The city of Scots. Longing to hear the Scottish dialect, I was captivated by the bus driver's announcements. To articulate this city felt like a challenge. As the bus turned into the city center, any words I might have used to describe my trance simply escaped me. Perhaps that’s what it was, a trance. The buildings stretched in layers as far as the eye could see. Old brick structures with sharp, pointed edges, as though I’d stepped into a medieval fairy tale. Everything about the city made me expect that any old legend could prove true.

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Captivated and enchanted beyond words, yet there was an underlying feeling that I didn’t quite belong in this city. It crept up on me silently but hit me with undeniable force. Despite its age and magic, something about the city didn't allow me to fully trust it. I realised that when confronted with a city so rich in historical tales and so abundant in remnants of them, it stirs an existential crisis I can’t quite shake.

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When I finally left the dense cityscape for open spaces and village homes, I felt entirely different. I felt like myself again, roaming over damp soil, grass dotted with medieval ruins. I spent much of my time in Edinburgh imagining a life there, only to realize it might shine brighter in a novel or a fairy tale. It became clear that the city’s glow, lit by the grey clouds above, was confronting in its own way, like realising that something I thought I wanted just wasn’t quite right. By this point in my trip, I’d visited two places I thought I could truly connect with, only to leave with a newfound appreciation for their charm, but not their liveability.

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Edinburgh, I’ll be back, but not to put roots down.