On the beach
Allowing time to flex to accommodate some sea air
One thing I love about being single is going to the beach on my own. When the sun hints it may be nice. Or…it’s certainly not raining. On a day set aside for a heap of freelance tasks, I declare a strike! Allow time to flex to accommodate some sea air. A trip free of the intricacies of coordinating how long it may take to cross the city. An individual free from the often rigid demands of a partner.
The number 1 bus passes through Gorgie until the end of its circuit at Seafield, and I can get this bus from the end of my street. I prefer this route to walking to the West End to get a bus directly to Portobello, where the beach is. Near Seafield, I snap a photo of a Heera van on the nearly empty bus. It catches my eye, that of a food distribution nerd, as Heera’s such a familiar brand, but I’ve never seen their branded van before!
Seafield is primarily industrial, and as I walk along the busy road, I marvel at the menacingly monstrous giant hogweed plants on the embankment down to the railway, ignored by the council and, therefore, thriving. I observe sea kale and other wild plants I know to be edible but are too close to a busy road to be desirable as food. I take another photo, this time of graffiti on a wall which looks out onto the estuary. Alone, I don’t need to explain this wee tick, a growing obsession for appreciation and documentation of graffiti within the city, especially if it is of a radical nature!
Seafield to Porty is always a slightly longer walk than I remember, but it is enjoyable. And as a fervent tea drinker, I will usually need the toilet by the time I reach Porty! I ponder how we managed during lockdown beach days when the public facilities were shut, especially as my lockdown personal protocol was to pop a can of ‘emergency beer’ into my backpack when visiting public spaces. Next to the toilet, I see a Neighbourgood pop-up market has sprung up for the summer. I wonder how it impacts the permanent stall traders, those chefs who wrap up warm to serve Cullen Skink in winter on days without queues or buggies clustered outside. I recall a conversation with a woman at Shrimpwreck on a cold Winter or Spring day; she was grumbling about the use of white plastic bread as an accompaniment, a companion to the Cullen Skink rather than something healthier or less processed. Growing up in Yorkshire, I also had my aversion to 'white plastic bread', probably because of the texture and the thick smear of butter smudged across the foamy white slice. 'However, I wouldn't challenge Shrimpwreck's choice. To me, that bread is part of their intended experience; one I’d call ‘F & C and white plastic bread'. She goes without as I shrug and say, 'Ah, but it's the taste of the seaside!' She misconstrued my point, perhaps thinking I knew nothing of fermentation, the Chorleywood process or the Campaign for Real Bread. I realise it is perhaps more hipster now to serve ‘white plastic bread’ than an artisanal slice from Company Bakery, now in neighbouring Musselburgh. Possibly. But who am I to judge?
I place my 'standard' order - a shrimp roll and old bay fries from Shrimpwreck and respect the fact that the bacon jam is now an optional extra when it was once part of the standard recipe. I have travelled to the beach many a time with friends who don't eat pork for a myriad of reasons; one pescetarian, one Muslim, and one not Muslim, but grew up in Turkey. This adaption of the recipe bridges the gap between the tastes of the business and the tastes of the public.
I eat as a bike tour weaves by, watch a group of blonde-haired teen girls in their uniform of cut-off denim shorts recording videos on the beach, remember the families splashing in the sea fully clothed, watch kids chasing rainbow beach balls, dogs, cute dogs, trendy dogs—dogs everywhere. Today, I noticed a few other solitary female figures dotting the landscape, each wrapped in their own world.
I think about the starlings and gulls at the beach in more detail than I would if I had company. They're my companions, caws intermingling with the gush of the sea breeze. When I'm alone, I watch them more curiously, admiring their attempts to sneak some food as they form circles to watch each other's moves like the Montagues and Capulets. They hover, waiting to pounce, watching for a chip or a piece of fried fish to be dropped. An appetite as a personality. If I were a bird, I'd do the same. Today, they are not in formation, perhaps deterred by the overwhelming human presence disrupting their dance sequence.
With public food at the back of my mind, I understand the beach belongs to the birds more than to me. It's similar to how I've come to appreciate the wallrats1 or mice that share my home, scurrying about behind plasterboard yet maintaining their distance. For weeks, silence reigned, and I thought they might have been poisoned, perhaps by a neighbour. But this morning, the familiar scuffling sound returned. Sitting on the beach, I wonder about the possibility of mice and rats going on holiday?! Across town to the beach?! Perhaps they rent a better wall or crawlspace from an affluent family whilst away during the Scottish school or trade holidays?
Portobello Beach is a rare public space I can eat in where I feel entirely comfortable eating alone, eating with gusto, and eating without being observed. I notice the other solitary figures have both flipped over onto their stomachs (as if choreographed), each lost in a book. Often, I bring a book to the beach. But today, I'm glad for the space I've given myself to think, observe and let these random thoughts unfurl.
I call them this cos it reminds me of Mallrats, but I’m fortunate to not have seen any signs of them inside my home!