A dry-eyed departure from my Scottish home

Twenty-five years ago, give or take a few months, I sat in the passenger seat of my now husband’s car as we drove away from my flat in Battersea, which I had just rented out. 

I was sobbing, and I don’t think I stopped until we were on the M1, heading ever northwards until our final destination: Scotland.

Not only had I given up my bachelor pad, but I had also sold my precious car and quit my Fleet Street job, all to join my Scottish chap in his natural habitat.

Although the decision was mine, leaving London was an awful wrench and the enormity of what I was doing hit me immediately.

Fast forward a quarter of a century, and I – we – have returned. On Wednesday, we piled up the car in Edinburgh, said our final farewells at the local newsagent, post office and café, and off we went, watching the familiar landmarks of a great chunk of our lives whizz by. Friends and colleagues asked later if I’d felt emotional as we crossed the border, and I had to tell them, honestly, no.

On this departure, there were no tears, no lump in the throat even, but nor was there a triumphant cheer as Berwick came into view. It was like any other long car journey, long, and boring, the only difference being that this would be a one-way trip.

That doesn’t mean I won’t miss Scotland, far from it. The past weeks have been a blur of last suppers and goodbyes to close pals. We’ve promised we’ll be back (on the train) to visit, and they’ve promised to put us up.

As our exit drew nearer, I found myself going on out-of-the-way walks – past the registry office (now defunct) where we got married, along the cycle path beside my daughters’ old school. I even peered through the window of our first flat in Scotland’s capital to see if I could conjure up traces of yesterday.

Last Sunday, I went to an afternoon concert in the Usher Hall, high up on my list of favourite haunts. I chatted to the stranger sitting next to me, and at the end, he said convivially, “well, I’ll probably see you at the next one.” Ah, but he won’t. 

I would like to have driven again to the west coast, to commit to memory the misty lochs and bleak mountains, but I ran out of time and, anyway, will be back.

My heart is not heavy because I – we – have chosen to leave, because there is adventure in upheaval, and because of what awaits, which, most importantly, is family close by.

Once the uprooting part of the move is over, and the distractions recede, maybe I will reflect on what we’ve done and have cause for regret.

But I doubt it. The Scotland where I imagined I was settled for life felt less and less like home as the house became an empty nest and the 400 miles to London is a separation too far. If my girls could live there, why not us?

There is something else though. The Scotland I migrated to in 1996 was a world away from the place I’ve just left behind. Pre-Blair, pre-devolution, we were there to witness the new dawn and new parliament that heralded a political, and press, renaissance.

At our dinner table in devolved Scotland’s early days, we had heated but good-humoured cross-party gatherings. Rookie SNP parliamentarians broke bread with newbie Labour and Tory MSPs. On election nights, we stayed up working and drinking late with politicians of every hue. 

Even at our children’s christening parties, Nationalist guests mingled with Unionists in a village hall up an Angus glen in Scotland’s forgotten age of political innocence. Unthinkable now.

On the day we left this week, an opinion poll put the Scottish Nationalists in the lead, the first in months to do so but nevertheless a reminder of a country split down the middle over the constitution.

Just before the Scottish elections in May, I wrote that I would flee an independent Scotland. But, in fact, I have fled as the prospect of independence, despite that latest poll, remains remote, the two sides of the divide entrenched. 

However, while the half (or thereabouts) of Scotland that wants to break up Britain can co-exist with the other half, it’s not a sustainable truce. With the Nationalists in government for 14 years, the broken-record rhetoric of separatist ambition drowns out all rational discourse.

Being English in today’s Scotland has not been an issue, in my experience, but being anti-Nationalist carries the mark of Cain. 

Having opted to marry a Scot and raise two children north of the border, my sense of belonging has evaporated along with any sense of proportion in the country’s politics.

So, I’ll take my chances in overcrowded England, where the cultural and political landscape is more diverse and London, even after so many years away, feels less like a foreign country than my adopted Scottish homeland.