Welcome to Scotland! We sat and chatted and he told me that he was homeless but he couldn't go to a bed and breakfast.
"I cannae drink ma cider there! There are thoosands uff empty flats in this city but they just wannae sell them t'Americans. They won't give them to us."
Then we got onto football and the weekend's international matches.
"Haven't Scotland got a game?"
"Oh aye, and I'm awf to London to watch it?"
"They're playing England?" I asked, surprised.
"Nooo, we're playing ... erm ... Roy of the Rovers, I think it is." And he took another slug of his cider.
As the train had chuntered up and out of England, crossing the border at Berwick-upon-Tweed, we began to follow a beautiful rugged coastline surrounded by undulating fields hemmed in by slate stone fences, sheep grazing, and into this scene I had emigrated, leaving behind the Little Englanders (52% of the nation) and a couple of parasitic family members. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
From the train window I'd soon noticed a greater sense of space, far less traffic and distinctly fewer people than ultra-over-populated England. Compared to the multitude of rats racing around London feeding off city scraps, Edinburgh was a provincial town and I really enjoyed a few days perusing its landmark castle and stately granite-grey buildings. The Indian staff at the Delhi Diner made me laugh too with their Scottish brogue on a braw bricht nicht.
Then it was off to the Highlands and Perth railway station was almost empty other than a large bust of the writer John Buchan sitting on the concourse. Now with fresh air galore and wide open views over glen and up to ben, I'm here for the foreseeable as my recuperation continues and you can find me at the end of a rocky trail, tapping away in the summer house at the bottom of the cottage garden.