A week in Scotland Travelogue: caressing the White Rose DAY I

Not much to tell about the flight, apart from some minor setbacks and delay in boarding our plane; flying with a low cost airline these things do not catch me unaware. Already inside the boarding finger and the gate open, they take us out again and walk us around the airport, changing our boarding gate yet another three times. We all take it lightly, some jokes, some more patience, and there we go. Flight is about 2 ½ hours long and crew and commander provide a goodhearted easy going attention, seasoned with some light well taken humour; only my own eagerness to reach Scotland makes the journey feel a little longer than it is: will it meet my expectations? After all the years passed since I last went on a trip like this, how will the backpacking experience turn out? Will I be able to make the most of it?
As soon as we land I direct my steps to the Tourist Info Office in the airport. Aside from collecting my Edinburgh Pass (a card that, during 1, 2 or three consecutive days provides access to several activities and attractions in the city, as well as to the Lothian buses network, and a range of special offers and discounts), I intend to gather some information on the possibilities for some day trips from Edinburgh. Behind the counter, my attention is drawn by a huge picture of the typical Scottish castle, by the typical Scottish lake, amid the typical Scottish low range mountains. It is hard to resist, and feels very familiar. I play the smart ass and produce the first castle name that springs to my mind from reading my guide:
“That is Urqhart’s Castle (one by Loch Ness), right?”
The girl smiles patiently and corrects my mistake (big mistake, by the way, Urqhart and this castle are nothing alike, as I will have the chance to confirm myself)
“Nay, this is Eilean Donan. It features in a few important movies, you might recall it from “Highlander”.
Riiiiight. Of course I knew I had seen it before. The girl looks down to the Lonely Planet guide I am carrying: “Escocia” and asks if I am from Spain. On my affirmative response, she welcomes me in perfect, Madrid native, Spanish. I read the name in her id tag: “Belén” (absolutely Spanish name). Well, what do you know!
Actually it should not be surprising, as I learn later: 20.000 people in Edinburgh, out of a 400.000 population, are Spanish. That is a 5 per cent, not bad at all!
I tell Belen my poorly planned itinerary, I am open to suggestions, and, sure enough, fifteen minutes later I have cancelled my reservation in the hostel of Glasgow for the weekend, and have arranged a place in a 3 days, 2 nights tour to the Isle of Skye, with McBackpackers.com (apart from this and some other tours for backpackers they run a range of hostels around Scotland) The price is 79 pounds, accommodation not included (13 pounds night, to be paid on spot on arrival to the hostels) Wow. I have just arrived and my expectations are literally booming!
Belen is from Madrid (if I recall right) and has been living in Scotland for the past five years. Though she loved it from the start, she misses Spain and is planning her return. She gives me some suggestions about what to see and do in town. Very quick, as I have to catch the bus downtown, I am already somewhat behind schedule. Following her indications I find the stop for the Airport Link Bus (5 pounds return usual fare, included in the Edinburgh Pass I just collected) and make the 25 mins journey to the very centerspot of downtown Edinburgh: Waverley Bridge. Downtown Edinburgh is comprised by the Old Town, perched on the hill and crested by the medieval castle, and the New Town, built in Victorian style by the feet of the hill when (after English and Scottish governments were united and living within the old walls was no longer a tactic need) town was enlarged, tackling a very serious problem of overpopulation. Both the main train station, Weaverley, and mentioned Weaverley Bridge, stand in the middle of both areas, in what was, in its day, the Nor Loch. When you exit Weaverley station, or drop off the airport bus, you stand thus under the huge basalt crag over which the Old Town climbs, admiring a spectacular view. If you arrive by day, that is.
I arrive late, however, night stealing such welcome from me. All cats are black at night, as you know, and I am little disoriented. I get directions from the bus driver and make my way up the steep Cockburn street to the spine of the hill and the old quarter which clings to the line of the main avenue, the Royal Mile that joins the Castle on top of the crag with Holyrood Palace at its base, following the backbone of the hill. This main street also comes by other names in its different strands: Castle Hill, High Street and Canongate. In the time it takes me to reach my hostel, for which I have to ask several people (navigating Edinburgh is dead easy, I must say, and I reach my goal in just a few minutes), a particular aroma starts envolving my nostrils. One of Edinburgh’s oldest nicknames is “Auld Reekie”; it comes from a time in which the city was gravely overpopulated and polluted, and the smoke from hundreds of chimneys mixed with the smells of non existing sanitary conditions and a terribly unhealthy and filthy environment. Now, this smell around me is neither unpleasant nor does it obey to such reasons. After some consideration I end up identifying it (or at least naming it, I do not know if my judgement is right) as smoked ham or maybe a combination of cooking odours in which smoked ham is predominant. The sense of smell is a very powerful suggestive which leaves very strong impressions in the mind. Through my life I have confirmed that, if most of our memories are made out of visual items, memories of these tend to turn diffuse with time, while a smell can suddenly awaken a torrent of very vivid images, sensations and feelings. I do believe that Edinburgh will always be associated, in my mind, to the smoked ham, just as Havana reminds me of the smell of Luzbrillante (the kerosene derived gas they use in Cuba), as Galicia in the north of Spain smells of sea to me, and as memories of England conjure up an aroma that I can not name but that I surely identify as soon as I get off the train in Victoria and walk the streets of London.
My hostel (SmartCity Edinburgh) stands in Blackfriars street, down the other side of the hill. It features the 5 stars quality mark of the Scottish Tourism Office VisitScotland. This mark does not define a category for services, but their quality levels within a given context; in this case it means that, for a hostel in which accommodation is shared in multiple rooms and for a price of (in that time, booked through VistScotland.com) 10 pounds per night, it is the best you can get, and I think the judgment is sound. The place is of very recent construction, and, although you share rooms, all have within shower and wc facilities (2 of each). All clean and well managed. 1,60 P for a washing machine and 20 pence for a 12 minute cycle of tumble drying. It also has a very well equipped common kitchen to prepare your own food, as well as a bar where you can buy breakfast, lunch or dinner. The common hall is ample and comfortable, with several low tables and sofas and a massive screen in which to watch tv and a dvd flick every now and then. Also two outdoor spaces with tables, chairs, and sunshades equipped with heaters for the cold (only places to smoke in the hostel). All in all, everything nice and well run, with young and friendly staff.
When I reach my room to leave my things I find the bed I had assigned, lower side of a bunk, is occupied. It doesn’t bother me, I will make it do with the top one. Let sleeping with the knowledge of having 250 pounds suspended over his head be punishment enough for the transgressor. He apologizes when he returns. Its OK. He is Australian, a decent chap. I already made my bed on top, so I stay there. The room is for 8 people but we are only four: the Australian bloke, a peculiar Scotch named Martin, a Chinese guy whose name I do not catch and myself. A quick shower and out for a walk, I am too excited to sleep.
Finding nightlife poses no difficulty: just as I round the corner by Cowgate (in other strands named Holyrood road, Grassmarket, West Port and East Fountain Bridge) I hear a Spanish couple chatting in a portal and I seek some advice. It turns out that in the very first street parallel to Blackfriars, Niddry St., there are a few pubs which feature live music shows. I take a look and decide myself for the Nicole Edwards, which boasts being haunted. Nicole Edwards occupies some locals (it actually comprises three small bars) which dig under the street, inside the Edinburgh Vaults (that I will explore more thoroughly next day), and that belonged, in old days, to a namesake confident of king James VI in the XVI century: a mean spirited character that sent his wife to die in a desert island for being insolent to him, and who, according to legend, hid a hoard of treasure (never found) within his property. The barman (huge guy, even broader than myself, looks like Hugo, from LOST tv series) tells me there is gig tonight, acoustic. Sounds cool. I decide trying yet another pub before the concert. Two doors up the street is Whistle Binkies, another popular live music featuring pub. Today, as all Tuesdays, is night for new bands. I have a pint while listening to SleazyCumEasyGo (yep, I swear that was the name of the band). Not very bad as music players go, but the actual songs, somewhere between punk and metal, do not impress me much, so I return to the previous pub. The Scots Bar within Nicole Edwards is small and comfy, and on the tiny stage Jaimie (a real beauty with a great voice) and Acoustic David (a likable uncouth dude with a great ability to alternate rock and pop classics, adding a few good laughs and not taking himself very seriously) are getting ready. Until 3 in the morning I enjoy the music, take care of 7 or 8 pints and, all in all, I manage to have a great time. Back to the hostel I somehow make it to the top bed of the bunk and fall asleep in seconds.