For ever and for ever when I move

Ireland: the land of music and laughter. Unlike many of my American friends and acquaintances, I don’t have Irish roots. I never truly felt the magic of St. Patrick’s Day, my family has been Lutheran for as long as time, my skin turns a lovely shade of brown in the sun, and my only association with red hair is an enduring adoration for the classy sass it portrays when paired with lipstick and freckles. However, as luck comes to luck, I was plopped onto a ferry at Holyhead, headed for Dublin, with no plans, no lifetime ambition for coming to Ireland, no idea what I might want to do or see.

And here I am, two weeks later, gradually getting my socks charmed off by the hospitable and humorous Irish. Galway, with the sunny cobblestoned streets full of gorgeous young musicians: a beaming tap dancer, a duo paired on harp and Irish accordion, a street performer with genuinely hilarious jokes, four boys in green traditional vests with smiles as big as the sun. A little old lady stopped by me as the crowd gathered on the street to watch the band, the cello player dancing as he played, all four whooping together with giant, contagious grins: “Aren’t they lovely, then?” she smiled at me, “Even me, I’m old and oh, aren’t they just lovely? God bless them.”

After a quiet celebration of the fourth of July–American flags dancing in the streets outside the pubs, possibly united by the common joy of escaping British rule–we moved on to the Aran Islands, to Inis Meáin: desolate, totally unique, known for its truly preserved use of Gaelic, unlike anything I have seen in the world. “God’s country, that is,” an Irish woman told me in the market after starting conversation with me when she saw me looking at wines. “It’s incredible, I haven’t been in years, but my memories of it… I first went when I was 18, and then again when I was 28… I’m always waiting to go back.”

“The end of the world, it is,” another woman said. “Just drops off there, you know. That’s the edge of it.” And the island is silent, not polluted by traffic sounds, only the quiet buzz of the few electric poles that run alongside the two perpendicular roads, very few bird calls, the occasional echoing moo of a cow a mile away. The island is covered by walls: rock walls four to five foot high, dividing the small rocky isle into hundred upon thousands of miniature square plots.

“Well, some of the walls are for property division, of course,” the man at the B&B informed us. “But I do believe some of it is for surface clearance,” which really got us cracking up, despite the truth of it. The island is basically a mass of rock, which over the last hundreds of thousands of years people have been breaking up into smaller chunks of rock, which are piled into walls, thus clearing the surface for plants or livestock: two cows here, a couple of mules across the way, the occasional bleating sheep. One day we left with the intention of walking completely around the island, which led us through a seemingly abandoned countryside of walls. We crossed an ancient fort (of piled rocks), along the coastline (where we stopped to eat in a sheltered cove of piled rocks), to the entirely desolate opposite side of the island, where we stumbled across the most incredible, staggering display of seaside cliffs.

Cormorants washed and played in the waterfalls as they splashed down alongside the cliffs, seagulls effortlessly gliding above the view, curiously cocking their heads to look at me as they passed. A fresh spray of salty mist splashed againt my face as I crawled close to the edge. Not a soul in sight, and possibly the most breathtaking landscape I’ve seen in my life. We walked along the coast for at least an hour, drinking it in, not seeing a single other person in the whole time we were there. After some time, the coast flattened down back to sea level and we attempted to cut inland through the labyrinth to make it back to the one road on the island: after 20 minutes of walking, we were clearly trapped and had to retrace our steps back to the coastline. So many walls. Could drive one to insanity.

Dublin has become an international city, like so many other European capital cities: flush with diversity, innumerable languages on the street, vibrant with city life, totally illogical traffic signaling that often leaves pedestrians stranded on concrete islands in the middle of opposing lanes of rushing traffic. Everything ‘Irish’ is bartered at a price: culture and history branded for money, authenticity replaced by flashing tourist traps at exorbitant prices, everyone is a tourist and everyone is drinking Guinness. I met only the occasional Irish lad working in the pub that was able to lighten up the scene by cracking jokes.

So I escaped south to Wexford, in a quiet town tucked just off the beach*, right on the coast of the Irish Sea. I spent my birthday laying on the beach and swimming in the salty sea, floating effortlessly at the surface of the water. In the pubs here everyone drinks Heineken or Carlsberg, possibly capping off the night with a Guinness. The pubs are full of laughter and music: it seems to be a requirement that the music be played live, cover songs and requests, the occasional jaunt into rebel songs and traditional folk songs a must. Jokes are played at the offense of friends or neighbors, the beer flows strong and everyone has a laugh waiting to surface: “Bloody hell, man, whaddya’ doing wearing my shorts?” yelled one very tall man to a much shorter man in high-waters, causing the two tables to roar.  “Make sure you put ’em back just where you found ’em!” In another pub, a friend of a friend is a musician, his voice for singing, curly red hair cropped close to his head, reddish-blonde stubble on his face, eyes glowing with mischief and humor, a sort of restlessness in his motions: he told stories like a god, perfectly painting the scene and inviting the listeners in, humor evident throughout. I hung on his words, “Tell another story, please, would you?” and we delved into conversation about stardust and the luck of the universe. His friend was a realist painter, trained from a young age: “What was his name, again?” I asked, met only with, “Ah, I donno man.” Which I confusedly but solidly believed.

Trailing from gig to gig, we ended up overlooking the coastline as the sun began to set. There were about six of us, all ages, sitting on the picnic benches with a pint: conversation flowed into songs which flowed back into conversation. Effortlessly, one person would start to sing and suddenly we’d all join in, clapping and snapping along. The light was sucked slowly out of the sky and absorbed into the water, transforming from deep steely blue to a pink-tinged silver. Someone grabbed a guitar, and then another person went to his car for a banjo, and we were joined by some men from a nearby pub, who sang and clapped and threw out compliments: “I loved your voice there, the way it blends with the guitar. It’s really lovely, that is.” And as we retired at the end of the night, everyone was appreciative and kind, inviting the musicians to come back, wishing everyone well as we floated off to our respective places.

Musicians and artists and rebels, the lot of ’em. It’s the people that make Ireland, just as I’ve always been told. A hidden charm, buried in kindness and humor. Give it time, let Ireland soak you up. And the longer I stay, the move evident it becomes that there is something undeniably unique about this Kingdom of Éire, land of musicians and poets and artists, this misty green, gorgeous island settled in the ocean at the edge of the world.

Another week or two of vacation in Ireland for me and then it’s back to chasing trains in Scotland. Cheers, to your good health! Moving on today to the south of Ireland! Sláinte!

*Apologies from the writer. A misstatement regarding the town of Riverchapel was written based on rumor and not fact. I had a relaxing stay in the Beaches Youth Hostel (more like an apartment share than a hostel) and would highly recommend a stay to anyone looking for a peaceful day or two tucked away from the city and near the beach. 

We leave at 5.30 in the morning from North Queensferry. I sleep in the front seat until we begin winding through the start of the highlands, the hills are dramatic as they rise and fall as far as the eye can see. Our arrival at Fort William is simply to scope out the engine, shunting on the tracks: Black 5 no. 45407, the Jacobite, built in 1936-7 for LMS (London-Midlands-Scotland) in Crewe, privately owned and contracted to West Coast Railways for the six-month tourist season to run from Fort William to Mallaig. It’s a gorgeous engine, shining black steel, massive cast iron wheels connected by forged steel simple-linkage rods, healthy exhaust as the train primes.

We set off to Corpach Basin, to have a brisk walk along the lower loch and watch the departure of the train from across the lake. It’s off in perfect time, 10.20 on the dot, steam blowing, a line of exhaust tracing across the cluster of white, fort-like buildings arranged on the hillside that composes Fort William. We reverse direction, pick up the pace and return to the Basin, past the ducks quacking as they skim across the lake and the boats bobbing between the bridges in the canal space of the seventeen lochs, waiting for their chance to rest in the lower loch.

A crowd is gathered in the parking lot, cameras at the ready: the engine sails through, giving a whistle of greeting, exhaust beautifully stretched out behind. The windows are full of smiling faces, everyone waving, six red carriages and then it is gone, racing along the lake and out of view. We jump into the car and we’re off in hot pursuit–leaving Coprach and racing through villages, overtaking cars and lauries on the motorway and before long we are next to the train, racing beside it as it flashes though the trees, slowly overtaking the carriages and the engine is barely visible, the powerful barking sound resonating through the air, chugga-chugga-chugga, the exhaust billowing and the red bodies of the carriages flashing, windows perfectly placed inside them, faces seemingly frozen beside us as our speed matches and the route changes, the train disappears behind the hill and we are alone, racing on the road, buried in the trees.

We race on. “A turn on the right, and the lay-by just after it,” John repeats to himself, a road flashes by on the right and he slams on the brakes: “Seatbelt off, dearie, saves a few milliseconds,” and we pull off the road at Fassfarn, jump out of the car and John grabs his camera, we jump over the fence, race across the track, clamber over the second fence and we are in a field, sheep grazing to the right and Loch Eil stretches up to the base of the railway on the right. “We’ve got a few seconds here,” John tells me, and, “Oh, look at that spot of sun!” and he is visibly excited, walking in his rushed, bouncing gait to stand beneath a tree and situate himself with his camera.

The sound reaches us first, a-chugga-chugga-chugga, the engine is working and for nearly a minute we are bouncing with excitement and anticipation: a glimpse of exhaust in the trees in the distance and, “Wah-hoo! There it is!” and the engine races beautifully out of the woods towards us, the sounds and the sight and the sun peeks out and it races past, faces waving in the windows and we are buried in the field, laughing and waving as it races by.

“Very good, carry on,” says John and we race back over the fences, across the tracks and back to the road where we rush on, eating wine-gums and hooting and hollering and laughing, racing down the sprawling roads and John starts chatting and drives slightly slower and we miss it at Craigag bridge, getting just a glimpse of the tail end as it races along the hillside and into the trees out of sight and we speed along. “We’ll catch it tomorrow!” I exclaim with a whoop.

We race on to Glenfinnan, where all the tourists are clustered at the base of the hill: John drops me off at the edge of the parking lot and I sprint out of the car, laughing and running in sheer exhilaration, and just as the train reaches the start of the viaduct in the distance it slows down, lets out a stream of exhaust and whistles for the crowd, everyone cheers and as it disappears on the other side of the epic valley I race back to John, jump in the car, and we’re off again.

And so it goes, for three days, chasing the trains from Fort William to Mallaig and back again, climbing through the wild, rugged highlands, making our way through ferns and boggy mosses, over the cliffs to see hidden parts of the railway, pruning back the trees that distract the view of the train: being eaten by midges, searching for ticks, no time for food in the day as we race after the morning train and afternoon train and in the evening we enjoy meals of fresh seafood or fish and chips before I go to rest in the Bed & Breakfast and John drives off to sleep in the car and bathe in the river, he enjoying his ‘wild living’ as I bask in the glorious luxury of a hot shower, a brief time of quiet and rest before a proper breakfast early in the morning and the call of the whistle to roil our blood and entice us to follow.

“It’s super! It’s wonderful! It’s excellent!” John yells in his excited English accent, pumping his fist in the air, reaching and exceeding the speed limit for the first time since I’ve met him. “It’s all in the chase! Who-hoo! Just knowing it’s coming! Who-hoo! Oh, wonderful, dear. Just wonderful. Fantastic! Ho-ho! Who-hoo!”

And I giggle and whoop and holler along with him, and roll down the window for the refreshing flood of energy that accompanies the pursuit of the barking and whistling steam engine.

A handful of useful sites and resources that I take for granted being familiar with, now gathered up to present to you: keep in mind that this is primarily Europe-based travel advice, as I am at this time primarily traveling through Western Europe and the UK.

I travel cheap. Dirt cheap. Sometimes all I eat is bread, for weeks, until I can’t stand the thought of cutting up another piece of cheese and ripping off another piece of bread and putting it in my mouth to thoroughly masticate before the sodden lump retreats down my throat to my grumbling, endlessly crying stomach. Brief relief: apples. Cream cheese and tomatoes. Different types of cheese and bread as per the country. Always buy enough for the day, and buy it fresh again in the morning. Local bakeries are best. Splurge and buy good jam. Carrots. Make pasta occasionally. Splurge and buy ingredients necessary to make a great dinner. Avocados can be a great relief. Canned artichoke hearts are a cheap and tasty snack. Take your own loose leaf tea and make it as you go: hot water is always free.

Lodging: if you have time and not money, look into WOOFing to do some local organic farm-stays or find a job through sites like WorkAway. Otherwise, stay with friends you meet along the way. Always take the contacts of people from interesting countries, especially those you like. Travel-minded people love to host and travel to meet other travel-minded people. Couchsurfing is a great site, which some people avidly swear by. You can get the occasional loose screw, but be smart about how you travel, always have an escape plan in the back of your mind, and be critical and selective when choosing who to stay with. Hostelworld is the next step up, which is pretty much the only site I use when searching for hostels. Search by price, read the reviews (I hate mildew and generally do my best to avoid mildew-ridden-comment places) and book from there. Generally the cheaper prices you get online are not available if you just impromptu arrive at the hostel desk: and as you pay a booking fee through the site, it is best to book the number of days you plan to stay and pay when you arrive.

Airbnb is a more expensive alternative, but a completely verified and totally reliable way to apartment-share. While I was traveling in New York, I stayed via Airbnb in a fantastic flat in Brooklyn: our hosts were so sweet and knowledgeable, told us where the best food was and how to order wine via delivery, and when the apartment was broken into and all our electronics were stolen, they completely reimbursed us the loss via the insurance they had through the site. Pretty slick. Slightly awkward at the time, completely resolved by the end.

Flights are best found through Kayak. It’s great to make a multi-city selection, as you can plan layovers in cool places and often find a cheaper flight. Sometimes I’ll search through Kayak to get an idea of which airline has the cheapest flight, and then go directly to the airline’s site, such as Aerlingus, United Airlines or Korean Air to find the same flight for slightly cheaper. Icelandair is pretty cool in that the government subsidizes layover flights through Iceland, in order to encourage tourism to the tiny isolated isle. It’s a super legit place to have a week to chill, but bring a tent if you’re budget-conscious. Be wary of China Airlines, as they give ZERO reimbursement if you cannot make the flight. NEVER buy a flight more than two months in advance. Every time I have purchased a cheap flight in advance, my plans have changed and I have to bite the bullet and suffer the loss. Be aware that buying cheap means no flexibility, huge charges to make changes, and potentially zero customer service (see Ryanair, local budget airlines from sites like Swoodoo, or Easy Jet).

Buses are the cheapest way to travel long-distance, and there are all sorts of incredibly cheap bus sites that vary via country. Megabus can get you from the UK to several key cities in Europe, such as Paris or Amsterdam, often overnight (which alleviates the need to pay for lodging) and is clean, easy, and has bathrooms onboard. Germany has recently has some legal shifts regarding rail monopolies over cities, and as a result a huge number of cheap bus companies have sprung up, nearly overnight: Meinfernbus is a great one, astoundingly cheap, the buses are brand new AND they sell cheap snacks onboard, if a nibbling need arises.

Hitchhiking is good in countries like Germany, the UK, Iceland, or Scandinavia, but it’s best to hitch with two, as you can put yourself into unpredictably bad situations with one. But the very best way of traveling overland is via carpool. I LOVE carpooling. I can’t rave enough about it. Though this brilliant communication system originated as a small cork-board office in Germany, you can also carpool France, which is also great to get through Spain. In France the carpools are generally empty, but the ride is comfortable and usually silent, unless you speak French well. The carpools in Germany are a riot, always full of Germans, and is a totally valid and acceptable way to painlessly arrange rides from city to city. It’s often cheaper and more enjoyable than buses, and is a great way to meet and talk with locals.

So, that’s about it for now. Enjoy your cheap, dirty travels, kids, they’re the best.

Sunday morning, all the stores are closed. Blue skies and a light breeze, typically beautiful spring morning. Walk out to find some breakfast, hoping that a bakery is open, thinking of croissants. My stomach is twisted in the unique stress of having overstayed my welcome in this imposing city, massive white stone buildings towering in endlessly raised architectural tunnels along the streets, no trees in sight.

We exit the apartment through a heavy, ornate, dark blue door in the middle of the stone wall, stepping down immediately onto the street. Turn right and duck beneath construction, the narrow street lined on one side with perfectly parked cars. Bumper to bumper, practically no space between. At the end of the street the buildings clear and just ahead is a small island of flat, empty space sandwiched between two streets. In the space is a collection of white capped tents: a morning market.

There are six stands at the market. From right to left: crates of oysters, and old man making crêpes, a colorful array of fresh fruit. A local stand with an enormous variety of cheese: giant aged wheels, molding in shades of green to grey; small white, crusted cakes; hard, white triangles from which he shaves off chunks. Next to the cheese stand is a stand with rotisserie chickens, roasting on parallel vertical sticks; and beside this stand, breads. Enormous cakes of bread, weighed and sold by the kilogram: baguettes, croissants, brown breads, rye breads, white breads. Soft centers and hard crusts.

I buy a crêpe, spread thin across the griddle with a flat wooden tool, finished with a light sprinkling of sugar before it is folded into a triangle and handed to me on a napkin. We admire the fruits and walk to the bread stand, where the man cutting and weighing chunks of bread happily bounces around and laughs with his customers. He cheerfully educates my French-Canadian friend on the local Bordeaux french words for the butt of the bread: translated roughly to ‘corner’.  Would you like the corners of the bread?, he asks me, in French, as he slices the remaining chunk bread in half and weighs my portion, before sliding it into a bag and handing it over to me with a wink and an enormous smile.

We walk back to the apartment, spirits considerably lightened. I book my last-minute ride from Bordeaux back to Biarritz, tearfully say goodbye to my host, give my final four kisses in Bordeaux and hop in the car to continue traveling on alone. Back to the Spanish border, where I rent a tent from the hostel and set it up cheerfully in the shaded shelter of the backyard in fading hours of the day, finally feeling the lightness of freedom. A bundle of white asparagus to cook for dinner, a leftover bottle of port from friends, an evening to sleep in the rustic, nostalgic comfort of a tent before dedicating to plans for what’s next.

Two chapters of travel thus far: the first, a meditation on slowness, allowing the body to break out of the pattern of stress built on stress, reassuring the self that it is okay to not be working. After the time of harvest comes the time of plenty, to eat and use the food which has been saved. The practical counterpart to making money is spending money. Be smart, buy only what you need, avoid all luxuries except those which are simple: fresh grapefruit on occasion for breakfast, local jam for the bread, whole milk over skim. Don’t eat meat and don’t buy alcohol. Take bread from the baker and not from the grocer. Allow your mind and your body to relax. Release the stress which has so long accumulated in the back of your neck, pinching tight in your shoulders, aching across your lower back. Let your legs grow strong with the steps you take. Your writing is flitting with panic, white fear which flushes through your skull and makes you blind:

Let it go.

The pages turn and days pass by, still carrying too much, but there is progress. Approaching the calm.

Enter the second chapter, passing through the houses of friends. After the development of self comes the time for relationships. Beginning in Aachen, where conversation carries us through the days; focused on the words we speak, we tour through the city. The next day I walk our same route, alone, and realize with a laugh that nothing is familiar. Focused on ideas, I saw only the cobblestones beneath our feet. Breakfasts stretch out long, lazy, comfortable, moving from coffee to tea, sharing so many words. Feeling home in the company which I traveled so far to meet. Easter Sunday approaches and passes, I move through Germany in the companionship of a new friend, to stay in the houses of old. Travel now switches its focus to deepening and expanding existing relationships. Feeling the glaciers in my chest shift and moan, melting slowly, making space. Not yet understanding the significance of this. No longer spending money except in transit; now cooking meals together in the comfort of so many kitchens, falling into a routine, learning again how to spend time on drawing. The mind is still slightly spasmodic, but the spasms decrease in intensity and number.

Moving toward bicycles in Freiburg, where the air is warm; the mind welcomes the warmth with such gladness. My soul rejoices as the tiny buds break forth on the branches, tiny grey fingers which grasp at the air and explode into color, twisting into brilliant green leaf. The streets are filled with people, sitting on their doorsteps, filling the parks; the cafés open their walls and spill their tables onto the sidewalks and suddenly there are so many people. Public space once again becomes shared, life no longer limited to existing solely in the warmth of the private sphere. Conversation fills the streets, bodies walking for the warmth of the sun and the clean goodness of the air; the city bursts with life, shared gladness at winter’s passing. Time becomes gentle and easy. I move further south in a leap, to Perpignan, to Bordeaux. The second chapter draws to a close and demands decisive direction for beginning the third.

Soon I will move back from the company of others into the company of self. From what is familiar to what is unknown.  Always moving forward, embracing opportunity as it comes. Do not shy back in fear. Not sure where it will carry me, I wait to turn the page.

“This is my first time in Germany!” I excitedly told the driver of my carpool, a hitched ride from Amsterdam to Köln. We met in the cold air outside Hotel Ibis, the car an eclectic mix of persons all looking for cheap transport into Germany.

“And you’re going to.. Aachen?” he asked, in slow disbelief, making the soft guttural scratch of the German ‘ch’-sound. “Yup! Going to Aachen.” I smiled, without granting clarification, my own pronunciation so much more flat and lifeless. English: the neutral divide between lilting, dancing French and softly guttural German. Words pronounced by clicking the tongue definitively against the teeth, in the forefront of the mouth, largely ignoring the back of the throat, keeping our vowels chained beneath the tight restraint of our consonants.

It’s been a unique tour de Deutschland thus far, as I have planned my route via towns where my scattered collection of German friends reside. Aachen, Köln, Marburg, Darmstadt. Still to come: Mannheim, Stuttgart, Freiburg. I make a sharp cut across the western side of Germany, from the northern Netherlands border to the southern Swiss border. From Freiburg, I will take a bus into southern France and move just north of the Pyrénées, across the southern French landscape into Bordeaux.

It’s an incredible relief to be out of hostels and to stop paying exorbitant prices for B&B’s, which, due to weather and circumstance, were the only available options in Iceland and Scotland. In Amsterdam, the hostel was full of stone-cold potheads, dragging out their days in clouds of smoke in the dank basement entrance of the hostel. Three days of walking through the frozen city, watching snowflakes shimmer in the air, the sun a cold reminder of how far away summer actually is: It was enough. Make a beeline into Germany. Warm up the days with friends and couches and free cups of tea, forming a new resolution with self. Fill out job applications and purchase watercolor pencils. Begin to sketch again. Move south, until the short, dying bursts of cold and snow have disappeared into the folds of the warm bosom of a later spring. May, not March. Leave March behind in its own cold dregs and move south, for god’s sake. Leave this awful, bone-chilling cold behind–the long evenings twisting restlessly beneath too-thin sheets, the frozen toes, the heavy bulk of blankets and sweaters and socks, the unrelenting frustration at the sting, the bite, the chill–and move south.

To beaches, to sunshine, to shorts. From beer to wine, from heavy to light, from this collection of snapshots with friends to form the deliberate montage of self. Moving toward a purpose. Searching.

And all the while, with one clear direction in the back of my mind:

Move. South.

As a bit of a literature nerd, I was delighted to discover that Edinburgh has a vibrant, exciting literary community. Within minutes of doing some google-researching, I was able to formulate a list of events for every single day that week. Every day! There were different events, poetry events, every day of the week! Most of the events were free, some varying from 2-5 pounds, and all were open to anyone interested, either to participate or to watch: poetry readings, open mic nights, writing workshops, art exhibitions combined with literary performances… the list goes on.

I was able to make time for two separate poetry events, both of which I would highly recommend to any passing literary enthusiast looking for some cultural, artistic, local community events. The first was on a Monday evening, the event called ‘The Blind Poetics’, situated in a cozy little pub by the name of The Blind Poet. People sat on couches around the pub, situated around small tables, tucked into little nooks and crannies, all facing the small stage at the back of the pub. Due to the unexpected onslaught of snow earlier that day, the original performer was unable to come, and the event was opened up as an open mic night.

Open Mic Night @ The Blind Poet

These were like any of the poetry slam events I loved to go see in Madison, WI, when I was in University: people reading their poetry, encouraging others to do the same, some experienced readers, some doing it for the fun of it, others reading some truly incredible stuff. As a tourist, it is enormously refreshing to get off the street and into a cozy pub where people are participating in an excited, artistic atmosphere. Not staged, just real.

The second event I found solely based on my attending the first event: the poets encouraged everyone to come on Thursday night to Soap Box at the Cabaret Bar, a weekly open mic performance with varying themes. Soap Box is directly connected with the University, but open to the public. Did I mention it was free? Totally free, except for the beers, which are reasonably priced at 2.80 pounds per pint.

In the excitement of yet another evening of poetry, this one with the theme of “Rhythm,” I prepared a few poems of my own and tucked my notebook in my backpack to carry with me. Encouraged by the comfortable atmosphere, the genuine excitement of the participants and the incredibly welcoming attitude of Freddie, one of the organizers of the event, I signed up and performed. Having never performed my poetry in public, I took the assuaging encouragement of a pint, relaxed while listening to others’ performances, and then stood on stage to deliver one rap and three poems. After the event we hung around with several of the poets, chatted about travel, poetry and other such interesting topics before taking leave and sprinting off to catch the last train back.

Rachel Rankin performing @ the Cabaret
Photo Cred: Soap Box

Yours Truly, performing @ the Cabaret
Photo Cred: Soap Box

Guest Rapper @ Soap Box
Photo Cred: Soap Box

More information on weekly literary events in and around Edinburgh can be found at the Scottish Poetry Library. Otherwise: Soap Box can be found on facebook or on twitter @SoapBoxin. The Blind Poetics on fb or on twitter @BlindPoetics.