
How to get to Oasis Murrayfield gigs by bus, train or tram - full public transport options
As the countdown to the much-anticipated Oasis Edinburgh shows continues, it's time to start planning your way to and from the gig.
And with over 67,000 fans descending on the stadium for each of the Gallaghers' three shows in the Scots capital, it's safe to say that you don't want to leave your organising to the last minute.
Liam and Noel will be taking to the Edinburgh stage on August 8, 9, and 12, when eager fans will finally hear hits like Wonderwall and Don't Look Back in Anger for the first time since the brothers' infamous fallout 15 years ago.
But with such a large-scale series of events, which chaotically coincides with the Edinburgh Fringe and Festival, it's very important to know how you're going to get to and from the gigs amid the crowds.
With this in mind, we've rounded up some ways you can get to and from Murrayfield Stadium for the concert, including bus, train and tram. For Edinburgh road closures taking place during the gigs, see our list here.
But scroll down for everything you need to know about public transport to Murrayfield.
Train
Murrayfield Stadium is a 23-minute walk from Haymarket train station, according to Google Maps, so those travelling into Edinburgh from elsewhere for the gig would do well to get off the train here.
Be mindful that Waverly Station is a fair bit further to Murrayfield, although plenty buses or trams are available to get to Murrayfield from there. Scroll down for all the best inner city bus options.
Bus
Citylink is offering special services straight to the concert venue from Dundee, Perth Broxden, Halbeath Park and Ride, and Kinross Park and Ride to take you straight to the Scottish Gas Murrayfield Stadium.
However, Citylink notes that because these are special services, NEC cards won't be valid. Flixbus and Megabus also offer varied options for those travelling from further afield to Edinburgh city centre.
If you've made your way to town in Edinburgh, several Lothian buses will take you straight to the doorstep of Murrayfield (where there are also many pubs to have a pint before heading in).
The standard adult single fare for Lothian buses is £2.20.
Some Lothian bus options include:
26 Clerwood (Lothian buses)
31 Eastcraigs (Lothian buses)
12 Gyle Centre
You can get off at Roseburn Gardens or Murrayfield Road to be deposited just outside the venue. Other buses that pass by Murrayfield include the Citylink 900 to Glasgow, although this option may also be pricier than Lothian buses.
Tram
For those looking for a speedier option from Waverly or Haymarket station, or from Edinburgh city centre, the tram is another perfect way of getting to the gig. With a stop directly at Murrayfield Stadium, you can be dropped directly at the gig in a few minutes.
But be sure to always buy your tram ticket at the stop before boarding, as tickets are unavailable to buy once you've hopped on. A return adult ticket for inner city travel on the tram is £4.20, or it's £2.20 for a single.
Be sure to give yourself plenty of time to get to and from the gig, especially when trying to catch a bus or train, as it's likely to be extremely busy on all three nights.
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The Herald Scotland
2 hours ago
- The Herald Scotland
I found Sarah Vine's book unexpectedly heart-wrenching
If you were an aspiring politician seeking to annexe a seat anywhere south of Liverpool (and you'd be amazed how many Scots have done so) then be conversant with this woman's weekly chronicles. When I met her to discuss her book amidst the streets that form her Kensington hunting grounds, she'd written that day about the kitchen psycho-drama of Prince Harry's fractured (and probably irredeemable) relationship with his father, King Charles. In Scotland, we who fancy ourselves to be above these royal tribulations, dismiss them and cite them as evidence in the case against the Union. In England though, and most especially in working-class neighbourhoods, the Windsors' bizarre rituals are Shakespearian. They take sides and cheer on their champions from this cursed House. Read more Kevin McKenna: It's not long though – just a few pages, really – until (horror of horrors) you find yourself emotionally captured by her story of being married to the former Tory cabinet minister, Michael Gove. And how a once happy union was chiselled out by Brexit and by the class structure that still exists at the top of the Tories on which they spend a lot of money and time to conceal from the rest of us. You begin investing in this story about how Westminster's political thresher (and maybe Holyrood's too) can steal your soul if you're foolish enough to believe you can surf it and remain upright. It's also about surviving as a woman amidst the casual sexism that still pervades my industry and the outright misogyny that runs through Big Politics. There are startling moments, not least an egregiously misogynistic insult aimed at her by the comedian, Stewart Lee, in his Observer column. 'As a student, David Cameron is rumoured to have put his penis into a dead pig. To outdo him, Michael Gove put his penis into a Daily Mail journalist.' On a family trip to New York, they're spotted by another British couple. Not even the presence of their two children – 10 and 12 – spares them. 'W****** like you shouldn't be allowed to have children,' shouted the woman. 'The point I was trying to make, is one about the one process of dehumanisation,' she tells me. 'They don't see you as a person. I write for the Daily Mail and I was married to a Tory. So the normal rules of decency are suspended.' Vine admires current Conservative leader Kemi Badenoch (Image: Stefan Rousseau) She admires the current Conservative leader, Kemi Badenoch. 'She's got the balls to do it; she's got the appetite and is feisty and she has a vision and isn't afraid to ram it home. We're told that one dog year equals seven human years. It's the same with politicians.' She's right, of course. Politicians seem to age before our eyes in the term of a single parliament. Ms Vine's story – even without the politics and the tiaras – is a compelling one. Of a girl living in Italy where her affluent parents had moved to embrace la dolce vita amidst their extra-marital affairs and the tantrums that followed them and who felt like an ugly duckling in a school full of young Mediterranean beauties. Of being psychologically abused by her dad, who seemed embarrassed at his daughter's physical appearance (she still frets about her weight and discusses her alopecia and her anti-depressants). One entry leaves you shredded. It's when, as a teenager, she returns to Italy for the summer from boarding school in England where she'd starved herself into something approaching svelte. Her dad now felt she was fit enough for him to be seen in public with her in Italian café society, at one point instructing her 'to wiggle for a table'. I found this heart-wrenching to the extent that I immediately resolved to call my own two daughters and just, you know, be closer to them. What things were said and unsaid; how many were the hugs not given? She tells me that the stuff about her dad needed to be in there 'to explain who I am and what I am and why I'm so flawed'. She'd sent the book to her brother. 'Is this okay? You were there too; you remember all that stuff.' He'd called and said: 'Sarah, honestly, you've been far too nice.' She had called her dad to tell him there was material in the book he may find uncomfortable. 'He said 'Oh alright then, and went back to watching the telly'.' Back to England then and university (languages) and falling into journalism after a fateful encounter with some of Fleet Street's finest in one of their taverns. And then meeting Michael Gove on a skiing trip with the nucleus of what would later be called 'the Notting Hill Set': There's a perception among Scottish journalists that the old English newspaper titles are populated by the scions of old families who weren't considered smart enough for high political office and thus favours had to be called in. Ms Vine though, is a proper old-school journalist who has held down most jobs in the gnarly business of producing newsprint. There's no question of her not having earned her position. I was once asked what had made the Mail so popular across all classes in England. The best I could come up with was that they represented the Margo Leadbetter character in The Good Life. In one episode, she's in a long Post Office queue being truculently fobbed off at the counter. 'I am the voice of the Silent Majority,' she'd said. Margo seemed to embody those English stereotypes we both love and hate: of enduring challenges with stalwart resilience because, well … being English obliges you to care without showing it; to be silent in adversity, confident perhaps that you'll have your moment and that it will be a terrible one indeed. I love them for it and loathe them in equal measure. Perhaps though, it's that early Italian influence on Ms Vine that enkindled her desire in this book to settle a few scores; to chivvy those who were inconstant or who disappeared when she was deemed no longer to possess a social cachet. It's not revenge, as such, more an abjuration that they should perhaps have known that this day would come when the smart, sassy columnist – the Wednesday Witch in Daily Mail parlance – would strap on her stilettoes and have her day in long form with one of Britain's top publishers. The inside story of Brexit and how it laid waste to relationships and brought families to the brink of breaking up is a dominant theme. Did it wreck her own – happy – marriage to Michael Gove who is now out of politics entirely? Or, would they still have split? Would he always have been drawn like a moth to the flame of politics; while she with her daily, acerbic registers refused to adopt the role of dutiful Tory wife bred to endure and to absorb and to be silent? In the end it wasn't a clash of personalities, or infidelity or excessive drinking; or abnormal behaviour which sealed the split, but the sight of her husband choosing to absent himself with a book in the upstairs bedroom of their new home while she and her elderly mum (who had flown from Italy to help with the flitting) did all the heavy lifting. Before then, a sense of isolation had begun to settle on them both. The gradual, wretched realisation that for all their brains and unprivileged endeavour; for their wit and charisma, they'd never quite been accepted within their set. And that, when the chips were down and the balloon was up and the lights had gone out, a process of social exclusion by stealth was well underway. They had committed the cardinal sin of failing to acknowledge their place in the grand scheme: deference to the upper classes of High Toryism. To the naked, unschooled eye, they were both at the very apex of England's social, political and cultural food chain. But when Michael Gove had defied his friend, David Cameron, by becoming a chief Brexiteer and Sarah Vine had backed him they were brutally disabused of any notions about parity of esteem. Read more Kevin McKenna: In these circles, your status is conferred for eternity by the title deeds of 13th century land-grabs. They were best of friends with David and Samantha Cameron and Ms Vine had been Godmother to their daughter. When you step outside the role laid down for you though – absolute obeisance – you get voided. The book though, also slakes your appetite for dinner party capers among the horsey set and names are dropped like confetti. It's all rather glorious and we're treated to occasional forays into the inter-marital houghmagandie of the upper crust, because, we all know that the High Tories are all fond of their shagging and probably still claim a bit of your 'droit de seigneur' This is most memorably narrated when a bright and loyal Tory adviser, is hinted to be conducting an affair with Samantha Cameron's stepfather, William Astor. This unravelled in what seemed a most cut-glass, English manner. There were no names and no big red-top screamer … just an unmarked entry by the Mail's kenspeckle diarist, Richard Kay hinting at a tryst. And lo, she was gone and never heard of again, while the old goat emerged relatively unscathed. It's here that I must offer some words of advice to Ms Vine. If her book makes it into paperback and thence into a Netflix adaptation (virtually guaranteed) please be rid of the cover on this hardback edition. It's dreadful and exceedingly low-calibre, showing a woman lying fully prone and face down. It channels an energy that's entirely at odds with the dynamics of Ms Vine's rise, fall and recovery. How Not to be a Political Wife: HarperCollins £20

The National
4 hours ago
- The National
In search of Scotland's forgotten hero
In any case, there is no danger of Scotland forgetting her tragic freedom fighter. What Scottish child cannot sing 'Scots, wha hae wi Wallace bled'? What Scottish sports fan does not bellow out the hope of sending 'Proud Edward's army … homeward, tae think again?' Anyone travelling in the vicinity of Stirling cannot fail to be mesmerised by the romantic setting of the National Wallace Monument, towering over the site of the Battle of [[Stirling]] Bridge where Wallace bravely led his rebel forces to victory. On August 23, 1305, 720 years ago this summer, Wallace paid for this with his life at London's Smithfield. I recall sitting in the back row of the Odeon in Edinburgh's Clerk Street, shielding my eyes from the gorier parts of the execution scene in Braveheart as a young student. Fast forward to a much more recent, much more pleasant occasion. My husband and I decided to try out a new dog walking route. Parking up on the northern shore of the Moray Firth, we headed up towards Ormond Hill above the Black Isle village of Avoch (pronounced 'Och, since you ask), where a Saltire flag fluttered in the wind. And there, I was astonished to find my long-held, simplistic view of history challenged. A faded sign at the gate to the hill path declared this the site of Andrew de [[Moray]]'s castle. Andrew who? I had never heard of him. READ MORE: Brian Cox says Donald Trump is 'talking boll***s' about Scottish independence It read: 'In 1297, Andrew de Moray raised his standard at the castle to rally his forces before joining William Wallace as part of the Scottish Army which defeated the English at the Battle of Stirling Bridge.' Interesting, I thought, and resolved to investigate this obscure snippet of history at some point when I got the chance. It was a little later at home that I discovered: Andrew de Moray did not only fight at the Battle of Stirling Bridge on September 11, 1297. He co-commanded the Scottish rebel forces, alongside Wallace. They won that day, becoming joint Guardians of Scotland afterwards. I had been standing on the very stones of his castle, a man of immense historical significance. Wait. Where is the de Moray Monument? Why was he written out of the Braveheart film altogether? Does Hollywood only have room for one hero? Who was Andrew de Moray? He was born, date unknown, into a noble family, the de [[Moray]]s of Petty, who owned castles and land across the North as well as Bothwell Castle in Uddingston. A little research revealed that both he and his father, Sir Andrew de [[Moray]], were captured at the Battle of Dunbar in April 1296. The Scottish king, John Balliol, had defied King Edward I of England by not helping him in his war against the French. The English king invaded Scotland to make King John pay for standing up to him. Balliol and around 100 Scottish noblemen were captured and taken to England. Soon after, almost 2000 important Scots swore a personal oath to the English king in writing – a document which became known as the Ragman Roll. They had accepted the English king as their overlord. Not so Andrew de Moray. While his father was taken to the Tower of London, the young Andrew was held in Chester, famed for its inescapable fortress. Somehow, he escaped during the winter of 1296/97. He immediately made his way north to Moray. In the spring of 1297, de Moray raised the standard for the so-called Northern Rising, ambushing senior leaders of the English occupation, laying siege to Urquhart Castle and taking strongholds across the north. Panicked letter exchanges between the local officials and the court of Edward I tell us how seriously the English king took the danger. However, that summer also saw an uprising in the south, led by a seemingly insignificant second son of a minor noble family: a certain William Wallace. The exact circumstances of Wallace's murder of the Sheriff of Lanark are sketchy, but there is no doubt that, following this audacious killing, Wallace hid out in Selkirk Forest, with a growing number of supporters. PERHAPS inevitably, Wallace and de [[Moray]] soon joined forces – they had a lot in common: both young and charismatic, both unwaveringly loyal to the exiled Scottish king John Balliol, both utterly resolved to end the English occupation of their land. Combining their armies at Dundee, they made for the strategically crucial [[Stirling]]. The rest, as they say, is history. But despite their comprehensive victory at Stirling Bridge, tragedy soon followed. Unlike Wallace, whose fame would live on for centuries, Andrew de Moray sustained battle injuries which would prove fatal a few short weeks later. He died a quiet death. Historians are unsure of the particulars, but the last official document signed by both men is the so-called Lübeck letter, written to trading partners in the Hanseatic League at Haddington on October 11, 1297, citing both men as joint Guardians of Scotland. De [[Moray]] is mentioned first. Wallace went on to ransack the north of England, was defeated by Edward's army at Falkirk, and, after years on the run, was captured and executed with spectacular cruelty at London's Smithfield. Wallace's hero status was soon cemented in Scotland's national consciousness, beginning with 15th-century poet Blind Harry's poem, The Actes And Deidis Of The Illustre And Vallyeant Campioun Schir William Wallace, written around 172 years after Wallace's death. Much of Blind Harry's account must be conjecture, but it ignited the imagination of the people for centuries to come. Wallace's tragic but romantic fate appealed so much to the Victorians that plans for a national monument to celebrate Wallace found widespread public support. An architectural competition was held to determine its design, receiving 106 entries of which sadly only two survive. Scottish architect John Thomas Rochead emerged as the winner, signing his entry anonymously with the phrase 'nothing on earth remains but fame'. In 1861, an incredible 80,000 people made their way to Stirling to witness the laying of the foundation stone, and the National Wallace Monument finally opened its doors to visitors on September 11, 1869, the anniversary of Wallace's great triumph at Stirling Bridge. Oh no! I fell for it again. Wallace AND de Moray's triumph at Stirling Bridge. SO, what of Wallace's co-commander who, like Wallace, paid for his patriotism with his life? As thousands queued to remember Wallace, de Moray's memory faded into the mists of time. I found myself bristling at the injustice. How could this have happened? How could an entire nation be ignorant of the fact that Wallace's most significant military victory, legendary though it is, was a shared one? I resolved to find out more – but I needed allies. And where better to start than finding the people who had hoisted the flag on Ormond Hill and erected the cairn? Clearly, someone somewhere still cared about de Moray's legacy, and I was determined to find them! Social media can be a wonderful thing – very little digging led me to the Andrew de Moray Project, a local community group who maintain the cairn and stage an annual commemoration of the Northern Rising, replacing the old saltire flag with a new one. I cautiously commented on their post, asking if all were welcome to the commemorative walk. And so I found myself on another sunny day, ambling up Ormond Hill in the company of a brand-new set of friends. Linnets and yellowhammer song was soon drowned out by a local lad with his bagpipes, setting the scene. I allowed my eyes to roam the length of the Moray Firth and let my imagination drift back to the spring of 1297 when those assembled in this very spot would have cheered and raised their weapons to the very same land- and soundscape. A shiver travels up my spine: history beneath my very feet. Rob Gibson, fellow writer and chair of the de Moray Project, addresses those assembled – not quite a crowd, but ranging from a baby to men and women in their 70s. A young volunteer called Romy gets the honour of raising the new flag as the old and somewhat tattered Saltire is removed and presented, ceremoniously, to one of the attendees – unexpectedly, me! I hold the fabric with awe. The standard raised by de Moray and his warriors in 1297 is unlikely to have been a Saltire – it is more probable that it was the standard of the exiled John Balliol, who commanded both de Moray's and Wallace's absolute loyalty, or possibly de Moray's own heraldry – silver stars on an azure background. Squinting against the sun, I watch the flag unfurl in the breeze. I travelled home thoughtfully, the weather-beaten Saltire neatly folded on the passenger seat beside me. Yes, I would put pen to paper. These events deserved the story treatment. Like any writer of fiction, the what-if questions are my story map. What if a young armoury boy in Chester Castle was tasked with guarding the imprisoned de Moray? What if that boy's carelessness allowed the prisoner to escape, kidnapping the boy for good measure? What if the young protagonist decided to throw his lot in with the Scottish rebel, despite his misgivings? Fast forward one last time. A ludicrously heavy parcel arrived at my door last week, containing an all-important prop for school events – proper chain mail such as de Moray and his men may well have worn. By the time you read this, To War With Wallace is about to hit the shelves, with a range of events planned to introduce the historical de Moray to readers in a fast-paced adventure story. School assemblies, festival appearances and bookshop signings all beckon, as well as family events at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe on August 13 (search Luath Press's #ScotlandsFest). The invisible man next to William Wallace may not have a physical monument, but with the help of many others, I have tried to build him a memorial in the minds of a new generation of young readers. Who knows? Perhaps he might have liked it that way. To War With Wallace by Barbara Henderson is published by Luath Press on August 23


Daily Mirror
5 hours ago
- Daily Mirror
Historic market town was England's 'capital' long before London
The town was the seat of royal power for almost 200 years in the 8th century before London was established as the capital of England following the Norman conquest When you think of England's capital, London, with its iconic landmarks like Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, it immediately springs to mind. But this wasn't always so, as 300 years before London claimed the title, a humble market town northeast of Birmingham in Staffordshire held the honour. Despite being just 12 square miles, making it Staffordshire's smallest borough and one of the tiniest in the country, Tamworth's historical significance is immense - it was once England's capital. In the 8th century, King Offa made Tamworth the seat of Royal power, a status it maintained for nearly two centuries. While Tamworth was the power centre, and King Offa had a palace there, it wasn't until the 11th century that Tamworth Castle was constructed by Robert Despenser, William the Conqueror's steward, reports the Express. Before and after the renowned Norman conquest of England, Tamworth experienced a prosperous period as local lords built castles in and around the town. In the 8th century, England was split into kingdoms: Mercia, Northumbria, and Wessex, with Mercia being the largest and most influential. Tamworth was at the heart of the Mercian Kingdom, and the Mercian Kings spent more time there than anywhere else. However, London's position as the capital city was solidified in 1066 when William the Conqueror marched on the city following his triumph at the Battle of Hastings. Today, the market town retains its historical charm and offers locals a more tranquil lifestyle, with independent shops, cafes, pubs and restaurants dotting the streets of the traditional town centre. It might shock many, but England has had numerous capitals before London was finally chosen. In the 10th Century, Athelstan, the first king of all England and grandson of Alfred the Great, declared Malmesbury his capital after vanquishing an army of northern English and Scots. Not only does Colchester claim to be Britain's oldest recorded town, but it also became the nation's Roman capital in AD49.