Hardeep Singh Kohli: Day of Homecoming for Glasgow epicure

Published on Saturday 15 August 2009 23:09

Had some time on Thursday morning so I thought I'd make the longest and shortest of journeys, from Edinburgh to Glasgow.

I popped through and it felt good to be home. Knowing that an early afternoon train beckoned, my first thoughts were what I might devour for lunch. The constant call of Cafe Gandolfi, left? Fish and chips from McPhie's? Or pie, beans and chips doon in Partick? Too many choices. Then my wee mum piped up with the suggestion to trump all suggestions. Her homemade chicken curry. There's no place like home.

Seven hills knocks seven bells out of a bike beginner

Coming to Edinburgh to perform at the Fringe has been a many-faceted revelation for me. Apart from my own private and emotional homecoming in the year of Homecoming (cue Dougie MacLean) there has been much to enjoy in the first full week-and-a half of my Festival experience. For a start, four consecutive days of blazing sunshine forced me to check I was actually home.

My sojourn to the capital provided me with an opportunity to bring about changes to my life that had been much talked about but had never actually happened. I breakfast each morning on porridge. I drink more juice. And now I cycle everywhere.

Oh yes. The Weegie on the bike. Wandering down to my first gig last week I stepped into Velo Ecosse and purchased a brand new bike, with locks, chains, lights and breathing apparatus. I had to shock myself into the idea, knowing that given the time to think about it I would have done what I had done for the preceding months and prevaricated further still, finding any number of "practical" reasons/excuses not to buy a bike.

Twenty minutes later as I hopped on to the rather severe saddle and huffed then puffed my way through the Meadows, a new world opened itself up to me. There is no finer feeling than the wind in your face and beard as you freewheel doon past Warrender Park Terrace, weaving in between pedestrians and trees and life. (There is no worse feeling when you have to cycle back up the brae full of beer and lamb curry and are overtaken by pedestrians and trees and life.)

Rather embarrassingly my knowledge of the streets of Edinburgh has always been limited. Partly I suppose that has to be put down to a Glaswegian arrogance about believing my home toon tae be superior to the capital, and so refusing to engage with the place. Obviously I have grown up now and love Edinburgh, but my more recent visits to the city have been rather kinetic trips where the favoured mode of transport has been taxis.

The bike allows a greater understanding and appreciation of the city's layout; one is afforded unusual views of the breathtaking architecture; one also realises how bloody hilly the place is.

Why did no-one think to tell me before I bought a bike that Edinburgh was built on seven hills? What non-cyclists perceive as a very gentle, almost indiscernible upward incline when on foot presents itself, when on two wheels, like a section of the Cairngorms. I could have started my cycling Odyssey in a more forgiving city. No doubt until my cardiovascular system is shocked back into use, I will be spending a lot of time pumping my legs uphill whilst coughing up my innards. Gregor from the bike shop assures me that my backside will eventually get used to the coruscating pain, and Glaswegian Ian, who I bumped into in St Mary's Street, spent 20 minutes talking about Nivea Cream and innovative application methods. Maybe cycling will help me lose some weight and maybe get fit. But one thing is for sure: it seems to have got me a few more friends.

You can't cap a beer after showtime

The Festival has a genuine party feel about it. The city is abuzz with visitors and exotic accents and curiously dressed performers can be heard and seen everywhere. It's all too easy to find oneself in an almost constant state of jubilant excitement. There's much laughter happening. There's much dancing occurring. And there's a lot of drinking going on.

I've never been a big drinker. I've enjoyed the odd glass here and there but would never represent my country should drinking alcohol ever become an Olympic sport. So it was relatively easy for me to narrow my alcohol intake down to a single bottle of beer a day. The only question is when best to enjoy that 330ml of cold amber gorgeousness. There was half a thought to use my allowance during the show. But I wouldn't be totally focused on the beer and allow half of it to go warm and so undrunk. I then thought perhaps the last drink of the night could be my jealously guarded bottle. But that would just send me to bed gaseous and bloated. I have discovered the perfect time to have my thirst slaked is immediately as the show ends. There is no finer feeling than a cold beer down a warm neck. Joy.

The most exclusive golf club in the capital

There's a famous wee pitch and putt course on the Meadows, halfway between my flat and my venue. Every morning and afternoon I see families or friends knocking lumps oot the grass as they laugh and frustrate themselves around the nine holes. It's a constant source of gentle entertainment. The other night (actually early morning, truth be told) when Edinburgh seemed asleep and I felt like the only man awake I heard an incongruous sound, the sound of a golf club thumping the grass. This divot-creating cacophony was followed by a juicy expletive. As I drew closer there was a man in his fifties pitching and putting at four in the morning. I wondered: when had he started his round?