Edinburgh, the Royals, and Haggis

By the end of this post, you will understand that I can make the following claims:
*I’ve had whiskey with every meal I’ve eaten since I arrived!
*I voluntarily ate haggis- twice!
*I climbed three hills in one day!
When I woke up this morning, I was fully rested and relaxed. My feet weren’t cramping, my shoulders were no longer sore, and I was hungry- all great signs. I started early, going for breakfast in the hotel. The breakfast was buffet style, and was closer to an English breakfast. Can’t say I have ever been a fan of blood sausage. But included in the buffet meat selection was haggis, and I took that as a challenge- I took a portion.
I can see your faces now. A mixture of disgust, curiosity, and surprise fall over them, and in your minds, your saying “Ew… that’s nasty! You’re either brave or stupid. … and? How was it?” It’s thick and heavy, but palatable. It makes perfect sense to eat it while drinking a whiskey, though- the whiskey can cut through the thick paste.
Another reason the Scots are awesome is porridge. Now, porridge is not anything unusual- it’s just “boiled oat meal”- but it’s the options for flavoring that rocked. See, next to the tin were two pitchers- one with maple syrup, and one with whiskey. Yes. Now, I didn’t go all out with the whiskey- I only added a splash, not even an ounce- but that, plus the brown sugar and the maple syrup made a fantastic breakfast meal.
I also had a chance to read the local Sunday newspaper. British newspapers look relatively comical, using big, bold fonts, bright color pictures, and the headlines are sensational. The difference between them and the US papers is the relative balance of opinions. Most of the editorial pages don’t just assume that the entire world agrees with liberal, socialist agendas, and all seem to be introspective as to why Europe is casting off the Liberal/Socialist Democratic parties in favor of center-right leaning Nationalist parties. The second headline, under “England Loses the Rugby World Cup,” was that a prominent black police officer stated that the police need to increase search and seizures of minorities in order to reduce crime. Apparently, the muslim minority and black minority communities are demanding that something be done, and the man responded. However, there was a backlash in precisely the manner one would expect in the states: “You can’t do that! It’s not fair!” I’m sure I’ll hear more about it while I’m here.
Anyway, I finished my breakfast and set about my day. The first thing was to find an internet café. I decided not to use the internet at the hotel- it was 15 pounds per hour from the room and 8.50/hour from the business center. Instead, I decided to go to a café that was 1-3 pounds per hour. But I couldn’t find one where the maps said they were. I continued to walk but didn’t see one until I reached my first sightseeing landmark.
Calton Hill was covered in small stone memorials for various individuals- there was a Lord Nelson monument, and some to a few authors- and other than being green and pleasant, it offered a great view of the entire city. I took many pictures, and moved on.
Continuing down the street, I thought I might be able to cut through a cemetery to an adjacent street but was wrong. However, the cemetery was quite impressive. Most of the burials were of wealthy merchants that died in the 2nd half of the 19th century, with several of their descendants buried in the same plots as recently as 2003. Each gravestone read as a list: Person A died 1863, and Person B as well, and their son died in 1897, and his son died in 1922, and his daughter died in 1955. Some of the stones had grown vague with erosion, others were kept up. I took pictures and moved on.
Eventually I reached Holyrood House- the Royal Palace of Scotland. Not nearly as big as their cousins in London, it still had history and a bunch of attendants wearing plaid. I took many pictures. Very pleasant, very elegant. You know- royalty. Across the street is the new Scottish Parliament, and the building is an eyesore when compared to the rest of the town. However, all the materials used in the construction of the building were from Scotland, and you get a sense from the building’s history center that they weren’t fans of the Act of Union in 1707. Nevertheless, they have a state legislature (still run by the Queen as chief legislator and chief executive) and they’re proud of it.
From there, I looked south and this monumental crag called Holyrood Park loomed, begging me to climb it… which I did. Behind it was a peak called Arthur’s Seat- and after looking at it I decided not to climb it (I was carrying a few knick-knacks and such, and it was not only steep, but slippery. I took pictures until the batteries ran out.
It was at the top of the crag- the western wall of an ancient volcano- that I got introspective and was just thankful that I was there. Even in the wind, the cold, damp air, and the gloom, it was beautiful. Edinburgh Castle was the high building, and the rest of the town- all the Presbyterian cathedrals and spires and old government buildings-all seemed to approach it subserviently. I pressed on.
I began at Holyrood at the end of the Royal Mile and started up the street. There was a ton of wool stores, Scottish merchandise and such, and that’s when it hit me- the part of Scottish culture that is celebrated is without a doubt the male. The manly, masculine Scot. The defiant, sneering, whiskey-drinking, meat-eating, kilt-wearing, claymore swinging, God-fearing Presbyertian, blue-collar Scot. It’s everywhere. And hardly a mention of a prominent women- save Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots- and there seems to be this understanding that a Scottish woman will suffer while her valiant man fights for her. Romantic, but quaint. Think the whole Braveheart/Rob Roy world. This is their pride.
I stopped at a bagpipe store. I looked and looked, and the two gents who appeared kind of annoyed that I would ask a question, did so and I now understand a little bit better how bagpipes work. I bought a tutorial on how to play the bagpipes- it actually appears to be quite simple. We’ll see. A set of pipes costs roughly $600, so I’d like to be sure I could play it before I committed to it.
Eventually I got near the top, but was ready to get off my feet- I’d been walking for 6 hours, and I could have gone for more, but was ready to freshen up for dinner and such. I looked on my maps for internet cafes, and found a few- trying to commit them to memory.
I went for dinner at a restaurant called Stac Polly- a “modern Scottish” cuisine. The two waitstaff of the tiny restaurant were nice, one French and one American. I ordered the haggis in plum sauce appetizer and the pheasant with apple stuffing. The American waitress talked with me for a bit- originally from Maine, she spent her life traveling through Europe, currently working in Scotland. It was as if she was relieved that the few Americans around her age that she saw were comforting. Another whiskey from a rare place- Isle of Jure, aged 10 years. Not too bad, although the first sip hit like a sledgehammer. Overall, dinner was pleasant. The cheese and oatcake plate is pushed at nearly every restaurant; considering it was either that or chocolate I had the plate. The oatcakes are bland and the cheeses were strong, so if you’re into that, go for it. The cakes with very, very well with fruit; however, I was only provided a raspberry and small strawberry with five cookie-sized cakes. You live, you learn.
Afterward, I set out to find the internet cafes committed to memory. It was not to be, as I went to places I was certain they were but came up short. Turns out that I missed them all, turning away one block too soon or such. I also found the strip-club area and the beggars. The beggars were quite subdued, nowhere near as aggressive as in America. But not pervasive. I returned to the hotel and watched a little TV, read some, and went to sleep.