You won’t be surprised to discover we’re a bit tired in the morning
having been up half the night journaling during Australian business hours.
Breakfast is a leisurely affair and continental in style. We
chat over pastries and fresh berries. We’re in no rush. Inevitably talk turns
to what we’ve got planned for today. There’s only one thing pencilled in –
Edinburgh Castle. I haven’t booked tickets because we’ve joined Historic
Scotland and have unlimited entry to their properties. I’m assuming we just
rock up and go in. Our host suggests this might be a tad optimistic and nothing
should be assumed. He seems to think we really should have pre-booked our entry
to avoid lengthy queues. We’ve decided
to just hop on the Majestic Bus and hop off as close to the castle as we can,
walk up and find out. If it’s a total shit-fight we can book a spot for Friday.
We’re very tardy getting out and about. We wander over to
the Shore. Our walking route takes us through Maritime Lane and Broad Wynd and
we wait near Restaurant Martin Wishart for the bus to come. Hubby throws scorn
on the idea of picking up a picnic lunch from Mimi’s Bakehouse while we wait
thereby avoiding high prices at the castle. Indeed he’s keen to pay high prices
at the castle. “The money goes to upkeep the castle doesn’t it?” He says,
laying his trump card flat on the table. The day is dry so far but overcast and
the prediction is a sixty something percent chance of rain. Indeed there’s fine
light sprinkling of rain as we sit outside on the bus but it’s not enough to
drive us inside. It’s not particularly cold today, just a bit damp.
It’s a slow creep up the Royal Mile and I suspect it would
be a good deal quicker to walk it if we had more robust feet. I make a
conscious effort to chill out and just enjoy the moment. My goodness there is a
lot of merchants selling Cashmere in this city.
The sight of the National Museum of Scotland and Greyfriar’s
Bobby causes a quick change of plan. We will get off here and find our way to
the Castle from the Museum, this will stand us in good stead for Saturday when
we’re going to the Tattoo. It’s absolutely imperative that we do not get lost
on Saturday evening and if we consume today in aimless wandering it’s no
biggie, we can do the Castle on Friday. I have studied the map of this part of
Edinburgh at some length over the last year and I set out confident that I know
where we need to be. Follow me.
He should know better really. It’s no time at all before we
are lost. Well, not lost in the sense of having no idea where we are, we’re
standing in front of a map that tells us “You are here” and it’s clearly
absolutely correct, but I wasn’t expecting to be facing Middle Meadow Walk. Ah. 
Hemisphere disorientation is belatedly asserting itself. It’s an unmistakable
symptom, at critical junctions I’ve turned in precisely the opposite direction
of what is required. We head back the
way we have come, in my case feeling bad because I’ve caused un-necessary
footsteps for Hubby. Right, this time we successfully make the turn down
Candlemaker Row, pass the Oz pub and onto the Grassmarket where a pretty good
band is playing to an appreciative crowd. We turn up West Bow and my eyes light
up. Look! Theres Oink. Let’s have that for lunch. Agreed. We wander in and pay
cash – they don’t take cards. For me an “Oink” with sage and onion stuffing and
apple sauce on wholemeal. For Hubby an oink with sage and onion stuffing and
cheese and chili on white. A Coke, A water. Done. We eat as we walk. It’s OK.
We’re not hungry now and that’s good.
We make it successfully through upper bow to the junction of
Castlehill and Lawnmarket. We turn. We walk enjoying the scenes and atmosphere.
Now, we take our bearings again. Hmm. That there is unmistakably St Giles Cathedral.
It has a big sign saying so. Right. Lots
of people hanging out here. There’s stalls and a performance space. Milling
around in the crowds was something we wanted to do. …Saturday is looking like a debacle in
waiting. I save face by deciding to explore St Giles now rather than later. God
knows if we’ll actually be able to find it when we mean to on Thursday. We head
in. There’s lots of people in here too. There’s a piano recital in progress
playing dark and powerful chords. We move among the sightseers and
photographers composing shots through long lenses. They show no sign of a having
a photo permit. It’s a beautiful cathedral and quite different to those we’ve
visited previously in England. Indeed Hubby comments that it’s not really a
cathedral at all. I’m shocked at his assessment at first but my belated
Googling agrees with him. It’s really a church that has been progressively
extended over many centuries. The stained glass windows are abundant and
magnificent and speak with a more coherent voice of colour and style than that
in most other cathedrals we’ve visited. Wanting to know more I’ve done a little
research online and find that the windows were originally clear and were
progressively added from the 19th century until by the mid 20th
century almost all windows told stories from the bible as an aid to teaching –
let’s just be clear this isn’t idolatry...
The other feature that I completely adore is the chandeliers. They are totally brilliant. They look fairly modern, but
in assuming such I have to say that this is one of the most fantastic things
about these iconic places of worship. They’re not just museum pieces. Despite
their heritage value their congregations continue to make their mark and if I
get a vote, whoever, in whatever age, gave the green light to these ageless
chandeliers and the abundant stained glass deserves a completely overwhelming
and lengthy standing ovation.
I explore the various aisles framing potential photo shots
with limited success as I look for the cathedral shop to pay for my photo
permit. It is not an easy cathedral to capture, especially with the piano
recital in progress. Hubby finds a seat and rests his feet and eventually I
find some angles that capture elements I want and importantly, I notice a bank
of chandeliers that haven’t go the downlights operating, making photographing
their detail easier.
OK. I’m done. Time we made a renewed effort to find the
Castle. We decide to let Dr Google find our way. Oh yeah, we’re quick we are. Hubby
has better reception on his phone and he takes the lead. We pass a piper and accompanying drum.
Magnificent. I pull out my coin purse.
We walk on. We’re back at the hub… good. Hubby says, “Up this way” and
we’re heading uphill. Makes sense really. A creative has composed a gorgeous
scene down a dark passageway at Boswell’s Court. We press on.
Quite a lot of
people are heading downhill, the weather is closing in and it’s raining lightly
now. We’ve swapped cameras and are now using the waterproof one that we bought
especially for capturing Scotland – rain, do your worst! We’re ready.
I make an enquiry of one of the security guards manning a
barrier at the entrance to the arena and he explains where we need to go for
castle entrance. We emerge into the scene of the Tattoo performances and
finally I get my pinch me moment. I’ve enjoyed the Tattoo since I was very
small. It is the main thing that has dictated the timing of this visit. “Where will we be sitting?” asks Hubby “Up
there in section 8”. I point. Over there
on the side are the other seats we were considering. We linger and snap photos and then head
on.
We go to the information desk as
bidden to claim our member entry tickets. After our aimless exploration of the
Tower of London, this time I ask for a map!
Even in this outer precinct the castle is extremely impressive for the
immaculate maintenance of the stonework and the coherence of its architectural
voice. There’s no queues to speak of for anyone and there’s zero queue for
members. We flash our tickets and membership cards and walk through the castle
gates making a bee line to the Argyle Battery to admire the views across the
New Town and out over the Firth.
There’s a tour leaving in about 25 minutes. We mill about checking out Mons Meg and generally enjoying the atmosphere.
Reluctantly exposing our map to the rain we decide to explore up the Lang
Stairs, wander past the Forewall Battery and line up to see The Honours of
Scotland. Hubby cautions the timing but I figure there’ll be another tour. We
need to see this exhibition one way or another. The queue sedately paces its
way along narrow exhibition corridors in dim lighting. The walls are painted in
what I think of as medieval style with courtiers and kings and panels of
historical information explaining the history of Scottish Kings and Queens,
coronation ritual through time and the crown jewels. Sacred medieval music
accompanies our journey. The atmosphere that is created makes me feel like a
participant in and ancient coronation ritual among the nobles illustrated
around me who are clearly moving in the same direction bearing gifts on velvet
cushions. I feel quite affected by it. The history provided is fascinating and
I learn a lot. I had no idea that Charles II was crowned by the Scot’s in
defiance of Cromwell following the regicide of Charles I a couple of years
previously. He made his way, kitted out in his regalia from the Castle, down
the Royal Mile to the Abbey. Later he ordered that the Honours should be taken to
Dunnottar Castle and hidden so that Cromwell could not destroy them as he had
the English Crown Jewels. Hubby comments
that the more you learn about Oliver Cromwell the more you hate him. Agreed! We follow the path of the jewels through
their “rediscovery” by Sir Walter Scott – well to be fair they were not
actually lost, just no-one had checked they were still there for a hundred
years or so after they’d been packed away in a chest after the Act of Union. Perhaps most surprising of all, or not
surprising when you think about it, even as late as 1941 the Honours of
Scotland were hidden by burial to protect them from a possible German
invasion. I think it is this that really
drives home to me that history is real and perhaps less has changed than we
sometimes imagine. The tremendous symbolism and superstitious devotion
associated with the items in this exhibition are I sense, completely unabated
in this modern age of reason. The small room in which the Honours are displayed
is wood panelled and around the room are hung small badges of arms of the
various Scottish monarchs. It’s a reverent space. This exhibition has been a
very thought provoking experience.
In terms of inspirational design the Honours of Scotland are
worthy of their stature. The Sword of State in particular is absolutely magnificent,
notwithstanding that the handle and cross guards vaguely resemble female
reproductive organs… yeah… well, I’m sorry but they do. I will not relate all
the fascinating history of the items on display and the atmospheric bubble has
been well and truly popped now in any case, hasn’t it.
We move on to the Royal Apartments and the birth chamber of
James VI of Scotland / I of England. In
my pensive mood I ponder what the experience must have been like for the young
Scottish Queen who would of course have been very much aware of the
significance of the event and real or potential enemies her son would have from the moment
of his birth. In an age when death stalked the young, a royal prince lived in
deadly peril, as had Mary every day of her life, necessitating her removal to
France for her protection as she grew up. It is understandable that Monarchs
placed considerable reliance on spiritual faith, a support for their hope of
survival sometimes against the odds. Perhaps survival and ambition were to a
large degree inseparable.
Hubby’s been waiting outside and our next priority is the
Scottish National War Memorial. No
photos allowed. I’ve largely been
hollowed out by war remembrance across my life finally putting some ghosts to
bed as I toured the battlefields of the Great War back in 2012. I spend some
time contemplating each memorial and reading through the battle honours. These are perhaps in an even more real sense,
the honours of Scotland. The pride and the shame of humanity. The paradox that
is ever present in war remembrance.
I am struck as I ponder each formation’s proud listing of battle honours, of the number of battles where Australians and Scots fought
together. Our blood lies mingled in the
soils of some of our shared sacred places around the world. As it does with the
blood of our former enemies. Perhaps there are no enemies in death. I focus my
attention to consider the meaning behind the words: Ypres; Pozieres; Villers
Bretonneux, Cambrai, Arras, tears stream silently down my face. I am glad I
have visited some of the cemeteries where these proud Scots are interred, or
have their names inscribed among the tens upon tens of thousands of missing.
The Scottish National War Memorial was opened in 1927,
similar timing to the major Australian Memorials. It’s astonishing how
seamlessly they have integrated such a large new building into the castle
grounds. I wander back in and ask a question of the staff about this but
realise it’s a stupid question because the memorial is clearly purpose built,
but I enquire anyway just couch the question a little differently. Apparently
the site was previously a barracks and even earlier a church sat where the
memorial now stands. My guide points out
the animal memorials included. He is clearly very proud that no-one is
forgotten here, not even the mice in the tunnels where the sappers were digging
who, along with caged birds, gave the first alert to bad air underground.
We can’t leave this precinct without checking out the Great
Hall. It’s brilliant and we catch the last presentation of the wearing of the
old style kilt by a rather funny Scottish man with a brilliant broad brogue. I
heard recently that younger generations now coming through are losing their
strong brogue… NOOOOOOOO. Change your schooling, restructure your lives,
preserve your accent it’s fantastic… but I digress.. We check out the colours
from Waterloo before they are packed away forever due to their fragility. We
learn of Ensign Ewart famously illustrated in the enormous painting high on the
walls of his personal triumph at the Battle of Waterloo. Again I enquire and
learn that he spent the rest of his life speaking at dinner engagements about
the events pictured therein and he was actually a Sargeant but had to be
promoted to allow him to carry the flag he’d captured!
We’re pretty footsore now but before we go I just want to do
a bit of a reccie of what we haven’t seen today so I can decide if we need to
come back later in the week. Hubby heads for a café seat and a coffee but
they’re closing up so he catches up with me in the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards
Regimental Museum. There’s lots of interesting information here, but we’re both
very tired and it deserves better attention than we can give it today. I have
snapped a couple of reminders and some panels to read later. We make our way to
the castle gates via a quick visit to David’s Tower and possibly the worst
ventilated toilets I’ve ever come across. Wow. That’d be a toilet stop it’s
worth planning to avoid if you can. Our
departure continues in slow motion as we are waylaid by quick looks at various
gift shops. Hubby tries some Haggis and Cracked Pepper chips. Me the Crispy
Bacon version as we pick up a few minor souvenir purchases. I’m in the market
for a new knitting bag and I see some Harris Tweed bags that could be
considered for the purpose.
I suggest we just get a cab home to save Hubby’s foot but
he’s keen to head back to the Museum to time it and also to make sure we really
know the way. It’s embarrassing how
simple the route between the two actually is. How the hell did we manage to get
lost. Back at the Museum we see a couple
of No 35 buses travel by and we wait at the stop for the next ones to come
through, alighting in due course on the Shore and adjourning to our bed for a
nap before dinner.
Our reservation is for 7.30 at Kitchin in Commercial Quays,
just a 5 minute walk away. I surrender my coat, Hubby has just walked over in
his shirt. I booked quite a long while
ago and we have, I think, possibly the best table in the house. Our seats are
angled to provide a birds eye view of the activity in the kitchen and the man
himself is right there, the conductor of a Scottish produce symphony.
We start with the drinks menu, Hubby opts for Bitter and
Twisted beer and I indulge in a mocktail called Apple and Raspberry. We are
brought some crispy wafer sticks with a blue cheese dip to munch on and we do
this as we contemplate the menus.
Then the tricky pastime of choosing between the various meal
options. We end up going with the a la carte. I order Hand dived Orkney
Scallops baked in the shell served with a white wine, vermouth and herb sauce.
Hubby opts for crispy veal sweetbreads and ox tongue from Inverurie served with
potato risotto, peas and Perthshire girolles (which are the cutest little
fungus you’re ever likely to meet).
For mains I offer Hubby no choice. He’s having the grouse.
No arguments. I’ll have the duck. “But… I
was going to get the duck” he says. If there’s duck on the menu he almost
always gets it and he almost always wins by doing so. I am undeterred. “The
grouse is what I’ve brought you here for.. didn’t you get the memo?” He bows to
my demands. I have his interests at heart. He loves trying new varieties of
birds to eat. J I
trust this venue to ensure that our food is produced sustainably.
Next food is an amuse bouche of consommé served in a small
cup sitting in a recessed plate. Tomato and basil featured there along with
something else we can’t remember or didn’t catch. The staff speak fairly
quietly and with the ambient noise and their accent it is sometimes hard to get
all the detail. Then some bread which is a little loaf, crusty and warm with a
little pat of Scottish butter. Delicious.
Well, I have to say my choice of starter simply blew Hubby
out of the water. Not even a burning hull left floating there. My Orkney
scallops have come in an enormous plate sized shell that has been sealed with
pastry. The waiter breaks the seal and removes the top shell explaining that I
should pick the pastry from the shell and eat it. Excellent says I. It’s good
to have permission. You don’t need to invite me to do that twice! Talk about a taste sensation. Absolutely the
standout course of my meal for sure.
Hubby enjoys his veal sweetbreads also, but I think he wishes he too had
the Orkney Scallops. Man they were delicious and I have just enough bread left
to scratch up the dregs of the sauce. Soooo goooood.
Mains are described as follows: Mine: Breast of Loomswood
Farm duck served with a carrot tatin, leg confit and an orange sauce. Hubby’s: First of the season grouse from the
Borders served with Perthshire girolles, wild lingonberries and bread sauce.
I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that Hubby won that
round. He’s really enjoyed his grouse and its accompaniments. He’s glad he got
that and not the duck. I enjoyed the duck. I’m always worried that duck won’t
be cooked enough for my liking but there was no problem there. The confit was
crispy and delicious. The carrot tatin was very rich and quite salty, I think
that could have been toned down a bit actually, but yeah a delicious meal all
the same.
We watch the theatre of the kitchen as we eat. Whilst busy
and I’m sure they must go home exhausted, there’s no sense of panic or shouting,
it’s a well oiled team.
Its’s getting pretty late, but we’re in for the long haul
and we wouldn’t dream of leaving without sampling dessert. With full bellies
we’re both pretty sleepy and neither of us really thought about the time
implications of ordering the soufflé. So that’s easy. Hubby will have the
Coffee Souffle served with chocolate ganache and espresso ice cream. He’s not
alone there. We think probably 80% or even more of the desserts emerging from
the kitchen are the soufflé. Why were
souffle’s so unfashionable for so long. It’s a mystery. Anyway, I love yoghurt. Seriously I LOVE
(good quality) yoghurt and I really want to see what a professional does with
gooseberries. It’s a no brainer I’m sampling the Knockraich Farm yoghurt panna
cotta served with Perthshire gooseberry sorbet and an elderflower and
gooseberry consommé.
As we wait we both admire the lobster delivered to the lady
at the next table. That was really tempting when we were ordering and it looks
great. A lady over closer to the kitchen
has Orkney scallops delivered to her and her eyes absolutely light up. That
must have been my reaction too.
Luckily the soufflé doesn’t seem to take too long and
clearly Hubby is enjoying it. He doesn’t even want to try my dessert. That’s a
first. My dessert is lovely with a
delightfully palate stimulating mix of sharp and sweet elements and a
delightful crunch from some delicate toffee like discs. The gooseberries are
quite tart and there’s some little cherries there as well. The panna cotta itself is striped. I’m happy
with my choice too. So I guess you’d have to say we’ve tied. I do try the
soufflé. I’m not into coffee as much as Hubby but it’s delicious. It’s
interesting that the tie overall is due to different victor dishes in the
different courses rather than us being unable to pick a winner between the
dishes we’ve each selected.
No further coffee for us. We don’t want to stay awake. Only
the petit fours to go which are an orange macaroon and salted caramel chocolate
ball with a mint liner. Tasty, but I’ve never been anywhere that did better
petit fours than Aria in Sydney. Aria still holds the crown.
Nothing left but to pay the bill. Don’t tell me what it cost
please. And could you include the signed recipe book and a copy of the
menu? No problems.
The restaurant has earlier provided a sweet little map of Scotland and the
Borders showing where the various produce we’ve consumed was sourced.
We retrieve my coat. We say our thanks and waddle out into
the night for the short walk home. We’re back not that long after 10.30 pm if
memory serves. Great meal. Great Night. Dinner and the show. Fabulous ambience
too. Not too stuffy, friendly, efficient staff and lots of patrons of all ages, including children, many fairly casually dressed. Smart casual.
Oh yes, I nearly forgot. The rain yesterday was great. It
brought out the raincoat hawkers and one shop had a rack of what looked like
Black Watch tartan raincoats on sale for only £7.99 so I got one for grandson.
I’ll keep my eye out for others too in case I see something I can’t resist that
I like better, but at least we won’t go home empty handed! ..and I really like
Blach Watch tartan anyhow.
So that’s day two wrapped up. Superb. I hesitate to assign
superb so early in the trip but really, that’s the only word that springs to mind.
I am particularly tickled that so much of what we saw and learned today ties in
nicely with other things on our itinerary.
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