We'll Drink to That!

This day took an interesting twist.

It started out really good- Nathan and I got up early and hoofed it down to the castle to beat the queues, which we did manage to do.

(Would you change this guard?)

Edinburgh Castle was really interesting, but the fact remains that I really preferred Stirling (Nathan agrees, as does Curt). Probably the best part of it was St. Margaret’s chapel, which was tiny and lovely and coincidently the oldest building in Scotland.

(Tiny building with tiny windows.)

The funniest part came when we were making our way through the old prisons, and they had voices of “prisoners” piped in. Suddenly this really absurd, nasally accent came on and I looked at Nathan and said, “Is that supposed to be American?” and he stopped and listened and said, “Yeah, I think so…” and we burst into peals of laughter. So now I guess we know what we sound like to the Scots! I must admit, I mourn the fact that no one thinks and American accent is sexy… ah well…

(Look carefully- that's prison grafitti of an American flag: old-school star-formation, but Ameican nonetheless.)


(Know who does have a sexy accent? This guy.)

It took us three hours to get through the castle (and the “well stocked gift shop”, as pointed out by our audio guide) at which point we headed for what we had dubbed the “Skeksis Tower” (actually the Scott Monument) intent on climbing its 287 stairs to the top.

(No Gelfling ever escaped from my deadly Garthim!)

It cost £3 to go in, but considering the fact that they gave us a super-sweet print of the tower (each), we thought it was a deal! The structure is carved of sandstone*, which strikes me as a particularly poor choice seeing as how it barely made it 150 years before its first major restoration. It makes a body wonder why anyone would bother carving anything in any substance less hard than marble… I tell you what, when it comes to carving my mausoleum, diamond all the way! Anyway, we went up four winding, progressively narrowing stairwells (by the last one Nathan had to take off his backpack and squeeze through sideways) but were rewarded with a pretty sweet 360° view of the city.

(See?)

By the time we inched our way back down, we decided it was more than time for a small smackeral- not to mention the fact that we both felt it was high time for us to indulge in the beloved “wee dram” of Scotland. So we hiked back up to the Lonely Planet recommended Malt Shovel, found a table, ordered food, and then took the bartender’s advice on some whisky.

(Wee in stature, not potency.)

I had a superbly smooth 12-year-old single malt, whereas Nathan went for a smoky 16-year-old single malt that had been locally distilled (yes, yes- I am kicking myself for not having written down names…). And let me tell you, friend- it was smoky. I took a small sip, and had to suck on lemons to get the flavor out of my mouth (only because I wanted to appreciate my whisky untainted, not because it was a disagreeable flavor)- it was, as Nathan put it, like having a bonfire made of autumn leaves in your mouth. In a good way. Furthermore, I could still smell the fumes on him well after we’d left the pub…

(Delicious!)

But back to the food. Nathan had the roast beef, and I the chicken pie, and both of us made sounds of squirmy happiness as we dug in. Wonderful, beautiful city with its tasty comfort food…

(Here is an iconic shot of the castle from down below)

Our bellies filled and my mind pleasantly humming, we made our way over to the National Gallery of Scotland. There we saw the typical offerings of Italian dudes with questionable knowledge of actual female anatomy, but I also learned a thing about my husband- I learned that he likes the work of the Impressionists, most especially that of Monet. It was surprising to me because his own work is so meticulous and tight (dare I say anal retentive?) that I never would have guessed him to be a fan of their loose style… but this discovery led into a wonderful discussion of what we do and don’t like about Impressionism (I find that many of them are just sloppy and lazy- although I will agree to Monet’s superiority, because I feel he was truly working with ways to represent light, rather than looking for a way around having to paint the details of things…). All of my favorite works at this gallery, however, were located in the Scottish artists’ wing. The art-nouveau, gold-leafed Diana and Her Nymphs (Robert Burns), was originally done as part of a restaurant motif. The larger-than-life The Progress of the Soul: The Victory (Phoebe Anna Traquair) is silk and gold thread embroidered on linen, which absolutely blew my mind (I am a bit hapless at the fiber arts- not totally incompetent, but not likely to ever produce anything a fraction of that quality) (they don't have a link to The Victory, so I linked to The Entrance, which gives you the general idea). And my absolute favorite, Saint Bride 1913 (John Duncan) was actually done in friggin’ tempra, if you can believe it. I adored that one so much that I’ve a mind to order up a good sized reproduction of it (I managed to snag postcards of all three, but my soul cries out for larger pieces…)

We eventually wandered over to another exhibition that had just delightful pen and ink watercolors by two contemporary illustrators (Catherine Rayner and James Mayhew), then decided that the time had come for us to wander in the general direction of our temporary home. On the way we stopped by St. Mary’s Cathedral, not two blocks from the house. I must say, that is one of the best things about cities in the UK: cathedrals or monuments on every corner.

(They had lots of nice stained glass.)

Once home our little cat herd made up its mind about where to go for dinner (not the Thai place, sadly) and set out. Indigo Yard was okay, I guess, but the truth of the matter is that it wasn’t as cool as it thought it was, and the food was only so-so. My burger was good, but Nathan said it was the least-delicious fish-and-chips he’d had on the trip, and the others seemed pretty equally unimpressed with their food. Oh well- at least we got a decent walk in.

It was after dinner that the storm struck. And by storm I don’t mean literal rainy storm, I mean people reaching their “I’ve-been-in-the-company-of-others-for-almost-two-weeks” breaking points. Long story short, I ended up needing to take a Very. Long. Walk.

Alone.

It turned out to be for the best, however, as my rage-fueled wanderings brought me down to the Water of Leith, where I found some stinging nettle (how’s that for a genuine UK experience- I now have even more sympathy for the sister-of-swans...) but also St. Bernard’s Well, and eventually some peace (coincidence? Perhaps not…). I stayed quite a while down there, bird-watching and ruminating, until I finally decided to head back to the house, where things were soon resolved.

All the same, I think we’re all more than ready to be heading home.



* (Yeah, I know the Wikipedia entry says it's shale- but the literature from the monument itself says sandstone. Just goes to show, kiddos- you can't always believe what you read on the interwebs. Unless it's on my blog, of course.)