Edinburgh's No 5 Bus Route Log: From The Jewel tae Hunter’s Tryst

Edinburgh’s no glossy postcard fae the gift shop. It’s petrol fumes, fried food, rain-soaked pavements, and a bus that rattles through it aw, dragging ye wi it. Strap in, ye’re takin this ride whether ye want tae or no.

Ye ever sit oan a bus an think: who the f** designed this mad city?* It’s a rickety theme park ride stitched wi potholes an history, ancient castles perched on volcanic rock, wi junkies arguing at the back seat an school weans daein TikToks at the front. The No. 5 (aye, the one wi the Jewel startin line) isnae jist a route, it’s a f***in’ autopsy o Edinburgh, every layer sliced open, fae discount petrol at Asda tae the posh lawns ae Morningside. Folk pile oan, folk stumble aff, an the bus keeps grindin through the city like a stubborn hangover ye cannae shift.

ASDA Petrol Station tae The Jewel

Startin aff at the Asda petrol station, an it’s a fin caravan park o motors pumpin diesel like they’re tryin tae choke the planet by teatime. Folk wi dead eyes loadin meal deals intae the boots ae rustin Corsas, pure zombie nation, ken? Ye swing the bus oot the forecourt, tyres hissin, an it’s The Jewel, big f-off retail land, a concrete Disneyland for sad bast*rds. Every shop screamin SALE SALE SALE like some cheap tart wi her knickers doon.

Milton Link tae Duddingston Crescent

Up Milton Link, an the road’s stretchin like a hangover, every junction a test ae patience. By the time ye’re at Duddingston Crescent the tenements start lookin doon at ye, stone faces wi nae pity. Some wee jakey wi a bottle ae Buckie at ten in the mornin gives ye the aye driver, yer mair important than the Queen wave, then nearly trips ower his ain shoelaces.

Milton Road West tae Mountcastle

Bus hummin doon Milton Road West, cuttin intae the east side ae life. Mountcastle’s the usual, every second windae a lace curtain twitchin, pensioners clockin the bus like it’s the f***in highlight ae their week. Auld wifies giein the death stare if ye dinnae stop exactly square on the kerb. “Driver, ye’re aff by three inches!” Three inches is aw the difference at their age.

Northfield Broadway tae Portobello Road

Northfield Broadway, feelin the weight ae the day, the air thick wi chip fat an fags. Then Portobello Road, aye, where the seagulls rule like winged mafia bosses, sh*ttin wae impunity on anybody daft enough tae park under a lamppost. The smell ae the sea’s jist a tease, ye ken yer no gettin near the shore, yer trapped on the tarmac, a wage-slave tae the timetable.

London Road tae Leith Walk tae North Bridge

London Road’s a battlefield ae traffic, every bawbag wi a steering wheel thinkin they’re the next Lewis Hamilton. Then Leith Walk, pure chaos, bodies spillin aff pavements, every yin shoutin in ten different accents. The place is alive, aye, but it’s like a mad f***in carnival wi nae ringmaster. Up tae North Bridge, an the city bares its teeth, auld closes like wounds, cobbles rattlin yer ribs, an tourists gawpin at the sky like they expect William Wallace tae abseil aff the Scott Monument.

South Bridge tae Clerk Street an Beyond

South Bridge, then intae Clerk Street where students shuffle roon wi laptops like they’re carryin the cure for f***in cancer but really it’s jist Tinder profiles an essays aboot feminism in Netflix. St Patrick Square tae Salisbury Place, bus squeezin through traffic tighter than a jakey’s jeans efter a shoplift session. Then Newington Road, the climb startin, the city turnin leafy, posh. Grange Road, Beaufort, Strathearn, every yin a smug postcard ae privilege. Windaes glintin, lawns so green they make ye want tae spew.

Church Hill tae Morningside tae Oxgangs

Church Hill an Morningside, here comes the land ae clipped vowels an labradoodles. Every c*** in Patagonia fleeces, cappuccino froth stuck tae their coupon, gawpin at the bus like it’s deliverin culture tae their doorstep. By the time ye’re hammerin doon Comiston Road tae Greenbank, the trees are creepin closer, shade fae the leafy b******s. Oxgangs Avenue opens oot, grey schemes, stories etched in the scars ae stairwells, kids ridin bikes wi nae brakes, the ghosts ae the schemes watchin fae balconies. Then New Swanston, the bus draggin its arse, terminus in sight, the hunter’s tryst wi destiny, nae glory, nae confetti, jist another shift, another round ae survival on four wheels.

By the time ye roll intae Hunter’s Tryst, yer heid’s burstin wi it, voices, faces, shops, the stink ae fried chicken, the stench ae rain-soaked pavements. That’s the bus, ken. It’s never jist a journey; it’s Edinburgh itself batterin through yer skull, beautiful, brutal, absurd, an pure magic in the same f***in breath. Ye step aff, light up, check the sky, an think: aye… till the next shift, till the next circus.

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Meta description: A raw, sweary ride on Edinburgh’s No. 5 bus, gritty, funny, brutal, and absurd. The city in all its messy, magic glory.

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