Just in Tyne
As I write, I’m antsy with happiness. But you should have heard me three hours ago, almost to the minute — I was sick with stress.
I booked a group tour to Manchester and Liverpool for the weekend. This was my time. This was my passage into England, the only giant trip planned for the month. And eleven hours before departure, my flatmates and I receive an email that the tour is canceled.
My stomach clenches. I take a virtual blow to the head.
With fresh determination, and a little bit of anger, I search ScotRail for tickets to Manchester. Or Liverpool. Maybe Newcastle or Berwick. The prices are ridiculous, I can’t think of anyone who will join me tomorrow, and worst of all, I don’t know what I will do when I arrive there. So I don’t book the ticket.
Just in time, a flatmate texts and asks if anyone wants to go to Newcastle Saturday. I eagerly reply. Excitement spikes, my heart pounds, and I go to sleep with peace and full contentment.
We take a taxi to the Stirling Station, purchase tickets, and try not to fall asleep until we get to Edinburgh. The train at Edinburgh is fancy, with seats reserved for each stop. When we begin the ride, I learn its final destination is London King’s Cross. My beating heart tempts me to stay on board, but the ticket in my pocket requires I don’t.
We pass the ocean, the lush countryside, the hundreds of sheep. I follow our location on Google Maps until I see the line dividing Scotland from England. My headphones blast a dreamy Broods song. I watch out the window. A broad sign marks the exit from Scotland and entrance into England. I press against the window, turn the music louder. The sun shines through a blue sky, the fields grow flatter, and the cottages sit calmer across the farmland.
My heart pumps adrenaline.
I’m taking a train through England. I’m going to Newcastle.
I step off, slowly breathing the chilled air. This city is a nostalgic mix of ancient and modern, classy and relaxed. Three unique bridges stitch a land of skyscrapers to a land of marble streets. The winding River Tyne flows underneath hovering pedestrians that cross the city streets.
It’s only 11 am when we arrive, but after a taxi at 7:35, train at 8:07, and another train at 9:30, all of us are starving. As soon as we reach the city centre, following signs for the Newcastle Cathedral and Newcastle Castle (quite an alliteration of landmarks), my flatmate spots a cheap and cosy cafe for brunch. It’s not too small, lit with a ceiling of fairy lights and accompanied by a delightful playlist. From a chalkboard wall to a fourteen-year-old server, however, I realize the place is a bit quirky — and completely vegan.
I’ve never experienced a vegan cafe, and I never anticipated my first time would be in an average English city. But it is an experience, and the time allows us to make a tour plan for the day.
The Newcastle Cathedral is the closest attraction. From the street, the steeple appears ordinary, but once inside I am enthralled by the complexity and beauty of the structure. This cathedral is different from any I’ve seen in the UK. I step through the space, walls ringing with an organ melody, and gaze at the stonework. Vast stained glass windows stretch up to an intricate ceiling, where thick British Flags hang tattered and faded. Every section of the church leads to a more colorful and mesmerizing space, etched through the architecture like a flat mosaic. Grave markings stretch from wooden pews, a prominent church member lays under his marble grave, and the front altar is shrouded by wooden decoration. It’s a magical, inspiring landmark.
The castle sits across from the cathedral. More of a residence than fortress, I decide to not tour the site; it’s even smaller than the ruins I’ve visited. There is an English keep, though, so I walk under the archway and find tiny bridges leading to the court. My flatmates join me across the court, around the castle base (which I do at least touch) and towards the Main Bridge overlooking the river.
Most attractions aren’t across the bridge but in the city centre. We follow the signs back to Grey’s Monument, a figure dedicated to Earl Grey which we expect to be life-size and grand. Traditional creamy stone town homes guide our way, their authentic styles warming my spirit. Every British flag I see makes me smile. Bright, flashing colors signal the beginning of a carnival, and farther down the road, a Christmas market. I think of movies and books with characters strolling English streets during the holidays. I finally live those stories.
The tall statue a mere decoration for the city square. It rises amidst the market booths, bubbling with traditional traybakes and free gin tastings and hand-made gifts. From warm cider to warm scarves, we buy presents for both ourselves and friends. A cheery man sells me two items I intend to use for decoration, and soft voice calming and simple.
A free museum is only a few blocks from the market, so we enter to keep away from the cold. What we don’t expect is the floor-wide display of artifacts from Hadrian’s Wall. The wall is close to the Newcastle region, and for a group of students who don’t want to make the journey outside city limits, gazing at the clay blocks of Roman engravings is enough for us.
Down the road from the museum is St. James Park, a quaint land of vegetation which holds the Newcastle Stadium. I convince my flatmates to go to the stadium (why not?), but the enormous grey structure is closed off and surrounded by town homes. We take a shortcut through the elegant University Campus, lined with red bricks and colonial colleges, and return to the city centre.
Tired of the market, we enter one of the several glass-covered shopping malls and begin to look around. I buy a shirt from TopShop, a flatmate buys some shoes, and we explore more of the free-standing stores along the street. One vast building appears to be an open collection of local shops, but it’s nothing more than an indoor flea market, complete with old men who (quite snobbishly) budge their canes past and ask if we “are hallucinated or something.” Offended, we quickly exit the flea market.
I see an Urban Outfitters out of the corner of my eye. Encouraging flatmates to come in with me, I take advantage of the massive Black Friday sale and find incredible deals. I come out empty-handed, though; nothing on sale fits.
The sun sets at 4:45, we’re cold and exhausted, and food is high on our minds. Back and forth, back and forth, we enter the bars and pubs in search for a place to sit and relax. Every restaurant, however, is either too expensive or has a waitlist or requires we get past a bouncer to enter. Finally, I see a small cafe with just enough seats, and lead the group inside. I order a “cuppa” tea, pour the drink from the pot, and mix in cream for an authentic English tea time.
Darkness and rain are permanent. Deciding to go, we make a pit stop in McDonald’s before making the walk to the train station. The massive chain is three stories; as a flatmate and I head downstairs, she is stopped by a manager.
“Excuse me, Miss! You can’t have that in here.” He laughs with disdain. “I don’t know how all these people get through the front.”
The flatmate stares at me, pint in hand. I grow embarrassed and run to the manager.
“You can’t have that, get out please,” he says. Repeats. “You can’t have that, get out please, I’m going to have to ask you to leave — ”
“Of course, makes perfect sense,” I say. “Sorry.” I lead my flatmate downstairs quickly, where another one of us stands outside. His pint is half-empty.
“Get yelled at too?” he asks. We nod.
Relieved to get away from the snobbish people, we reach our train early, which is a true act of talent. We wait. And wait. The train is delayed. We spend the next hour and a half counting down the minutes we have to run between platforms at Edinburgh and catch the train to Stirling.
With ScotRail facing transit issues this semester, we don’t catch our train. Dumped in Edinburgh, we are too cold to wander the Christmas markets, so we step inside a crowded Spoons and order drinks. It’s only 8:30 pm, but with the darkness crawling up earlier and earlier each day, it feels like 11:30.
The next train comes in an hour, and we make certain we catch this one on time. The ride back consists of fighting sleep, talking, and making plans to go out. I don’t want to go out, for sure.
My body collides with the bed. Normally, day trips as full as this one create a knot in my stomach — I’m full of pride and relief. Anything could have gone wrong, but I took care of myself. Tonight, a different feeling spreads across my chest. A fresh city, a day of sunshine, a perfect trip.
England. The fifth country to add to my list.
