausage and bread, and I was hooked. This was Italy. This is where I wanted to eat.

They pushed together the tiny tables so we could sit together, and they allowed me to buy a glass of wine even though the menu only listed it by the bottle. We shared platters of local cheese, which arrived with walnuts and a tiny wooden bowl of honey, and a brown paper bag of bread. Really, this is perfection. We were sitting right on the street, and occasionally a car drove past, and I wondered whether it would bump into the table, but after a large glass of red wine, I didn’t even care if it did. We finished our lunch with small cups of bitter espresso (the less grown up members—which includes Husband—spoiled theirs with milk) and I felt a surge of contentment.

Italy is littered with these walled cities, and they seem timeless. There is something magical about them, something that beckons to you, telling you to leave the real world, and set up home in one of the stone houses with shutters. Maybe, after I have finished my PhD, when I am very old, I will move here. I will serve scones and tea to tourists, and drive a Vespa with my dog in the side car, while the sun turns my skin to leather. I can think of worse places to grow old, and perhaps, living in place that has watched people for centuries, it would be impossible to ever feel properly old, because compared to the city, human life is just a flash.

Thank you for sharing my afternoon. I will tell you about Rome—the city that breathes history—in another blog.

Life is a journey. As I grow older, I realise that the things I have achieved, my accomplishments, are less important than the route to achieving them. This is hard to see when you’re young, when every hurdle seems to matter, and you feel as if failing that exam or driving test or first date with someone you fancy, will destroy your future happiness. But it doesn’t. Not really. Jumping hurdles, meeting those targets, often makes life easier but in the end, it’s rare to not be given a second chance. If you mess up the first time, there is usually another route to that goal, and frankly, the goal is probably less important than you think.

I have been reminded of this as I read Genesis 12:1-3. Abraham—the religious father of Christians and Jews and Muslims—is told to leave his land and family and home, and set out for a new land. He is promised certain things, like that he will sire a great nation, and be a blessing to all nations, but really, as far as I can see, it is the journey that matters. Abraham never saw the great nation, he only had two sons. Nor did he personally seem to be much of a blessing to other nations, as he mostly seemed to bring war or trouble to those he encountered. But Genesis talks a lot about his journey, about times he paused to worship God, about the mistakes/lies that happened along the way, and the challenges he faced. It was the journey, and how he travelled, that mattered.

For me, this is very pertinent. I have just been accepted by Edinburgh University to study for a PhD in Old Testament and Hebrew Studies. It has been a journey to get here, and I realise that it is the journey that matters going forward. I don’t know if I will manage to achieve a PhD, I certainly do not feel as clever as all the hugely intellectual academics that I meet. But probably, that doesn’t matter as much as how I live the next few years—what I will learn, and how I share that knowledge, and the people I will meet and how we affect each other.

The journey to get here has not always been smooth, and I certainly never saw a final goal. When I was younger, different aims seemed very important—I needed to find a boyfriend, or a husband, or to have children, or to get that job, to buy that house—and whenever things didn’t go to plan, it felt huge. Then when I had the brain tumour, I learned to live one day at a time, to focus on the present, to live today really well (because there might not be a tomorrow). This was a good lesson. It doesn’t mean not planning, because a journey needs preparation, but it means realising that how  I travel is more important than whether I get there—because if I don’t manage to reach the place I am aiming for, I will be in a different place, and it might be better.

As we get older, our hopes and dreams perhaps become more focussed on other people. The future might begin to look a bit darker, there may not be as many things we are hoping to achieve. But the journey is still important. Even when you suspect there might not be a tomorrow, today still matters.

I don’t know whether Abraham would have been pleased with the journey he travelled, and whether he would have lived some days differently if he could go back in time. But he still set out on the journey, trusting that his God would lead him to where he was meant to be going. And I think that maybe, that is the best way for us to live too. It’s fun to have goals, and maybe we need them to motivate ourselves through the obstacle course that is life. Bit in the end, it is the way we travel that is important, not the targets that we reach.

Thank you for reading. Travel well today.

Love, Anne x