My walk home from the Art History building is long. Here is what it is like.
When I come out of the Art History building I note with satisfaction that it is a handsome building. As I pass the gate I wonder why They have chosen to place such ugly sculptures in the pretty walled garden beside the attractive Art History Building. I cross the Scores admiring the Logic and Philosophy buildings and St. Katherine's Lodge, which houses Modern History. I walk up my favourite lane, Butts Wynd, and think about the excellentness of the name Butts Wynd. I wonder whether it is 'wined' or 'wind'. I chuckle at the ramifications of Butts Wind and decide in favour of 'wined' as the other is too amusing to be a real street name. I peer through the archway that leads to the College quadrangle as I pass. Butts Wynd comes out at North street next to the Reception building. I quickly scan my brain for reasons why I would need to go into Reception. Have I paid all my fees? Matriculated? Yes. All is well.
I cross the street and decide on College Street to get me up to Market street. I always decide on College Street though there are other options. College Street has no cars and is cobbled. I watch in fascination as various elegant girls in stiletto heeled boots teeter up the street attempting to avoid having the heels stick in a gap between cobbles. I look at the tiny French restaurant midway up the street and think it looks Very Bohemian. I arrive at Market Street.
Market Street, though a main-ish road, is also cobbled. Everything rattles down towards the end, especially the double decker buses, which sound like they make rumble into small pieces. I walk on the right side of the street past the Costas with it's nice coffee smell until I get to the part of Market Street that is one way. I am less nervous here of getting run over by feral cars, so I cross. On a usual day I wander down the street to the Tesco where I enter a different universe. More about Tesco at another time. When I emerge, slightly disoriented, from the Tesco I usually continue down to Bell Street and turn up towards South Street, the third and final main street in St. Andrews. (It is possible to keep on Market Street, but then I would have to pass the Student Union, which I don't like, so I usually avoid this route.)
Bell street is narrow but heavily trafficked with a surprising number of charity shops. All the buildings seem tall. All the cars seem fast. I hurry to get to South street. My feet begin to notice their over use.
South street is a gracious avenue. I turn down an head toward the medieval city wall Gate that only lets one car at a time through the arch from the roundabout beyond. I pass the bakery where I say to myself firmly that I have plenty of food at home. Still, I take smaller steps while in front of the window full of nice things. One day I might
need something in there and it is best to be apprised of the contents of the bakery in preparation for that day. Soon I pass through the smaller arched gate in the city wall. There is a sign here about how this is one of the few remaining city walls in Scotland. The sign is obviously for tourists so I make a point of never slowing down to read it. Then no one can tell I too am a tourist. I cast covert glances at it reading a bit more each day as I pass.
Now I am at the roundabout. I make sure to be on the left side of the road because it is easier to cross there. With great concentration and bravery I cross the road without getting run over. I reach Argyle Road safely.
The walk is beginning to seem long, and I think my knapsack has become heavier in the last few minutes. I regret the purchases made in Tesco (for various reasons).
Argyle Road is fairly uninteresting. I am on the right side still, which means that soon the sidewalk will become too narrow for me with my grocery bags. I will have to walk on the road for a few steps until it widens out again. This is because of a long, old, low house that is right next to the street. I wonder sometimes if it is noisy living there. Also I wonder where their front door is, how long it has been there, whether people stop and peer in the windows, and why they chose such a lurid green for the window ledges. I am coming to the most exciting and dangerous part of the trip; crossing over Double Dykes Road. Double Dykes meets Argyle in what can be described as a three-way Y-shaped intersection. The traffic on Argyle never stops. The traffic on Double Dykes might slow down a bit. The angles of the Y are such that it is very difficult to see the traffic coming in both directions at once. Usually, I plunge across the road with reckless abandon, and I am still alive, so this method works.
With the difficult/interesting part of the trip past, my thought are entirely devoted to the pain in my shoulders. I consider my decision to bring my laptop into town with me: was it worth the weight it now seems to be, dragging me into the earth? I decide no. I decide not to bring it next time. I usually do. I move from consideration of my shoulders to my feet. Why did I wear these shoes, I wonder. What did I see in them this morning? This usually occupies my time until I get to St. Leonards Church, where I go on Sunday. It is a nice place full of friendly people. This takes my mind off mundane worries about the survival of the arm carrying the groceries.
Argyle Road soon turns into Buchannan Gardens. This is by far the longest and worst part of the walk. IT is tedious, and They are doing roadwork, so it smells like tar. It is lined all along the right side with playing fields which are usually occupied by various sporting people. As I pass the first playing field I admire the small, covered grandstand that looks like it was built in 1910. It only has three rows of benches. Then comes CREEM which stands for something like the Centre for Research on Environmental things. Next, I pass the playing field number two. This one is often filled with ferocious lacrosse playing girls in short skirts uttering loud yelps at one another while hurling the ball around and running vigourously. This all seems to mean something until the whistle blows and these furies all deflate: the ball drops, the noise and the running cease. In this field I notice in the corner, off to the side, what appears to be a cattle feed stand. I am unsure what to make of this. Then come the third playing fields. These are huge, with six soccer pitches all lit up at night. But in the day, if it is clear, you can see beyond them the highlands rising up, and the sea. The walk not seem interminable. I may not make it.
David Russell Hall comes into view! Hurrah! Almost there. I imagine living in David Russell. They say there are couches, and that the kitchens are big. I have even heard there are T.V.s. The residents have en-suite bathrooms; that is a fact. What would it be like, I wonder, to live in such luxury. Now, I could turn into David Russell and walk through the houses to arrive at mine from the back. This has the advantage of making you feel like you have arrived sooner, though in reality, it is the same as taking the 'long way'. I usually take the long way.
The long way continues up Buchannan Gardens. Past the bus stop and the house with all the magnificent yew trees. All along the sidewalk is grass, and even some trees. No one is ever seen to walk on this grass even if it would shave off a few wonderful minutes from the walk home. So I too stay on the sidewalk though it goes out of the way a bit. Now the depressing view of Fife Park arises. Despite the name, it is a desolate collection of grim grey row houses which do not in anyway resemble the grandeur called up by the name 'Park'. I reflect on this: one thinks of Mansfield Park, or perhaps Parkplace, or Park Avenue. All glamourous, grand images. I think of, "there seems to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your lawn"
1 when someone mentions the word 'park'. I do not envision the squat, drab, little dwellings at Fife Park. There are, in fact, a few more densely planted trees just before the walk into the park. I cheat here and walk on the lawn. I try to take the straightest possible path to the bike rack thinking about Pythagoras and hypotenuses as I go. I pass the bike rack with its motley collection of injured bicycles and proceed to my door. Now I am arrived. Home again home again jiggity jig!1. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
