A week in Scotland Travelogue: caressing the White Rose DAY II (Part II)

The open space in front of St Giles entrance, facing uphill, is occupied by the statue of Sir Walter Scott, and I take a few minutes to enjoy a smoke under its shadow, remembering the great times I had reading the adventures of heroes like Ivanhoe or Quentin Durward. What I did not know, until I got to Edinburgh, was his important social and political influence in the country, widely commemorated. Near his statue a brass heart is engraved in the cobblestones, which, according to tradition marks the location of the Tollbooth, official building that served as administration centre, executions place, prison and tax collecting office. The outline of the building, demolished in 1817, is also marked in the ground. Traditionally you are meant to spit inside the Heart
for luck, but the origins of this superstition are not very clear and seem to spring from multiple sources. As for myself, I am aware of a few traditions in my own country that are frowned upon by local people so, seeming this (a spit) the kind of gesture that can be interpreted in many different ways, I decide to bide my time and find out some more about it, as I will have plenty of time to pay my humid homage. Nevertheless I make a mental note to watch the wind and other bystanders next time I walk by, and to never pick up a coin or paper if I was to drop one there in the future.
Many souvenir shops start appearing on the right hand side, as I continue up and leave George IV bridge to my left, entering the stretch of Royal Mile known as Lawnmarket. There is this freaky side to me concerning movies and subcultures, and ever since I saw Highlander I have had the impression that I would look pretty good in a kilt or tartan. Better a tartan, but I get the feeling that this is the most expensive option. Now, the typical highlander outfit is really the tartan, a colour patterned (the word tartan is also used to refer to the patterns, though the right term is sett) stretch of woven cloth rolled about waist and shoulder. The kilt is an invention (by an Englishman no less!) adapted past the XVIII century, when highlander culture was vindicated after a long period of prosecution. It was also more or less at this time when patterns started to define clans, rather than regions (many setts were made up at that moment). So I do some investigation around the shops, realizing, to my dismay, my budget will not allow for a kilt, much less a tartan. It is impossible to find a low to medium quality kilt for less than 30 pounds, and that is a lot of money for me. There are kilt like towels, but I will rather return in a more wealthy future and get the real thing. One of the shopkeepers has a kind of Hispanic accent to his English and for a millisecond I embrace the fantasy of a fellow Spaniard offering me a big discount. Upon asking I find out he is from Argentina. Close, but no cigar. I will stick to sightseeing and leave shopping for now.
For a while now, during my stroll uphill, my eyes have been often drawn to a long blackened spire that towers above all central Edinburgh and whose base I am reaching at this moment. It is The Hub, home and tickets office to the Festival of Edinburgh and some other festival in the cities, formerly St John’s church, built in 1842 and Assembly Hall for the Church of Scotland until the 240 feet high landmark was closed for religious use in 1929, and the Assembly moved to Greyfriars Kirk. The Royal Mile is getting steep in this last stretch, but I can already see the esplanade of the castle, and it is all I can do not to make a run for it, leaving, by the entrance to the esplanade and to my right, the Camera Obschura, an outlook tower that contains a funfair of light and mirrors illusions and effects, many focused on the city around, providing spectacular sights of Edinburgh (entrance fee is included in the Edinburgh Pass, 8 pounds otherwise, discounts for children, senior, students, and disabled visitors).
It is 10:30 am and the sun is shining (rare in Edinburgh) over the huge space before the Castle. Some minutes to enjoy a cigarette and walk around, admiring the views to the city, left and right, and take pictures. To the right/north the New Town, the Nor Loch gardens down below the crag, with a gigantic spire that dwarfs the Hub (the Scott Monument, a gracious gentleman points out) just alongside them, and beyond, the Firth and the sea. On this side of the esplanade stand a few monuments in memory of soldiers fallen, again, in the Great War. There are many like these in Edinburgh, including the Memorial that occupies one of the main buildings of the Castle. To the left, South Edinburgh, including most of the middle wealth range residential areas and, beyond, the tranquil landscape of the Lothians. A couple of landmarks attract my attention from here. The first one, right on front of me and below, is a castle like construction surrounded by a nice garden that I recognize at first glance as a very exclusive, old fashioned institution for young students. It brings to my mind the name of Eton School, where James Bond studied according to his literary father Ian Fleming. Later on a local guide will tell me how my shot did not fall far off the mark: apparently, one of the possible inspirations for Fleming’s character could have been an acquaintance of the author, a Scottish Intelligence officer whose name I don’t manage to retain, that had been educated at this institution: Heriot School. Curiously enough, one of the first jobs of Sean Connery when he was young was milkman of that area, delivering part of their breakfast daily to Heriot students. No further investigation on my part, however, has produced any other evidence or suggestion of a Heriot educated Bond’s inspiration.
The other landscape feature I feel drawn to is some steep hill standing just west of town: it has a kind of personal charisma, and in think I can see tiny spots of movement on the summit; one of the security guards tells me it’s called Arthur’s Seat, a popular spot for easy trekking. I am using the word “easy” somewhat loosely here, as I am anything but athletic and quite on the heavy side. Still, that connection with the Arthurian legend, first (and only) I find in Scotland, draws me. My eyes keep staring at it. Nay, I will have a stroke before I get midway to the top. Get it off your head boy.
Time to visit the Castle proper. The entrance fee is pretty expensive (11 pounds, only discounts for children) but visiting is something I don`t like to spare money on. Later (too late always) I will find a way to enter the Castle for free: all you have to do is go up to the guards at the gates and say that you want to pay homage to the War Memorial (you may say you are of Scottish ancestry, or have friends of Scottish ancestry who had someone in the fight…). It may take some insisting, but apparently they have let you in. They may let you go by yourself or they might give you escort. Either way, the memorial is at the very top, and you have to go through most of the Castle to get to it, so you will have a very good look at it. You will not be able to access the interior of the buildings, though, unless they let you go alone (and even if they do so, you know you are not meant to visit the other buildings, right?). Goes whithout saying, this hint is offered with my uttermost respect for those remembered at the Memorial.
Crossing the gates, guarded by the stone visages of Rober the Bruce and William Wallace, a steep wide road leads spiralling up, through the portcullis to the highest point of the complex. At a calm pace it takes me the best part of two hours to visit the Castle, the Memorial, prison, dungeons and the tower where the Stone of Destiny (or Stone of Scone, after the Abbey of Scone, where it was kept in medieval time) and the Jewels of the Scottish Crown (Crown, Sword and Scepter) are kept. The Stone is a block of sandstone over which every king and Queen of Scotland swore their oaths in old days. Abducted by the English, the Stone, also used for coronation of British rulers, was kept in Westminster Abbey for centuries, and suffered a rescue attempt in Christmas 1950, an eventful adventure in the process of which it was dropped by the rescuers and broken in two pieces, took a ride in the back of a borrowed car the keys of which were later lost by the abducters (the stone still inside), spent a night of pagan celebration and partying with some sympathising college students in Ilkley moor and was finally left in a Scottish abbey, I believe by the Perthshire area, in the hope that the Church of Scotland would protect it. Apparently when the poor abbot saw what had been left in his church and realised the trouble he had gotten himself into, he called the Scottish police, who, not knowing really what to do, called Scotland Yard in turn and they finally recovered the item, after what I imagine a long succession of “you have found what?”’s at the phone. A local tells me that when the Stone was finally given back to Edinburgh and brought to the Castle, not long ago, they played the soundtrack of “Mission: Impossible” during the parade. Isn’t that great? I love Scottish sense of humour. On my way back out I make another stop by a balcony with awesome views of the New Town and the Firth, alongside a battery of old cannons. From here I get my first good view of Calton Hill, west of New Town, another popular landmark of Edinburgh: it is a small hill on top of which are assembled a few constructions of neoclassical style, included a Parthenon-like one, which are one of the reasons why this city is dubbed “The Athens of the North”. To the left of the old cannons there is a modern one, nick named the “One O’clock cannon”, as it shoots every day at that time. I would like to see it, but it is still 12:30 and I am not good at waiting. Last thing I do is having a look over the balcony at a small pet cemetery two meters below, where the soldiers best friends rest in peace (part of the Castle are military facilities and barracks).