The Race Against Time: From Edinburgh to Ayr
The air was thick with bittersweet emotion as my parents reluctantly handed over Aarin, their three-month-old grandson, to my sister. That fleeting moment of parting felt heavy — a visible sadness etched on my parents’ faces — before we made our way to Edinburgh Waverley train station.
The plan was straightforward:
Edinburgh > Glasgow > Ayr > Stranraer > Cairnryan’s Stena terminal (via taxi) > Belfast (via ferry).
But the mood at Edinburgh station was anything but light-hearted. The lingering sadness of leaving their daughter and grandson behind clung to my parents, who were about to embark on an unfamiliar journey with their son.
We waited quietly for our 8:30 AM train, the hum of the station contrasting sharply with the heaviness in our hearts.
Our train from Edinburgh reached Glasgow station on time. It was buzzing with life — a stark contrast to our subdued morning.
When my mom first arrived in the UK, she had developed a fondness for cappuccino. So whenever she was out and about in the UK, she would always ask my sister or me to buy her a cappuccino.
She has never once pronounced “cappuccino” correctly, but that has never stopped her from demanding a “cuppa” from her kids. By the second sip, her feet are tucked beneath her, folding effortlessly into a cross-legged perch on the chair. She makes herself completely at home—exactly the way she would back home in Assam.
What’s funny is that she never wants a full cup — just “half”.
Unfortunately, in Glasgow or anywhere else, “half” cups don’t really exist. There are variations like the large and small cups, but never “half”. And even if they existed somewhere, that “half” cup would still be a big cup for her.
Dad, ever the gentleman, quietly sips his full cappuccino without a word of complaint.
But back in Assam, cappuccinos are a rare luxury — more like a fancy cousin who visits once in a while — and they quickly get replaced by Assam tea, the very same tea that flavours English and Irish breakfasts. It’s a funny little cultural swap that always makes me smile.
At 10:30 AM, we boarded the train to Ayr, with the destination clearly displayed on the electronic screen of the train’s carriage. We settled in to enjoy the passing countryside. The morning sadness had softened; we were chatting, laughing, and soaking in the gentle rhythm of the journey.
Our connecting train from Ayr to Stranraer was scheduled for 11:30 AM.
So, I started scanning maps and timetables on my phone, keeping an eye on the stations and the clock.
But something felt off. The train seemed to be crawling, and the time to reach Ayr was stretching far beyond what I expected. Given the train’s pace, Ayr wouldn’t arrive until noon — dangerously late for our connection to Stranraer.
A cold wave of panic washed over me. Worst-case scenarios flooded my mind: missing the train, missing the ferry, stranded in Cairnryan with nowhere to go. I had already booked an Airbnb in Belfast; the stakes felt real.
Just then, the ticket inspector made his rounds. I seized the moment to ask if the train was delayed and mentioned my tight connection in Ayr.
“You’re on the wrong train,“ He said. “This is the slow one. You were supposed to be on the fast one.”
His reply shocked me to my core.
It seemed both trains had departed from the same platform. But in my haste, we’d boarded the closest one to us, without realising there was another train to Ayr just a few coaches away. That realisation sank in, and the race against time had officially begun.
Still in panic, I started frantically checking all the options. The ultimate goal was clear: catch the Stena ferry at Cairnryan by 3 PM. Could I get a taxi from Ayr? Where would I book one? Was there a local bus that went to Cairnryan? The questions swirled in my head like a storm.
Mom, sensing my distress, asked what had happened. When I translated the inspector’s blunt words, she sighed and said, “Why are you always like this, Raja? Shouldn’t you have checked properly?” It was a valid concern. After all, the success of our entire trip to the Island of Ireland hinged on me, starting with catching that ferry. What a way to begin.
There were no other options but to get off at Ayr, book a cab, and make our way to Cairnryan. I kept telling myself it wasn’t a disaster—not on the scale of missing a 54-hour train journey across India. After all, the western coast of Scotland shouldn’t be the setting for such a nightmare. A little extra expense for a cab, and all would be fine. What gnawed at me wasn’t the inconvenience but the fact that I had missed the train when so much responsibility rested on my shoulders.
I told my parents, “We’ll get down at Ayr, and I will find a cab for us.” They graciously entrusted me with the decision. Dad reassured me gently, saying, “Don’t worry, Beta.”
“Beta” — which means son in Hindi — was a word he always used for me when he wanted to show love. Despite our Nepali roots, where “choro” would have been more natural, he always used “beta,” a small comfort in that moment.
