Murder on the 9:37 to Stirling!

The first experience I had with the train brought me face to face with a chalk outline, a hotel straight out of a Stephen King novel, and a bunch of people who are paid to creatively kill people. Bundled up in my trench coat with shoulder bag in hand I wound my way down the damp Edinburgh streets to Haymarket Station to catch the 9:37 to Stirling. After a brief miscommunication with the thickly-accented woman at the ticket counter I proceeded ticket in hand back outside to the windy platform. When I need to be somewhere at a specific time I will do everything in my power to get there early, oftentimes to the dismay of my travel companions, therefore I had a while to sit and take in the restless hum of the travelers around me. My train screeched into the station so I found a seat by the window and settled in for the hour and 20 minute journey from Edinburgh to the heart of Scotland. Country side and suburban villages rushed by as I alternated between reading up on some of the writers I was about to see and staring out at the rush of trees and tiny houses. Due to work on the tracks the train stopped in a wee city called Falkirk where I caught a bus that brought me to Stirling and left me standing in front of the Stirling Train Station. Stirling is small and laced with Scottish charm. That morning, while cold, was crisp and sunny and a bagpiper was performing in the square, however I had no time to look around and enjoy the scenery. I passed through the city square and noticed a faded chalk outline on the corner. As I approached the faded drawing I noticed its arm was stretched above its head as if pointing at something. I looked up and found myself gazing up at the Stirling Highland Hotel looming up on top of the hill at the end of the road. At the bottom of the hill I could see quite plainly why they chose this specific hotel in this specific city to host Scotland's international crime writing festival. Tightening my jacket against the cool air I started up the hill towards Bloody Scotland.
The hotel was stunning. Large stone buildings surround a withered unruly court yard with an oxidized observatory perched at the top of on of the corner that faces the road overlooking the town. Grand arched doorways led into narrow exquisitely decorated hallways lined with floor length windows linked the antique ballrooms, cozy sitting areas, makeshift book shop, and old fashioned reception. I wandered around trying to memorize the layout as I looked for the reception area so I could collect my event tickets and marveled at how surreal my surroundings were. Old and beautiful is always the perfect setting for murder, mystery, and mayhem. My first event featured an interview with Denise Mina who spoke about writing for graphic novels and about her work adapting Stieg Larsson's Girl with the Dragon Tattoo trilogy into graphic novel format. Being a bit of a fan of graphic novels it was interesting to listen to someone who writes both crime novels and graphic novels talk about the differences in writing style and process between the two formats. I then proceeded to a talk with both Charles Cumming and Chris Morgan Jones. They spoke about their real life experiences within the world of spies and espionage as if they were talking about what they did last weekend and inadvertently made the presenter look like a quivering puddle of cowardice in a bow-tie. I left longing for my John Le Carré novels and the world of George Smiley. I grabbed a coffee and wandered around the hotel a bit more before reluctantly making my way out to the court yard and off of the grounds. My last event at Bloody Scotland and primary reason for attending the festival was in little theater standing in the shadow of the Stirling Highland Hotel. My current favorite author, Stuart MacBride, and the excellent Val McDermid were taking the stage and joining up to give a presentation entitled "The Great, the Good, and the Gory." Before the presentation began I quickly visited the bookshop set up in the theater and purchased a few MacBride's novels, including his latest Close to the Bone, justifying it by reminding myself how hard they were to find back home and that ordering them online is so much more expensive. It's bizarre seeing someone whose words you know so well in the flesh. Hearing them talk about one of your favorite characters as if they were talking about a friend they just saw the other day is surreal. I fancy myself to be a bit of a writer and have messed around with fiction on numerous, so I found myself better able to relate and understand than I thought I would. I sat for an hour enthralled at every piece of information about writing and every hilarious anecdote. Afterwards unable to help myself I followed the crowd back up to the bookshop to get my brand new copy of Close to the Bone signed by Mr. MacBride himself. As I waited in the queue I tried to come up with something clever and insightful to say but upon reaching the table my mind abandoned me and I was very proud of my meager "thank you."

Foos yer doos?

 With my back to the old hotel silhouetted against the darkening sky I started down rain soaked road lined with darkened shops and cafes to the train station. My mind was so preoccupied with trying to remember the train timetable and the new books dripping with blood and gore in my bag I never noticed the shadowed figure following me down the cobbled sidewalk.

More music!