Glasgow | 03: the necropolis

It's our final morning in Glasgow. The sun's out. We skirt east past the Strathclyde campus, which sprawls along the side of a steep hill, giving the side streets a slightly San Francisco feel. This area's grimier, but no less charming, than the West End: a mix of industrial buildings, student flats, and old shop signage. We visit Papercup Coffee, the coffee shop I've mentioned before. Order toast and americanos. The man in the Orbison t-shirt passes by. Then we walk up the hill to the cathedral.

Maps of the area show a swathe of green called the Glasgow Necropolis, which I'd assumed was just a bit of cemetery belonging to the cathedral. As we approach, it turns out I'm half right. Cemetery: yes. 'Bit of': massive understatement. What I don't realise at the time is that this necropolis, covering a prominent grassy hill, is just as much of a visitor attraction as the twelfth century cathedral it overlooks, and is just as stately too. The Friends of Glasgow Necropolis website shows a photo of the headstones topped with snow, but we're seeing it in all its sun-soaked June glory.

An interdenominational cemetery, the Necropolis has grown considerably since its opening in 1833, becoming a site of architectural, social, historical and cultural importance. Rich, poor, famous, unknown, Christian, Jew, Wee Willie Winkie; all are buried here, in quiet yet extravagant wonder. There's the imposing monument to John Knox, and then the unassuming headstone of a doctor and his six children who slid off the earth one by one in the space of a week. Billy Connolly once said that Glasgow 'doesn't care much for the living, but it really looks after the dead'.

It's hard to capture the hauntingly beautiful atmosphere of the necropolis. To cross the Bridge of Sighs, climb the hill among headstones and walk the gently sloping grass between graves, the city huddled below, is to feel like you've drunk the shrinking potion and stepped into Wonderland. Because the headstones are huge. All of them. They tower over you with their Victorian grandness, planted in rows like stubborn crooked teeth. Some are simple obelisks, others are more ornate: Gothic crosses, urns, miniature temples, statues. It's disorientating, how the stones make you feel so small, but disorientating in an oddly comforting way. You're nestled in the arms of the dead, but you're also open to the fresh Scottish air high above the city. Tombs hollowed out of the rock face are up to 14 feet deep, and yet the graves crowning the hill stand so tall and upright, as if they're reaching up to the sun.

Glasgow | 02: coffee (and burgers) in the city

After my June trip, I'll always associate Glasgow with three things: Springsteen, sunsets, and coffee. OK, so Springsteen shows may be a rare occasion for the city, but I hear Scotland often enjoys a good sunset, and the coffee in Glasgow is definitely worth shouting about.

Our call for post-Bruce brunch was answered by Spitfire Espresso, glowing on a street corner in central Glasgow. We sat under a cloudless late morning sky at a table on a heat-soaked pavement, with strong dark coffee and poached eggs. While this perfect summer weather was temporary, the independent coffee scene in Glasgow is permanent, and impressive. 

After roaming the West End, we caught the subway back to the city centre and eventually wound up at Bread Meats Bread. What a place, what a burger. I've been vegetarian for a while, but a good burger joint always tests all of my reserve: unless it's so good it actually does a decent vegetarian burger.

I've had three exceptionally good vegetarian burgers in my life: the 'Thom Yorke' at Berlin's Let It Be; the veggie burger at Copenhagen's Tommi's Burger Joint (now also in London!); and the falafel burger at Bread Meats Bread. This burger was so tall I doubt even Andy Murray'd be able to get his jaw around it. Served with a generous basket of sweet potato fries. I swore I'd never be hungry again. 

It's normally the west side of the city that gets recommended, photographed, instagrammed. But the east of Glasgow, home to the University of Strathclyde, Glasgow Cathedral, and the Glasgow Necropolis, is worth a potter too. Papercup Coffee Company, a West End favourite, has another branch in the east; we had sourdough toast and coffee here on our final morning. (I was sat in the window in a Springsteen shirt when a man in a Roy Orbison shirt walked past outside, and we gave each other a smile and a thumbs up, like we were part of a secret club.) 

And of course, a coffee from the legendary Gordon St Coffee at Glasgow Central to accompany the train ride back to London.

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Places mentioned:
Spitfire Espresso
Bread Meats Bread
Let It Be (Berlin)
Tommi's Burger Joint (Copenhagen)
Papercup Coffee Company
Gordon St Coffee

(And yes. I'm still unable to blog without making at least one Springsteen reference. You'll just have to live with it.)

Glasgow | 01: a day in the West End

I don't believe it was really Glasgow, where I went at the beginning of this month. Not the Glasgow I've heard about, anyway, the Glasgow of perpetual rain and cold summers, of drug dens and ugly streets and 'remind your clock back twenty-five years'.

No, where I went was lush with June green and blue sky. The temperature was the perfect kind of hot, and pavements shone pale and wide with sunburned walkers clutching iced coffees. I was reminded of New York in April, when temperatures at the day's girth would reach the mid twenties, and then fall back to misty cool at night. I feel I've cheated slightly by visiting Glasgow in this hot, sunny, almost unreal state. I need to return to watch the tenement stones withstand spitting rain and howling wind, I need to witness the sensation of escaping into coffee shops from the grey cold. As it is, Glasgow now holds a special, holy place in my mind, a little oasis of perfect summer.

The morning after the Springsteen show at Hampden Park, after a necessary lie-in followed by coffee and eggs, we walked through the city to Glasgow's West End. We passed traffic, shabby buildings and bustle, and the motorway. Then our route became very uncity-ish. Kelvingrove Park was all full green leaf and at least three different kinds of blossom. After a quick dive into the Kelvingrove art museum (the day just too good to be inside looking at stuffed animals) we followed the river Kelvin as it winds its way around the side of the University of Glasgow. The path creeps under tall bridges, skirts waterside pubs and flattens out next to the terracotta terraces of the West End. Sometimes it runs right alongside the water; there was a shopping trolley skeleton rusting artistically in the middle of the river, while nearby a mother duck and her chicks were sunbathing on a rock.

Eventually the path takes you to the Glasgow Botanic Gardens: a smaller, free version of London's pricey Kew Gardens. I took a quick nap outside Kibble Palace, an amazing 19th century curved glasshouse that looks somehow antiquated and futuristic at the same time. There's another glasshouse too, where ferns press their faces up against the panes. It was too hot to go inside.  
The gardens themselves are pretty nice; lots of sweeping paths, herb gardens and bushes heady with flower. Apparently there are two disused, derelict railway stations concealed in the greenery, which were closed at the start of WWII. The building of one was subsequently used as a nightclub, until it burned down after a Battle of the Bands contest in 1970.

Byres Road runs down south-west from the gardens. I felt like Byres Road was a secret that got out about two years ago and feels very slightly stale now. It's still a great place though: lots of coffee shops and charity shops, restaurants, music venues, the occasional record store (sadly I was too full of Springsteen to pay much attention to other music). Hidden down side streets were little pop up cafes and vintage stores, people clustered together in small shafts of sunlight. Byres Road reminded me of Park Street in Bristol: a slightly awkward mix of high street and independent, that just about rubbed along ok. 

Too tired to walk home, we caught the subway (it really DOES feel like a toy!) to the city centre and sat by the Clyde eating crisps in the last of the day's sun.