The air is alive and no Pope-bashing in sight in Glasgow's Bellahouston Park

Two hours’ wait and the palace gates open. Motorcycles rush through closely followed by a fleet of small cars and vans with dark windows. A hand waves from behind smoked glass; only later do I wonder, was it him? The speeding procession ends with an ambulance service. The gates close. The brass band strikes up “God Save the Queen.” Through the wrought iron I see one red mozetta and then another. Was that a flash of white or just my imagination? The crowd continues to look eagerly for… what? A limousine? But the road has been closed off by six policemen on motorcycles.

I hurry up the medieval Royal Mile and dash around the corner to the North Bridge. By the time the railway station is in view, I am running. Yay me, for wearing athletic shoes with my prim lemon dress and coat. According to the letter in my pilgrim pack, I have to meet my pilgrim leader and catch the train by noon. If I don’t catch the noon train, claims the letter, no train at all for me. It is 11:43. I am frantic and bump gently into the crowds lining Princes Street. Some people are holding Scottish flags. I think briefly of my husband and friends, wondering where they are.

I tear into Waverley Station, expecting to see throngs of excited pilgrims and Pilgrim Leaders holding up ribbon-festooned sticks. Waverley Station is all but deserted. Confused, I rush around the station looking for fellow parishioners before consulting, at 11:54 p.m., the lady at the information desk. For a crazed moment, I wonder if I got the date wrong.

I explain my situation, coughing drily as I mention the 30,000 people I expect to be coming too. The lady tranquilly directs me to Platform 16. The guard at Platform 16 smiles kindly as I show him my letter and says my group has probably gone already. “It’s been very quiet,” he observes, by way of explanation.  He lets me through.  I lose faith in the hectoring tone of my pilgrim pack.  I appear to be the only pilgrim in my quiet compartment.

But, suddenly, I’m in Glasgow. And in Glasgow there are men in white or grey habits. Craftily I follow them to Glasgow Central Station, and flash my press pass at the youngest. He shies back and says he can’t talk to me. So I talk to the older religious behind him.

“Are you Dominicans?” I ask brightly.

“No,” he says. “We are Benedictines of Pluscarden Abbey.”

I get on the next train, and another Benedictine sits next to me. This is Dom Hugh Gilbert, the Abbot of Pluscarden. Pluscarden is a popular retreat for people in my Edinburgh parish, I tell him. And how, I ask, have the monks been preparing for the papal visit?

“We’re praying for it, that all will go well,” he says.

The train arrives in a rural spot, and we join the crowds of pilgrims walking towards Bellahouston Park. Many pilgrims have their yellow pilgrim pack bags slung over their shoulders. The sun has come out and is shining brightly. The dour atmosphere of Edinburgh is nowhere to be felt; the pilgrims beam.

I step into Bellahouston Park, and suddenly I am a world away from the cynicism of the Pope-bashers. In one large field there are thousands and thousands of people, all facing the altar on a great stage under a huge tent. I have no idea how I am going to find my fellow parishioners, but I know one of them has a seeing eye dog named Lily. I look for Lily and find instead Martin, the volunteer usher of the Latin Mass community of Edinburgh, the first person I often see at Sunday Mass. And if that isn’t astonishing enough, amongst all these thousands, I also find our parishioner Paul. He has saved me a spot under a maple tree.

Mass will begin at 4:45 p.m. The air is alive.