The street messages in Edinburgh that greeted me as a 19 year-old Londoner in 1961 were
ENGLISH GO HOME
and
NO POPERY
--painted in foot-high white letters along the dark granite walls, impossible to ignore. It made me feel very English, and pretty unwelcome.
And London seemed very far away at 400 miles down South, where most of my Scottish fellow students had never been, and had no wish to go.
I understood that Scotland was another country: that England and Scotland were separate and different, with different landscapes, histories and cultures: and the main feeling of Scots towards the English was resentment.
And the main event on the 13 and 1/2 hour bus trip from London to Edinburgh (as I couldn't afford the train, only 5 hours) was crossing the border: woken at 5am to get out in the freezing cold and dark for breakfast.
I was impressed by the radical nature of Scottish politics: no private ownership of land! was the policy of Scottish Liberals--unthinkable in the South of England (and likely the North too).
And the Scottish Nationalist party seemed an entirely natural party, springing from the wish for independence.
I forgot to say that at first, I couldn't understand what Edinburgh bus conductors said to me--deeply embarassing, that their heavy Edinburgh accent turned "English" into a foreign language to me.
But my ear gradually attuned to the nuances of a variety of Scots accents--Glaswegian was entirely different from any Edinburgh accent: with "Morningside" vowels as the genteel Miss Jean Brodie variety.
And when I took vacations in London, I was accused of having acquired Scots intonation: of which I was entirely unaware.
Unfortunately for the separatists they depend on subsidies from London and the rich bits of England, I suspect Farage and Tice would take great pleasure in telling them to F off.
The street messages in Edinburgh that greeted me as a 19 year-old Londoner in 1961 were
ENGLISH GO HOME
and
NO POPERY
--painted in foot-high white letters along the dark granite walls, impossible to ignore. It made me feel very English, and pretty unwelcome.
And London seemed very far away at 400 miles down South, where most of my Scottish fellow students had never been, and had no wish to go.
I understood that Scotland was another country: that England and Scotland were separate and different, with different landscapes, histories and cultures: and the main feeling of Scots towards the English was resentment.
And the main event on the 13 and 1/2 hour bus trip from London to Edinburgh (as I couldn't afford the train, only 5 hours) was crossing the border: woken at 5am to get out in the freezing cold and dark for breakfast.
I was impressed by the radical nature of Scottish politics: no private ownership of land! was the policy of Scottish Liberals--unthinkable in the South of England (and likely the North too).
And the Scottish Nationalist party seemed an entirely natural party, springing from the wish for independence.
Fascinating slice of personal history in there...
I forgot to say that at first, I couldn't understand what Edinburgh bus conductors said to me--deeply embarassing, that their heavy Edinburgh accent turned "English" into a foreign language to me.
But my ear gradually attuned to the nuances of a variety of Scots accents--Glaswegian was entirely different from any Edinburgh accent: with "Morningside" vowels as the genteel Miss Jean Brodie variety.
And when I took vacations in London, I was accused of having acquired Scots intonation: of which I was entirely unaware.
I stayed in Edinburgh for nine years.
Unfortunately for the separatists they depend on subsidies from London and the rich bits of England, I suspect Farage and Tice would take great pleasure in telling them to F off.