En route from Aberdeen to Oxford, something happened that I really didn’t expect, but want to expect, and perhaps should expect more often. I’ll get to it in a moment or two. I’d taken the wonderfully necessary Scotrail line down to Edinburgh, which hugs the cliffs and bridges of the East Coast. Sometimes it literally feels like the train is just ambling along a beach a few feet from the water or peering over a steep drop, which doesn’t seem like it should be allowed (in a good way). At Edinburgh, I had a fifty minute wait until my connecting train to King’s Cross. I do have a soft spot for Edinburgh – the city Dickens called ‘a house of cards’ because of its tall, narrow, rising stacks of beautiful sandstone buildings that look as though they should collapse at any moment – so I nipped out to the Royal Mile to sample some of the ongoing Fringe Festival. The finest the Bohemian cultural milieu has to offer. The aroma of bratwurst, which – by law, it seems – must accompany all Bohemian outdoor events without fail – was genuinely spellbinding, even at the somewhat unlawful price of almost seven pounds per sausage. At every conceivable stopping-point flyers were being thrust into faceless hands, and large pockets of crowds gathered around various mini-stages which seemed to have colonised the streets, showcasing acoustic bands, jugglers, and mimes, with each flyer perpetually promising ever-newer and greater theatrical delights if you could only stay a little longer.