IF NORTH Berwick didn't exist, I'd have to invent it. The little East Lothian town by the sea is so charming I fall in love with it over and over whenever I visit.
This latest visit was a spur-of-the-moment affair. I needed to get out of the house and had thought to wander wistfully on Arthur's Seat. But the rain came on, so I just drove on eastwards and, once on the dual carriageway, my mind turned to Heaven-
on-Sea.
There's a new stretch of road in East Lothian, which caused me to overshoot by nine miles, so I had to double-back on the old roads, with the high hedges and somebody driving on my back-bumper at 60 miles an hour. I often imagine that, say you were in prison and longed for freedom and told yourself you'd love everybody and appreciate everything. It would be so fine. You'd start over again, with a winning and delightful attitude.
Then, at last, you're free, and the first thing that happens is someone drives up your behind on the road. Then, you go for a drink, meaning to be hail-fellow to everyone you meet. But, in every pub there's a chap whose cranium houses a small pecan nut where his brain should be. He takes a special interest and soon wants a fight. So, you leave, and fancying a fish supper, make your way through a group of neds who insult you. At last, you snap and swing your fists and, hey presto, you're back in prison again. It doesn't matter how indulgent of the human race you try to be, they always let you down.
As far as was humanly possible, I ignored this Klingon at my bumper, and soon arrived at my desired destination. It was a grey day, bitingly cold, and everything was closing, so late had I arrived. But, still, the place worked its magic. Oh, is there anything like the smell of fish and chips on a sea breeze? Fortunately, I'd not long had my lunch, in mid-afternoon as usual (the scribbling carries me away), so did not weaken. Instead, I wandered on the sands.
Blustery breezes whipped the dunes, making wispy clouds of sand scud across the beach. I stood facing the sea, and these ghostly wisps swirled around me. It felt unreal. One minute, I'd been sat hunched at my computer trying to get my head round all the frightening madness that assails us periodically in this job. The next, I stood on shifting sands, under wide skies, feeling free and wishing I could be beamed up. "Take me now, for pity's sake! I've had enough!" I cried. But, clearly, my mission here on Planet Earth is not yet done.
I walked the length of the beaches and back, then revisited the little cottage where the Burd and I once spent a lovely long weekend. Soon it was time to go back to the car, and return to deal with the comical, bizarre and irrational: the raw material of journalism. But again the aroma of fish and chips on the breeze assailed me. I sat in the car and debated with myself: surely, I could have some comfort food? But it's not good for you. Jehovah the Irritating has made life like this. Besides, I used to live almost exclusively on such grub and, consequently, had earned an ulcer the size of Ireland.
I tried kidding myself that fish and chips would put much-needed fibre into my diet. I counter-reasoned that, in this competitive world, one needed to be fit and strong, and not eat fish and chips. Then, I dozed off in the car, to the amusement of the crowd which had stopped to watch me arguing with myself.
When I awoke, I didn't fancy fish and chips, and left the town just as the light was fading. I took the coast road home, driving slowly in the hope that somebody would hang on my bumper. But, naturally, nobody did.
I've always looked for havens, but it's a mistake to go and live in them, because then they are not havens any more. So, while it was sad to leave North Berwick behind, it's nice to know it's always there. I'm sure, in reality, it's a mass of feuds and eye-poking. Just like everywhere else. But not to me, it isn't. Just so long as I don't live there.
Back home, I had porridge with jam in it, and some egg on toast. I felt virtuous and, after a few tins of Stella, passably content. Most importantly, I switched off the computer. The real world is in that ghastly machine, and you don't want anything to do with that. You're better in the fresh air, with the sea-breeze on your face, and wispy sand swirling around you, in a world that's beautifully unreal.
The full article contains 834 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
