Monday morning, 4am

Sleeping by the open window I was aware of the noise of Edinburgh's Leith Walk as the city went to sleep and then re-awoke.
A particularly noisy car alarm split the night.  In my dozy daze I wondered if one of the other domitory residents had an unsocially loud siren alarm clock.

But it was a siren.  Slowly we realised it was the fire alarm, and quickly the hostel emptied of half-dressed, half-awake people into the mild morning air.  The fire engine arrived outside as we did. 

After a short but heavy sleep I was away into the morning traffic, on a cool, dreich day.  Edinburgh's a grand city, on every sense, but it didn't fit with my seaside journey.  Roads dug up: building tramlines.  A hilly maze of diversions.   NCN1 signed through an alley. Suddenly I was in a different world of tiny stone houses and cobbled streets.

Then back onto an old railway route, quiet, easy cycling on tarmac through wooded cuttings.  Lovely.  This took me out of town, and then it was through suburban villages until I saw the Forth bridges in the mist.  Strictly speaking, shouldn't one of them be the Fifth bridge?  Over the cycleway in a gusty wind, concentrating. Every time I looked at the view I was blown sideways.

On the North shore I stopped at Inverkeithing for an early elevenses.   Lunchtime special: stovies and baked tatties.  Welcome to Fife.

On to Aberdour. Aber means bridge, dour means ... dour? Neat rows of understated stone houses, but no admission of being on the water's edge, save for its lack of altitude.  The next village, Kinghorn, marked the corner of the Firth of Forth where I turned North.  Ordinary houses overlooked the bay from high on a rocky promontory: a million-pound view on a sunny day.  The seaside seemed to be obscured by the railway.  

Kirkcaldy next, with the seaside cut off by a dual carriageway.  Maybe the Scots just don't do beach holidays.  In the seafront public loos, first I couldn't understand and then I couldn't believe it when the attendant wanted 30p to spend a penny. No seaside cafés either, but a bar down a side street suspiciously served me a tea.

Things were looking bad.  However after crossing the river Leven, things looked up.  The hills flattened out.  The town of Leven was thriving, with an excellent baker's shop selling decidly non-sickly sausage rolls.  I had a chocolate crispy slice too to make it a balanced meal.

Further on the beautiful village of Elie was clearly loved by its residents,  featuring Elie Deli among other shops.  This and St. Monans, next, had harbours for leisure but still didn't really show off their sea front - you had to seek it out.  Pittenweem, where I am now, is similarly attractive and has a perfect café too...