Travels through small town Scotland - Backpacker Scotland

The station I stand in is no longer grand. Perhaps, 10 years ago, it had a glimmer of polish and a shine to the windows. But, what was one dazzling is now an eyesore. The windows are no longer made of glass; they have been replaced with cheap, yellow plastic alternatives, on which the engravings of teenagers have been etched. The rails are now a multicolour of black and silver, the steel shining through the peeling black paint above. An overflowing metal waste-basket stands buckled to my side; there is more garbage on the track there is in the container itself.

This is Saltcoats, and it's good to be back.

The train restarts and pulls away from this place, leaving me as the one sole occupant of the station at midnight.

I move towards the rickety metal bridge across the track, and climb it's stairs, my shoes tapping off of each discoloured step. At the summit of this iron mountain, I gaze out at the center of this quiet, backwash town.

Everything is quiet, except from the rain, which whisks down from the clouded and orange-tinted sky. The shops have all closed for the night, as can be heard by the metal gratings rattling in the wind. There is a taxi rank, but there are no taxis.

The quiet depression of this town is almost comforting. I feel it as soon as I step town from the small bridge. The pulse of a dead community welcoming me. Although the town is located in the far west of Scotland, cast aside from the landmarks, it still has it's own character.

I need a taxi.

I am visiting to house-sit for a relative, who is travelling to England for a wedding of an aunt. This involved myself travelling from my hometown of Livingston, outside of Edinburgh, back here. But that's alright. It feels good to revisit memories of the past, to kick up the dust that you yourself created years ago.

The taxi ranks are empty, so the only thing to do is travel to the next taxi point.

The streets are wet, and everything is orange from the overhanging street lamps. I quietly trudge through the streets of Saltcoats, passing many pubs and taverns and cheap grocery stores. Above me, from each lamp-post, hang baskets, containing various assortments of garden variety flowers, each of them swinging together in the wind.

I move quietly. Not because I am a quiet walker, but through fear of what may be lurking in the alley behind any one of the stores around me.

In front of me now, leaving the main town of Saltcoats, I near the beach. The beach of Saltcoats is surrounded by a tall brown wall, about a meter wide and 4 or 5 foot tall, made of some kind of sandstone and decorated with graffiti.

The street lights are dimmer here, as many of them have burned out, probably months ago. The sea washes against the wall, with remnants of the tide bursting over it. Taking in the smell of the sea, I see the taxi rank in the distance, with one lone car waiting there.

The rain is still lightly coming down and my hair is drenched with it by now. I continue walking the perimeter of the wall, listening to the crashing of the waves below, as I reach the taxi.

Opening the door, I step inside, sitting my bag in the seat next to me.

The large, unshaven man in the front seat speaks to me, 'Where to?'

Rolling down the window to my side, I reply, 'Dalry Road.' The driver grunts in recognition, and the car starts it's journey back through the desolation of Saltcoats, and to the house where I will spend the night.