Days 2-4: May 27-29
The plan: Enjoy Edinburgh.
The reality: Success.
I am soooo tempted to end right there. But never fear, I will elaborate.
Highlights:
*Walking along the Royal Mile, the main street(s) of Edinburgh's Old Town. Cobblestoned streets, bookended by a castle at one end and a palace (Holyrood House) at the other end, with a plethora of gorgeous historic buildings and cute shops in between, made for a lovely stroll. (Plus there were free samples at an incredible fudge place where they were making fudge right in the front of the store...SIGH.)
*Climbing Arthur's Seat, the gigantic hill overlooking--well, pretty much everything. Scots like to think of it as a possible location for Camelot, hence the name. I wasn't expecting us to venture up there when we did, so I happened to be wearing my traction-less shoes at the time. That spiced up the 45-minute trek to the top and made the downward journey another example of how good my luck often turns out to be. (In other words, I made it unscathed despite the very steep quasi-paths.) The panoramic view was as amazing as advertised, and I didn't have to pay 9 euro for it (cough, Guinness Factory, cough).
*Visiting Edinburgh Castle, where, among other things, the Scottish crown jewels are on display in an exhibit that turns them into the plot of several James Bond movies with a historical flavor. Unlike the stolen Stone of Scone (aka the STONE OF DESTINY--big rock that the English stole and used as a prop for their coronation ceremonies), the jewels (aka HONOURS OF SCOTLAND) have managed to stay out of English hands since this set was first used in 1543 (for the coronation of Mary, Queen of Scots). They've been buried in a church to escape the clutches of Oliver Cromwell (on one of his many let's-destroy-something-valuable-now sprees), smuggled out of a castle under siege, and locked up in a forgotten chest in Edinburgh Castle for a hundred years, until our hero, Sir Walter Scott, undertook a "detailed search" of the castle (which was actually more of a "Hey, can we get the key to that room there? Thanks. Oh, look, the crown jewels. You're welcome.")....In any case, Scotty gets the credit for rediscovering them, and the British monarchy gets a grudging thank-you for finally sending back the STONE OF DESTINY in 1996, and everybody's happy. (Except perhaps Mary, Queen of Scots, who, by the way, gave birth to James I/VI in Edinburgh Castle in a room that is now rather tastelessly carpeted.) The castle was full of other gems (pardon the pun), from the war memorial to the giant cannon (one of the oldest in the world, with a range of almost two miles; also known--I'm not making this up--as a supergun) to the great hall (original hammberbeam roof; Maren, get excited) to Saint Margaret's Chapel (oldest building in Edinburgh, built for its sainted namesake by her son David I; again, Maren, back me up here). And everything is nicely subtitled with historical background info, which generally includes liberal use of the word DEATH in capitals.
*Stumbling upon various burial grounds. We are strange and possibly unhinged people, in that we find graveyards really interesting. Alas, we didn't think to look for the grave of the original Tom Riddles (senior and junior) while we were poking around the Greyfriars Cemetery, but we did stop by the nearby Elephant House for some J.K. Rowling homage. (That's the cafe where she drafted HP, which now advertises itself as the home of writers, sells T-shirts, provides computer access for the next generation of aspiring out-of-nowhere authors, and still serves coffee and tasty pastries on the side.)
*Checking out Calton Hill: another amazing view, complemented by various monuments (but none of Walter Scott, for once).
*Exploring the Museum of Scotland. Here at last the mystery of Sir Walter Scott's popularity was revealed to us. But I'm going to keep it to myself. ;)
Poking around some adorable bookshops. Each one was approximately the size of a dorm room, with a tiny narrow walkway--two if it was really spacious--and books crammed into every available space, including the ledge above the door frame. I've never see bookshops like that in the states; it's so hard for any business that tiny to stay afloat, especially if it caters to literate people. These places were like something out of a book themselves: cramped, quiet, asymmetrical, with that wonderful booky smell and the feeling that there really was no telling what treasures you might come across on the shelves. Emma got a really old book that struck her fancy for just 2 pounds. I didn't have room in my backpack (which already held my computer and as many clothes as possible) to buy anything bulky, but as usual, I enjoyed looking at the books more than I would've enjoyed actually buying one. Bookstores are my happy place, and these felt especially happy.
*Listening to traditional Scottish music in two very different, but (almost) equally entertaining pubs. The Royal Oak edged out the Whiski Bar (which, despite its name, was actually quite classy) on the strength of its atmosphere. It was tiny, homey, and full of regulars who knew each other well enough to riff on each other effectively. When we walked in we were greeted by the sight of four old guys singing barbershop quartet-style songs in perfect harmony. Shortly thereafter, the main act arrived: one fat man with a guitar and one skinny, ponytail-sporting, bored-looking young man with a violin (yes, violin, not fiddle; he didn't have the enthusiasm required for fiddling). "It's a little louder in here than it normally is," Fat Guy noted while he was tuning up. "I'm not gonna say anything about that. Except maybe shut your faces." He proceeded to attempt to sing with a sore throat and a less-than-flawless sense of pitch, while the ginger-haired bartender obliged his request for coffee. ("Hey, give me some alcohol in that!") The bartender seemed to know everyone there, including Hughie, an older fellow who reminded me (rather sadly) of the quietly sodden alternate-universe version of Mr. Gower in It's a Wonderful Life. Anyway, the dynamic duo actually played several Irish songs, and Fat Guy even attempted a "wee Galway accent" at one point that was a big hit with his audience. The bartender even chimed in at one point during a chorus, effecting a Cork accent (which, for non-Irishers, is different from a Galway accent or a Dublin accent or a Northern Irish accent). It was like a little taste of home. Later we moved on to the Whiski bar and got to sit at the last available table, right next to the musicians, who asked us if we had any requests when we sat down. I said we'd let them know if we thought of anything, but of course their selection was already excellent and didn't need any help from us. The especially nice thing about a pub like the second one is that people of all ages go there--probably more of the older crowd, but I still saw a few 20-somethings in the mix, and the whole gamut from 30 to 60+. That's one aspect of pubs that I've come to appreciate. Some are better suited for certain age demographics but there's never a point where you're too old to go out and have a nice time (and only 18 years when you're too young).
*Discovering that Victoria Street, the winding, sloping street near our hostel which I claimed as my favorite, had a second level. It was essentially a two-story street, with another sidewalk and row of shops on top of the first, overlooking the first layer. Coolest. Thing. Ever.
*Having a really nice time with Emma in a lovely city. Next stop: London!
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