The Race Against Time: From Edinburgh to Ayr
The air was thick with bittersweet emotion as my parents reluctantly handed over their three-month-old grandson, Arin, to my sister. That fleeting moment of parting felt heavy — a visible sadness etched on my parents’ face — before we made our way to Edinburgh Waverley train station. The plan was straightforward: Edinburgh to Glasgow by train, then onward to Ayr, Stranraer, a taxi to Cairnryan’s Stena terminal, and finally the ferry crossing to Belfast. 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 arrived at Glasgow station on time. The station was buzzing with life — a stark contrast to our subdued morning. When my mom first arrived in the UK, she developed a fondness for cappuccino. So whenever she was out and about in the UK, she would always ask us to get her a cappuccino. She struggles to pronounce the word, but that has never dampened her enthusiasm. 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. And even if they did, I’m pretty sure the “small” sizes would still be bigger than what she expects. 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.
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. His reply shocked me to my core: “You’re on the wrong train. This is the slow one. You were supposed to be on the fast one.”
Both trains had departed from the same platform. But in my haste, we’d boarded the nearest one without realizing there was another train to Ayr just a few coaches away. The realization 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. while Dad reassured me gently, “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.
The clock was ticking mercilessly as our train approached Ayr station. Would we make it in time to board, or was the crossing slipping away from us? The answer lay just ahead, shrouded in uncertainty.
