Those Scotland Days

Currently missing a piece of my heart, because it’s been left behind in Edinburgh.

My first weekend outside of Ireland was spent in a town untouched and unharmed by industrialism. A city where anything seems possible: where gelato can be eaten on a stretch of grass below a castle; where ghosts roam the confines of a graveyard; where Harry Potter can be born. Where magic lives.

Our tale begins on the first of October, when my two roommates and I embarked on our journey to Scotland. Landing, hopping onto the airport AirLink and stepping off the bus at Waverly Station just after ten P.M., we found we were standing among ages-old, high-reaching cathedrals and monuments bathed in lights of purple, green, and yellow. And the Haggis Hostel, where we were staying, was just off the beaten path of Princes Street. After dropping off luggage and asking reception where to grab a quick bite to eat that wasn’t KFC or McDonald’s, Scarlett, Tyler and I headed out.

The Clam Shell is where we ended up, a blue-and yellow hole in the wall that offered inexpensive fish, chicken, burgers, baked potatoes, and chips. The young man serving us started conversation, and we all engaged happily while waiting for one of my roommate’s potato to do its baking. I was struck by how, as in Ireland, the Scottish are incredibly friendly. Out-of-their way friendly. We talked about nothing of importance, but the manner in which we all spoke was so casual that it was like we were old acquaintances. I left with a box of fishcakes and chips and a fuller heart than I came in with. Before bed that night, the three of us squeezed into the hostel’s small kitchen area and pored over a pile of pamphlets picked up from the lobby. A loose plan for the next day was set to see the Edinburgh Castle, take a free Harry Potter Walking Tour, and a ghost tour that night.

The next morning saw fog in the sky and a chill in the air; but by the time we had finished breakfast, the clouds dispersed and saw the sun’s warm glow. Tyler, Scarlett and I headed out and wandered through a portion of Princes Street Park in our walk to the Edinburgh Castle.

Edinburgh Castle is the epitome of Hillary Duff’s “This is What Dreams Are Made Of”. A little town of its own, the castle is perched on a hill and enclosed by high walls. It serves as inspiration for Hogwarts and a casual view in the corner of the sky. And from our place in the sky, I caught what seemed the entirety of the city. We roamed up the spiral of royal grounds until we stood, shivering, in the courtyard between the Great Hall, the war memorial inside of a stained-glass windowed room, and the building cradling the Crown Jewels.

The better part of two and a half hours was spent weaving our way through the castle grounds. We went into the bunk where prisoners of the Revolutionary War, among other major wars, were kept; and let me tell you, those prisoners were treated well under the circumstances. Unless they were American, and as a result of disobeying the crown were given a single loaf of bread and no allowance as other prisoners were. The captive men slept on hammocks above one another’s heads or in bunks, and had the leisure to build and decorate jewelry boxes during the day.
Everything about the castle, I’ve decided, is drenched in a royal way of life.

We left with a royally (ha, ha) large appetite, and found a café tucked away in an alley with burgers for five pounds. Hearty burgers, may I add.

And no: the alleyways of Edinburgh are not the dark, shadowy dead ends of the imagination. They are the passages that lead not to danger but open up to courtyards and museums; to a slice of untouched beauty. It was dashing into these that I came upon the Writers’ Museum, among other things. You just don’t find narrow passages like that on the daily.
Being October, the streets weren’t clumsy with crowds. That meant we could weave in and out of stores easily, and take in the sights without holding people up behind us. We could also stop and make sure we were going in the right direction for cupcakes later on without stopping short on anybody.

Those alleyways, though

But a whole congregation of college-aged women and young families gathered outside of Greyfriar Bobby’s for a free Harry Potter walking tour. PotterTrail is a student run tour group for Harry Potter die-hards and slight fans alike. It offered new views of the city, and intriguing information about JK Rowling and her inspirations for the series. We started in Greyfriar’s Kirk, where the infamous Tom Riddle is buried, as is a Potter, a Severus, and a McGonagall, among others. Our guide, a graduate student studying law, pulled a Sorting Hat and a handful of wands out of her bag and left time for a photo op.

In the late afternoon night falling on the city, I was caught up in a surreal vision of autumn. Leaves crunched under my feet and a chilly breeze filled the air—it only enhanced the mystical atmosphere we were a part of for that hour.

Feeling the magic next to Tom Riddle

Lockhart's place of business

Our guide was boisterous and her passion for leading a tour shone through every word. She led us past Spoon, the actual birthplace of Harry Potter, and the Elephant House, where JK Rowling wrote some of the series later on. We stopped on Vittoria Street, inspiration for Diagon Alley, and ended at the City Chambers, where a lawyer of the name Lockhart attended to business. There, Edinburgh’s own little walk of fame rests; the Edinburgh Award, where JK Rowling’s gold handprints can be found.

It’s easy to see why Rowling was so inspired by the city.

It's a near-perfect match!

For dinner, we ended up at Vittoria’s, an authentic Italian restaurant. Pasta just felt right—trying to load up on carbs, a comfort food before our ghost tour that night. And we found ice cream later on after searching high and low for a place that was still opened after eight. It was at a bar along the Royal Mile, displaying a large ice cream outside. We went in and ordered at the bar, then sat outside in the sharper wind and licked our cones contentedly.

It didn’t do much to warm us up at all before our tour. We met our guide before nine, and we were joined by a large hen party and a few smaller groups of friends or couples. The City of The Dead, the company we booked with, took us on the Graveyard Tour (we were too chicken to choose the other option: an underground tour of crypts). The tour we went on was, nonetheless, spine-chilling. Talk of witchcraft and the torture inflicted on those accused of such acts was nauseating. Thirty minutes later, we stood inside the Greyfriar’s Kirk with nothing but candlelight and stories of grave robbers, body snatchers, and burying family members alive. To finish, we were brought into the Black Mausoleum, a stone enclosure inside the Covenanter’s Prison where the most active poltergeist recorded in history manifests itself. The hype was worse than the actual experience. Nothing of note happened. Moreover, we were given a historical lens on the prison, where a group of Scots, upon being forced to change religions, formed a declaration of refusal. They were imprisoned, tortured and executed upon release. The tour wasn’t at all hokey or trying too hard to frighten guests. It gave me a somber perspective of the city, recognizing the darker pages of history and understanding why spirits may linger. And it was fun to play into the Halloween feel brought on by October and ghouls.

Greyfriar's Kirk, morning

The Covenantor's Prison. The public isn't allowed access in, but the City of the Dead has the keys to bring their tour groups inside

I was able to sleep soundly that night (surprisingly), and woke up the next morning to take off on my own for a bit. For about an hour, I traipsed through the town not yet awake and reveled in the beauty of early morning. Seeing many of the same places as the day before bathed in a new angle of sunshine, and pretending for a while that the expanse was mine.

Morning's glow

Our second day was more leisurely. Tyler, Scarlett and I headed for the National Gallery of Scotland, where we witnessed artwork from the Renaissance to French Impressionism. Works by Degas, Monet, and Van Gogh filled one oval room, and senior year Humanities course-taking Lindsay was screaming inside. The vivid colors and brushstrokes of each stood before me, and to be inches away from such work left me tingling. I also viewed countless, romantic landscape paintings and I was more than satisfied with the aesthetics. Museums cast a spell on you; there’s no choice but to be enamored by the artwork covering the walls.

We walked towards Grassmarket, pausing to walk through the narrow bookstore on Vittoria Street, then checking out a market of artisan crafts and local produce before finding the Pie Maker for lunch. At one pound and change, I bought a filling potato and lamb pie. Initially I was wary about meat pies: what, exactly, is in a meat pie? But I figured it had to be tested out. When in the UK…

Make me a match!

And it was delicious. A firm and flaky crust gave way to a layer of creamy potatoes and then warm lamb mince. We took to the Royal Mile and found a stone bench to relax on, people watching and savoring each bite. It filled us up quickly; but not enough to stop us from grabbing some gelato at Mary’s Milk Bar on the Grassmarket.

It was my first gelato experience—in Scotland, no less. To make it better, we three moved outside, to an area of grass that stretched out below Edinburgh Castle. For a while we sat there, under royalty, chatting and feeling a part of the community, many with the same idea.

Gelato and castles--can it be true?

When we decided to move on, it was to sit in Princes Street Park. Pure green grasses as far as the eye could see, toddlers running along paved roads, people enjoying the day’s last few hours of light. Part of me wondered if there was more we should be doing and seeing; while I could have explored until I collapsed, I enjoyed pretending to be a local. To sit in a public park and watch life move through; to stop and allow the simply picturesque view fill me to brimming. To just be.

The day rounded out with another dessert break at Patisserie Valerie, a local chain, before catching our bus to the airport. We warmed up and strolled through this almost Irish cove we had happened upon away from the rest of the city. Flags and lights were strung up between buildings, performers belting out Johnny Cash could be found easily along the sides of the road, and the people flocked here. 

On the ride towards the airport, the sky glimmered in pinks and oranges and made for a beautiful farewell. Edinburgh left me with remnants of fantasy, of autumn, of glory to last me the rest of my days. In its wake, it took a bit of me along with it, too. 

"There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir: We must rise and follow her, when from every hill of flame She calls, and calls each vagabond by name." -William Bliss

An afternoon lounge in Princes St. Park