Watching the park ranger’s car suddenly speed off to the hills, I lower my cheese sandwich, turn my head and see Arthur’s Seat billowing like a volcano. The clouds and the inflamed undergrowth soon become entangled.
On the number 26, the conflagration goes mainly unnoticed, but in Portobello the air is burnt and the sun is veiled. By the next day the fire is out, but you still inhale Guy Fawkes night for a day or two.
This year’s Edinburgh Fringe was a walking holiday interrupted by intense bouts of me showing off. Each night, my phone would congratulate me on the 17 or 18 thousand steps I had taken as I sat at my pal Jo’s kitchen table where we ate oatcakes and listened to musicals. It reminded me that sometimes it really is better than diazepam to sing along to “I Am What I Am” while in close proximity to goat’s cheese.
I also got into the habit of watching Gene Wilder interviews late at night. There was something so wonderfully kind and gentle about him. It was a perfect balm for The Fringe, where the streets can be full of hasty comics elbowing away in the hope of a big break, to listen to Wilder say that he loved “the show” but hated “the business”. I made my usual tally of those performers whose social media accounts failed to mention anyone else’s work for fear of one lost ticket for themselves.
Creatively, this was my favourite Fringe. On my walk-in, my eye or ear would usually be caught by something that I would write a poem about and then that would become the opening of the show, ensuring that every day was different and every path taken on stage would include fresh ground. Subjects varied from a dog I met on the beach called Ellie, a crow on a wall, and a hearse and passenger moving through Holyrood Park.
The conversations after the show could be both bright and intense, and sometimes very moving. It makes me happy that members of the audience feel they can talk to me and from these conversations all manner of future connections are made.
