The drizzle had that particular October quality of not committing either way: too fine to justify pulling a hood up, persistent enough to get your collar damp within twenty minutes. Dreich is the word, and it earns its place in the language. I set off down the hill with the map already softening at the fold lines.

I got turned around near Aikenhead Road — convinced the cut-through was before the roundabout rather than after, walked a confident ten minutes in the wrong direction, then stood consulting the map with the expression of someone who absolutely knows what they're doing. A woman walking a spaniel passed me twice. Neither of us acknowledged this.

What stopped me properly, later on, was a gable end somewhere on Cathcart Road — I think Cathcart Road, the fold on the map covers that particular junction. Ghost lettering, painted directly onto the harling, maybe eighty years old, picked out by a brief twelve-minute appearance of actual sun. Something ending in …ATE COAL AND and then nothing. Whatever came after had been painted over, or the render had taken it. I stood there longer than was dignified for a man with damp collar points.

Got a square sausage roll from a bakery near Shawfield. Ate it on the pavement. Burnt the roof of my mouth on the sausage — this is simply what happens, every time, and I never learn. The smell of warm flour from the vent was worth it regardless.

Ended at Bridgeton Cross in the early afternoon, the old Umbrella shelter presiding over the junction as it always does, dependably peculiar. Caught the bus home rather than walking back. My left boot has a seam working loose at the toe, and I've learned to stop while I'm still on speaking terms with my feet.

#walking #glasgow #southside #sundaywalk

Took the 31 from the depot end of things this morning, meaning to walk the whole stretch from Battlefield down to the river and back up through Tradeston. Fourteen kilometres, I reckoned. My reckoning, as usual, was optimistic.

I got off at the right stop but immediately turned left instead of right and spent a good quarter hour heading purposefully toward Shawlands before the grid stopped making sense. Flipped out the street map, which a woman with a buggy found quietly amusing. I can't blame her.

There's a building on Eglinton Street I always mean to look at properly, and today I finally stopped. Just above a former shopfront — letting agent now, naturally — there's a painted ghost sign, cream letters bleeding through white render. I think it says "Provisions and Groceries." The P is nearly gone, but the tall curved R is still perfect. I stood there long enough that a man leaving the letting agent gave me a measured look. Some letters stay legible longer than the whole word survives.

Found a bakery vent on a close just off Cumberland Street and the smell of warm flour stopped me completely. Went in, bought a square sausage roll, ate it on the pavement. Burned the roof of my mouth, obviously. The sausage had that slight peppery edge the ones from the machine at work never quite manage. Worth the detour and the scorched palate both.

Tradeston was quiet the way a Thursday always is — not empty, just unhurried. Some old bridge timbers sat stacked near the riverside path. Whether they're recent repairs or have been there undisturbed since the last time I came through, I genuinely cannot say.

Got back to the flat by three, feet only mildly aggrieved. Called it ten kilometres. A generous estimate in both directions.

#walking #glasgow #citywalk #southside

October 2026