On the night of the 26th February a fierce wind blew through Edinburgh and claimed the life of one of my favourite trees. The magnificent Cedar of Lebanon, which has graced the lawn outside the glass houses at Edinburgh’s Botanical Gardens for several hundred years, is suddenly and tragically gone. Or rather, its dismembered body is strewn across the ground, cordoned off from the public as if a murder enquiry is underway. On our walk through the Botanics yesterday we stopped and stared at the scene of devastation. 

My friend who works here in the Gardens, explained that the Cedar’s massive spreading branches had been heavily laden with snow the day before its downfall. Perhaps the extra weight and wind resistance of the snow made the tree more vulnerable. In Thomas Pakenham’s gorgeous book “Meetings with Remarkable Trees” he writes that the Cedar of Lebanon originates from and is better suited to the rocks and scree of Mount Lebanon and the Taurus mountains of Turkey. In Britain’s rich soils it grows too fast and tall and tends not to put down a very deep rooting system. Britain is not its true home, and I suspect it’s not mine either.

Occasionally I model for a drawing group and this morning is one of those occasions. Dressed in black leggings and sleeveless top, I stand in what I vaguely remember as being a ballet position, toes out-turned, and imagine that I am a dancer taking a break from rehearsals. These sessions provide me with an excellent antidote to the mad whirl of my life. Here I can be still and quiet for two hours with nothing but the scratch of charcoal on paper and an atmosphere of intense concentration surrounding me. I can let my mind wander off into other worlds or I can mentally organise the rest of my week or I can just go blank for a while. At the end of the session it is always intriguing to look at all the different ways I have been drawn. I leave feeling rested, refreshed, calm and enriched.

My route home takes me right across the centre of Edinburgh so as I walk I reflect on why I came here two years ago and why I feel that it is time to leave now. I was born and brought up here in the 1960’s, returned to train as a nurse in 1979 and returned once more in 1999 to seek refuge from a failing relationship. Perhaps Edinburgh is my geographical security blanket or womb. My comfort zone. It will certainly always be my favourite city, for its wide cobbled streets, its imposing, sombre architecture, its mature, lush gardens and quite simply because it is so familiar to me.

So why leave? Well, I am not very good at coping with small spaces. I begin to feel claustrophobic and in need of more elbow room and air. My favourite places (Australia, Southern Morocco and West Scotland spring to mind) all have vast acres of nothingness and huge skies. Plenty of breathing space. 

Security is not my forte. In the last two years I have locked myself out of the house four times. Getting back in has respectively involved: a locksmith; a fire engine with eight strapping lads (one to climb the ladder and seven to stand around looking hunky); two agile friends both of whom managed to climb up to my first floor kitchen window. 

On many other occasions I have left the front door unlocked or even wide open. The car is never locked. Please don’t tell my insurers. I’m hopeless at parking the car into anything less than a coach-sized space. Traffic terrifies me. We all want a dog, but I hate to see them in cities. Most of all I want my children to grow up with the freedom to explore the great and wondrous outdoors.

And another thing. The longer I live in the city the more I notice the litter and dirt. This really gets me down. When I first moved here I found myself collecting litter whenever we were out and bringing it home to our bin. I have long since been overwhelmed and given up. Have you ever noticed how much squashed chewing gum there is on the pavements? The quantity is quite phenomenal and, now that I have noticed it, horribly distracting. If chewing gum continues to be deposited onto pavements at the present rate, will we end up walking on a solid mat of springy grey stuff?  Could this be a cheaper alternative to the safety surfacing used in children’s playgrounds?

With thoughts like these it is definitely time to move out of the city. Then all the joys of mud and sand in the house and car will re-enter to my life. I do so love finding sand in children’s ears, trouser pockets and socks.

I am jolted out of my contemplation by the music of my mobile phone. Once I have remembered where it is and which button to press, I finally get through to the caller. Oh joy of joys, it’s one of those mortgage fellas with the stunning news that they are happy to offer me a mortgage! Whoopee. All I have to do now is put in an offer for my idyllic home and cross my fingers tight.

©Julia Welstead