When in London (Part One): Elementary, my dear Reader

Happy Belated New Year to all of my readers!

I spent a remarkable five days in London over New Year’s and I found myself falling in love with England all over again. Five days scarcely allows you to scratch the surface of the city and get to know its varied districts, streets, and flavours. It is like New York in that you can get on the tube and when you emerge once again from underground you seem to have been magically transported to a completely new and different place. You don’t know what you will get when you begin to climb the stairs, but I can almost guarantee it will be amazing.

London is the only true city I have come across in the UK. I use the phrase “true city” to mean a city that I am used to in the US. For me a city is like New York or Philadelphia. It is bustling with a network of public transportation, cars, large crowds, landmarks, museums, cultural centres, clubs, pubs, and more restaurants than can be imagined. Cities are alive at all hours and each has a unique personality and energy associated with it. London has a fascinating energy. It is a controlled intensity; the energy is always bubbling just beneath a veil of subtlety. It is very English in that respect and it makes the experience all the more exciting.

Rather than go on and on for pages about my adventures in London, I thought I’d give you the highlight reel. This I consider to be the second edition of Jen’s Top Ten Places to Visit While in the UK. It’ll include some anecdotes, some advice, and the big places I visited during my five days. Be assured though, London, I am far from through with you.

Day 1: Baker Street and the Sherlock Holmes Museum

 I landed at Heathrow at 6:30am. Check in at my hotel was 2:00pm and I needed to catch my breath and recharge. I had a leisurely breakfast at Costa and then boarded the tube for my hotel. It was a straight shot on the Piccadilly Line to Earl’s Court and the Oliver Plaza Hotel where I was staying. I had conjured up images of a large soaking tub in my head and an open, airy room. For now though, I would just drop my luggage off and head to Baker Street. I had decided to try to use every moment available to me while I was in London.

The hotel wasn’t exactly what I expected when I entered the lobby. Like so many other hotels in Earl’s Court it was clearly a converted house, sort of like the kind of on the old version of Upstairs, Downstairs. Rooms had been divided, modernised, and adapted to hotel use. I say modern, but it was modern but it appeared to be twenty-five or so years out of date. I dropped off my luggage and decided to return as soon as I could check in so I could have that long soak I was hoping for.

Back on the tube, I made my way to Baker Street. When I came out of the station, I found a double-laned street with a strip in the middle, Marylebone Road. There were crowds of people and it was gently drizzling. I began walking and came across Madame Toussaud’s with a queue so long it stretched around the building and had begun to double back on itself.

Glad I’m not going there, I thought.

I passed the Royal Academy of Music and realised I was heading in the wrong direction. I crossed the street and walked back until I ran into Baker Street. As I walked on, I finally reached 221B, it was the queue outside that gave it away. (What they say about the Brits and queuing is all true). It appeared the Great Detective was in great demand at the moment. The drizzle continued and I needed to eat. I decided to grab lunch at Pret a Manger and if it had stopped drizzling and if it appeared that the line was moving, I would try to get into the Sherlock Holmes Museum afterwards. While enjoying my sandwich and salt and vinegar crisps I glanced over to see none other than the Great Detective snacking away a few seats down from me. Okay, it wasn’t actually Sherlock Holmes. It wasn’t even Benedict Cumberbatch. It was just a guy dressed in a grey Victorian overcoat with a matching deerstalker on the table. I guess those are the sites you see when you’re on Baker Street.

After lunch I plucked up the courage and the energy and waited in the queue. I waited for an hour and a half. Now, as you’re waiting, you may find some odd things to do. I discovered Baker Street is an excellent place for car twitching. (It’s like bird watching only with awesome cars). There was an Audi R8, one or two Ferraris, one Lamborghini, myriads of minis, a Bentley, and a few Jags thrown in for good measure. When I finally reached the front of the queue I made an awful discovery. Apparently (and take heed ye folks who plan to visit) you need to purchase tickets before getting in the queue. After explaining my dilemma to the costumed interpreter (dressed as a bobby) at the door to 221B, I was told to run in the shop and grab a ticket and he would let me in with the next bunch. I got to chatting with him and he mentioned that most of the employees there were actors, writers, and performers. He himself was an actor who had graduated a few years ago. Finally, I entered the home of one of my childhood heroes.

It’s an odd sort of museum. It is arranged like Holmes’s rooms would be from the stories. You can touch the objects and sit on the chairs. There are few labels and few genuine artefacts. One the second floor there are props from the Jeremy Brett era which I grew up watching. That was for me the most exciting bit. On the third floor are scenes from the stories captured with waxwork figures. In all you can do the entire museum in thirty minutes. Afterwards I headed to the shop to pick up a few souvenirs.

The Study

Calabash, Bowler, and Deerstalker, oh myyy

The famous violin.

The Persian slipper where Holmes kept his tobacco.

A prop from my favourite Jeremy Brett episode, the Solitary Cyclist.

One of the Six Napoleons featured in the Jeremy Brett episode.

The Man with the Twisted Lip

The Red Headed League

Moriarty

Hound of the Baskervilles

I got to the hotel at around four o’clock, exhausted, damp, and cold from my journey. I was ready for that hot bath and a quiet night. I checked in and, with some effort, manoeuvred my luggage over to the elevator. When the doors slide back, I was greeted by the tiniest elevator I have ever seen. No, seriously, it said it could hold four people, but I could barely fit in it with two suitcases. This did not instil me with confidence. I was on the fourth floor. The doors parted into a narrow corridor. My room was straight ahead. When I unlocked the door, I was greeted by what must have once been the scullery maid’s room. It was tiny, with a tiny window, and a single bed crammed against the wall. I dropped my bags and went to open the bathroom door. I was greeted not by my fantasy of a soaking tub, but by a depressing shower stall and dingy sink and loo.

Well, at least I have a bathroom, I thought.

Advice and Notes: The Sherlock Holmes Museum is worth a look if you’re a fan of the stories. It isn’t worth waiting in a queue for an hour and half and according to the constable it rarely has a line so long. The shop is quite excellent and has a number of interesting souvenirs of varying cost. Leave thirty minutes to go through the museum and ten for the shop. Also in the area, Madame Toussaud’s if you like that sort of thing. Also check out the Sherlock Holmes statue as you come out of the Baker Street tube station.

Baker Street Tube Station

Regenerations

The last day of 2013 has caused be to reflect not only on the past year but on life in general. I have been doing this a lot of late if I am to be honest; I’ve probably been doing it a bit too much. Turning thirty and moving to a new continent necessarily force you to re-examine who you are, your priorities, your goals, and yourself. I’ve been trying to come to terms with new circumstances both at home and abroad. I’ve been trying to get to know myself again.

Whovians all over the world eagerly anticipated the premier of Peter Capaldi as the new Doctor. I managed to see the last five minutes of the Christmas special (look I was exhausted and jet lagged so I may have fallen asleep for the first bits, but have no fear, I’ll catch up soon). There is always a great deal of sadness when the old Doctor gives way to the new. You don’t know this new guy. You don’t know his quirks, his charms, his pitfalls, or his tagline. (Care for a Jelly Baby?) We love the familiar. It feels cozy and warm. The new feels dangerous and exposed.

I can’t help but feel that I have undergone a regeneration of my own and I’m still going through the immediate recovery period where you say odd things like, “KIDNEYS!” or “Legs! I’ve got legs!” In a way I’m mourning the loss of the person I was and the relationships I had as that person. I had really grown to like myself a whole lot. I was sure of who I was and where I was going. With an ocean of time and a literal ocean between me now and me then, I find I am a bit lost on occasion. It is like that person no longer exists. Being home over the past week served to show me that even if I were to return to the States after my programme, I wouldn’t be able to recapture her precisely. That time and set of circumstances are past.

It’s like getting to know the new Doctor while mourning the loss of the old. That old person will always be a part of me and I am exceptionally glad about that because I think she was a pretty cool person. Lots of smiles, self-assurance, adventurous, and a bit of a risk taker. (I mean, she got me over here, didn’t she?) This new version of me is still floundering a bit. Taking the first few gasps of breath and taking her first few steps. I think there are strains of the old person in there, but there are other aspects as well that I haven’t quite figured out. I knew that this experience abroad would change me, but I didn’t realise the extent of that change.

When the clock strikes midnight over here (7pm for those of you on the east coast of the US), I will be welcoming 2014 and the chance to get to know myself all over again. Last year was the first year that I managed to keep my resolution, to do one productive thing each day. This year, I want to continue that trend and I want to reach 31 December 2014 with the assurance that I have figured out who this new regeneration is. I don’t think I will be a completely different person, but I know I’ll never be the same.

2013, before I go I just want to tell you, you were fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. And d’you know what? So was I.

The Healing Magic of Windsor

5:30am. The sound of trickling water and bird song filled my room. I rolled over in my narrow cot-like bed and reached out for my phone. I had been grateful to find an alarm which rather than wrenching one out of sleep, gently encouraged active participation in the upcoming day. This morning, however, I was feeling more exhausted than was normal. Term was over and I had no need for pulling all-nighters, and yet I hadn’t gotten to sleep until past midnight. I needed to get up. I needed to finish packing and begin my hour’s walk to the train station. In a little over eight hours I would be met in Windsor by a very dear friend of mine I hadn’t seen in months. Seeing her and her family marked the true beginning on my break. The trickling continued and the birds sang even more earnestly as I found the snooze button.

The weight of the previous few days had pressed so heavily on me that I hadn’t had the strength to begin packing for my journey until nine or ten the evening before. Monday evening had presented me with the most severe panic attack I had ever experienced. The terror it had brought on and the exhaustion had deepened my depression further than I thought was possible. Abject and complete loneliness had given way to despair and feelings of worthlessness. I sighed and tried to make out the ceiling of my room in the pitch black.

I would be with friends in less than half a day, I told myself.

The water began trickling and once more the chirping of birds filled my room. I reached back to my phone and shut off the alarm. It was time to start.

The hour long walk to the station was the worst part of the six hour trip. My bag weighed just under 50 pounds and I had to drag it up and down the hills of Durham and over the uneven cobblestones. To add insult to injury it began to rain halfway through my walk. Durham Rail Station sits on top of a hill north of the city centre. I stood at the bottom of steep and enormous set of stairs leading up to the station. I began to pull my bag up, getting more soaked, more exhausted, and feeling more alone with every stair. Eventually, I had made it halfway up when a young man appeared and asked if I needed help. After thanking him nearly five hundred eighty-two times, I made it to the train and was finally on my way.

I got into King’s Cross and headed toward the entrance to the Underground. I was an old hand at the tube and arrived at Paddington fifteen minutes or so later. I sat and waited for my next train which would take me out to Windsor. I could have gotten on one of twenty trains that were departing over the next hour I sat staring at the boards but I had said I would be on the 12:37 and that was the train I would take. As I sat, I watched the pigeons strutting across the concrete, weaving through the feet of travellers and hopping out of the way of rolling luggage. They picked at minute scraps of bread that were undetectable to human senses. Most had blackened feet and were missing toes and legs. In that moment I wished I had a loaf of bread.

The platform was finally listed for my train and I hurried to board. Thirty minutes later I was in Windsor and ten minutes later I was in a car with my friend and her children heading through the town and surrounding countryside. She took me on a tour of her old haunts and new. We passed vast open lands belonging to the crown, small row houses, posh shops, and large gated estates. We passed by Elton John’s mansion, Woodside, and we drove up to the gates to the Duke of York’s land. Then we drove into Windsor and past the castle. A true road side attraction, it sits right on the main street. It’s an imposing edifice but beautiful and nearly one thousand years old. Thinking about it, it’s difficult to believe that humans have been around for that long and that we used to build things like Windsor Castle.

Scenes from Windsor

She parked in a garage and we all strolled around the shops. I began to relax. Windsor felt like home for some reason. It seemed familiar for some reason though I’ve never been there before. We went to Hardy’s, an old fashioned sweet shop that had shelves of candies behind the counter in glass jars. We walked through the train station with its quaint short track. Before I knew it, we were walking past the castle. I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off of it.

“You know, it’s almost time for Evensong at the chapel,” she said.

Immediately I wanted nothing more than go to St. George’s to hear the choir. The kids were beginning to reach their limits, but we didn’t see the harm in inquiring about attending. We approached the gateway and were greeted by two armed police officers who smiled and encouraged us to attend. We went it.

First of all, the chapel is not like what you may be imagining. It isn’t a chapel so much as a miniature cathedral. Gorgeous carved stone which echoed with our every step no matter how quiet we were, ornately carved wood throughout the choir stalls, and the ambience that only a thousand years of existence can bring.

The choir entered. It was only the men. The boys had been given the evening off as they had had a concert the night before. The cantor began in that clear, pure tenor that only the English can produce. When the choir came in in brilliant four part harmony my eyes welled up with tears. It was one of the most beautiful sounds I have heard and I’ve heard more than my fair share of choirs. As they continued I had to fight to hold back tears. The sound swirled around me and seemed to envelop me until I felt that I wrapped up in a blanket or being embraced by the dearest of friends. How I missed singing in a choir. Directing a choir is just not the same as singing in one. I missed the healing that came from singing. I missed feeling a part of something. You cannot be lonely when you are singing with other human beings. There is a powerful bond that comes from heartbeats aligning and perfect, harmonious synergy.

The service concluded and I felt bare and empty without the voices. We left the chapel and choking back tears, I thanked my friend.

I spent the next few days in a real home. I hadn’t been in a home for close to three months and I found myself breathing more deeply and sleeping more soundly than I had since I first arrived in England. There is a tremendous feeling of support and belonging when you are in a place like that and I began finally to heal. The panic attacks subsided and I found myself getting used to a family routine again.

On my first night we ate at the Hind’s Head Inn, a place frequented by Her Majesty The Queen on occasion when entertaining important dignitaries. It’s pub fare with a bit of a twist toward the fancy. I ordered an experimental dish called Sand and Sea which arrived in a crock looking very much like the shore. The sand was bread crumbs, the sea was…you know I can’t even remember, and the seaweed in between was kale. Essentially though it was a fish pie and it was delicious and incredibly fishy. The mulled white wine was also amazing and the cinnamon burned my throat as it went down in a completely satisfying way.

The second day I was there, the entire family piled into the car and headed to the Shepperton Studios in Watford for the Harry Potter Studio Tour. It would take pages and pages to describe all of the fascinating things there. The sets, the props, the models, the costumes, the animatronics, the vehicles, the paintings, the EVERYTHING! Before we began our tour one of the staff members said the longest anyone has spent there was twelve hours. It is very possible to spend hours and hours exploring especially if you add the audio tour as we did. 

I was happily exploring everything and nearing the end when we rounded a corner and entered a black room, a huge black room. Dark except for blue spotlights from the ceiling. Empty except for one of the most amazing sites. Hogwarts. The scale model (1:24 in case you are interested) of Hogwarts. It filled the space. It was truly a magical site. I actually gasped when I saw it and my friend smiled at me.

“We didn’t want to tell you about this. We wanted it to be a surprise,” she explained.

It was an awesome surprise. The very best surprise. The details alone could make you insane with how painstaking a process the design and build had been. A wide ramp way led all around it, giving a panoramic view of everything. Why would you ever CGI when you could have the artistry of the model maker?

My last day in Windsor was a lazy, relaxing day. We had originally planned to go to the castle but we all found ourselves exhausted. Instead we wandered about the shops in Windsor and my friend treated me to a new haircut. We had drinks at one of their neighbour’s houses that evening and when I returned to my most comfortable bedroom, I wept for not wanting to leave the next morning. I realised I was beginning to heal very slowly, that the blackness was beginning to lift. It was going to be a long healing process but three days in Windsor was where it began.

Deck the Halls with lots of Tartan

Previously on An American in Durham: Our heroine was forced to abandon a much anticipated trip to the Edinburgh Christmas Market in order to complete a paper. Rather than allow this to become a missed opportunity, a point of life-long regret and speculation, she bravely changed her tickets to the following weekend. (Alright, perhaps I’m being slightly dramatic, but just go with it, okay?)

Term was over. There were no papers hanging over my head, no exams, no lectures or projects. At least, they could wait until after Christmas. For now, I was free; free from the obligations of being a graduate student that is. Emotionally and mentally I was drained. My personal daemons were plaguing me as I tried to reconfigure my future goals and readjust to my new realities. The news I had received from the States had managed to derail me, but as long as I had work, I had a focus. Now that I was on a hiatus, my brain, a notorious organ of the scumbag variety, began ever so slowly to turn its attention to self-torture. The only thing which could stave off the feeding frenzy was distraction. My previously postponed trip to visit Edinburgh was the perfect candidate for the job.

Edinburgh is two hours north by train. Two hours of unstructured, captive time would have allowed my brain to do its worst. I had begun to realise a week before that going to Edinburgh on my own in my present state of depression might potentially backfire. I was delighted to discover that Erin would be there that weekend, stopping off for a day or two before she went back to the US for the holiday. We exchanged numbers and decided to try to meet up once I made it to town.

A few days before, Charlotte and I were sitting about in her room. I often ended up back at her place after a lecture or a particularly trying meeting. Her room is far cosier than mine, seeming to embrace you as you enter. We were discussing the upcoming break and our plans when I mentioned going to Edinburgh. She and I had originally discussed going together with the Archaeology Society, but Charlotte had never gotten around to buying her train ticket. She turned to her laptop and discovered that ticket process were fairly reasonable for the same trains I had booked. I had gone from spending the day alone, to having two companions in Erin and Charlotte. I began to breathe more easily and began to look forward to the weekend.

The rolling hills of England shifted outside of my window as the train sped north. I followed their undulations with my eyes, up and down, over and under. They became more angular and steeper the further north we got changing from the English countryside into the Scottish highlands. I don’t know precisely when the shift occurred. Nature is no respecter of political boundaries. The earth continued its dance as we neared Edinburgh. Rising ever higher and then quickly plunging down again. Small streams had cut themselves deeply into the land leaving what appeared to be scars running over it. I had never seen anything quite as wild and beautiful.

Then we entered the city. It seems that most cities when entered by train approach from underground. You don’t ever really see it until you emerge from the dark up a flight or two of stairs. Charlotte and I made our way up from Waverley Station and into the city. I am still amazed by places like Edinburgh and Newcastle. I had become so used to New York and Philadelphia that whenever I thought of a city, immediately skyscrapers and claustrophobic spaces were conjured up in my mind. What I saw in Edinburgh though, were tall buildings, but not unreasonable goliaths. They were old, ornate, and established, not new, minimalist, and shiny. Where we were felt wide open and in the distance the castle sat high on a steep bluff. The highlands appeared to melt into the city, or perhaps it is the city that appears to spring out of the highlands.

My first view of Edinburgh

Charlotte and I headed over to the tourist centre, hoping to find where the Christmas market was being held and to find the best way to the castle. We were due to meet Erin there in two hours. After taking out some cash and receiving a wad of Scottish notes (got to love them for being different), we headed towards the market. It was crowded and vast. I’m not entirely sure how the two of us had missed it when we had climbed up from the station. The Ferris wheel and two storey carousel should have been a dead giveaway. We meandered through the crowd peering at the various stalls. There were trinkets, jewellery, glass ornaments, German candle carousels, cheeses, toys, rag dolls and animals, and bread. Bratwurst and bier were available and we saw passers-by with enormous sausages on rolls. There was an ice skating rink at the foot of the Ferris wheel and a river of people flowed between it all.

“I really want to go on the big wheel,” Charlotte said turning to me.

Had I been on my own, I wouldn’t have even thought to go up on it, but I looked up and thought that there would be no better way to see the city. I nodded and we got in line.

It wasn’t cheap, but once we got to the top, the view made it all worthwhile.

After we came down to earth, we decided to make our way to the castle. Neither of us really knew the city and we wanted to give ourselves plenty of time to get lost and found again if necessary. The Christmas Market was truly vast. As we passed the National Gallery, we noticed a miniature train and Christmas tree maze just below us. We continued to head towards the castle. You couldn’t miss it really. Like Durham Cathedral it was omnipresent. We finally made it up onto the Royal Mile and began heading out over the open cobbled courtyard which led to the castle wall. High up on that exposed bluff, there were no buildings to prevent the wind from knocking us almost the ground. We neared the edge and realised how inadequate the stone walls would be should you lean just slightly too far over. We passed through the stone archway and into the grounds. It was all stone and the round walls loomed up heavily in front of us. The price of admission and our meeting time with Erin prevented us from getting much further than the shop. Tartans, St. Andrews golf balls, stuffed Nessys and all the tat of Scotland are available to would be consumers.

We headed out onto the bluff again and were nearly slammed to the ground once again by the vicious highland breeze. We had decided to walk down the Royal Mile and look for a café. It was just after noon and I was keen to try some traditional Scottish fare. We came across a tiny restaurant called A Taste of Scotland and decided that after all, that’s what we were after. Inside, it was bright and modern. We were seated and handed our menus which included much to my utmost happiness haggis. I had first heard of haggis when I was probably eleven or twelve. My brother and I loved going to the Renaissance Faire and around that time a Scottish music group called Enter the Haggis had become all the rage to Faire goers. Upon learning what it was, I would say that my stomach may have turned once or twice. Now that I was a vegetarian, I knew that true haggis was out of the question, but this menu provided a vegetarian haggis option. Before you ask, no, I have no idea how you make something inherently carnivorous into an herbivorous dish. All I know is that I was going to order it. After we had placed our orders we texted Erin, telling her to come find us and have some lunch. She arrived shortly after and we all sat down to a Scottish luncheon. (By the way, you should definitely try the haggis (v).)

The haggis is the brown blob.

My first bite of haggis (v) and I even had a very Scottish Sprite
with which to wash it down.

After we finished we set off down the Royal Mile towards Holyrood Palace. We were hoping to make it there before dark. On our way we stopped off at the Pie Maker which had been strongly recommended to us by Alex. Charlotte came away with two meat pies. After a few obligatory references to Sweeney Todd, we continued past the Heart of Midlothian which marked the ancient entrance to a prison. It was covered in wet dabs as though it had been raining. Traditionally, you see, you are supposed to spit on it. Eschewing tradition, we continued down the road. Tartan shops were on every corner and even in between. They are like those souvenir shops in New York that sell I <3 NYC shirts, only in Edinburgh you buy kilts.

I don't believe there is a barber shop above it.

The Heart of Midlothian (sounds like something straight out of Tolkien)

We came upon what at first appeared to be a toyshop. Knowing I had two nieces to shop for we went inside. It turned out to be the Museum of Childhood. The shop in the front sold traditional games and toys while the exhibits were in the rear and upstairs. All of us being in the museum business, we decided to have a look. The displays were old-fashioned and cramped. The cases filled to the brim with the detritus of childhood through the years, dolls, prams, model cars, animal figurines, games. We came upon a nickelodeon and after putting in 50p we were treated to a rather lengthy rendition of Frosty the Snowman. It was well worth the change and as we stood listening, other patrons came over to listen and watch the show. Upstairs we found some more memorabilia from that simpler time of life including a small section of Doctor Who toys and magazines. It’s always strange when you see something you own behind the glass in a museum and I was aghast to see a TARDIS play set I had acquired when I was seven or eight. We walked past hobby horses, marionettes, and intricate dollhouses that had running water. It was an odd place, a bit sad really. Perhaps it was the crowded displays or the layer of dust, but it seemed like these happy things of childhood had lost their purpose when they were put behind glass.

Yep, totally have that TARDIS complete with Mel.

We stepped into the street again and discovered it had begun to drizzle. The light was waning fast though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon. We braced ourselves against the icy rain and continued down to Holyrood. We didn’t get very far. The weather was getting more unbearable the further we went and so we decided to stop in a pub at the end of the world to warm ourselves before continuing on. The World’s End pub is a fantastic hole in the wall. It has a lived in, ancient feel that comes from decades if not centuries of wear and tear from the best kind of pub denizens. A seemingly odd name, it once truly represented the end of the world, as the people of Edinburgh saw it. Its foundations are made from the Flodden Wall, a stone defence built in the sixteenth century marking the boundary of the city: the end of the only world the people of Edinburgh knew.

We took up three stools at the far end of the bar. Two mulled wines and a Bulmer’s later, we were discussing the end of term, the upcoming holidays, and our plans for the new year. The bar was papered in notes from all around the world, Japan, Brazil, America. Written over them in black Sharpie were messages from travellers who had all found themselves at World’s End.

“I wish I still had an American dollar,” I said looking up at the colourful array of capital investment.

“I have one,” said Erin pulling out her wallet.

“You won’t mind us using it?” I asked.

She shook her head and smiled.

“You know what will happen now,” I said smiling, “You’ll get back to the States and be short a dollar and you’ll shake your fist and think about it hanging up here.”

We laughed and asked the barman for a marker. And so, my friends, if you ever find yourself at the end of the world, go to the far side of the bar near the toilets and look up. You may just see that very same dollar signed by Charlotte, Erin, and myself.

It's supposed to be an archaeology spade and not an arrow.

Fortified against the cold and wet with the best kind of libations, we once again set forth for Holyrood. It was dark now, the sun had retreated behind the highlands and all that remained were the halos around the streetlights and the headlights of oncoming cars. We managed to get to the end of the Royal Mile and entered the visitor’s centre to the palace. It was warm and the lights of the shop cast a yellow glow around all of the goods for sale. To our disappointment the palace itself was closed. We had arrived too late on a Sunday and all that we could do was peruse the exceptionally high priced wares. After staying long enough to warm ourselves and dry at least the outer layer of our clothes, we turned to trudge up the mile back towards the castle.

The castle lit in the colours of Scotland.

The rain was falling more heavily and the wind was packing a wallop as it rushed between the buildings. We kept our heads down and tilted to the side to keep the water from our eyes. As we passed the blocks of shops I noticed the small alleyways every so often that ran from the street to the backs of the shops and beyond. They were dark and mysterious and were either called closes or wynds. The closes were dead ends while the wynds opened up once you reached its end. Remnants of the medieval city, in the dark and gloom, they made for an even more atmospheric walk back.

We finally reached the Christmas Market again and saw the glittering lights from atop the Royal Mile. They danced and glowed in the rain like fairy lights. We decided to take refuge in Jenners, the Scottish equivalent of Macy’s on 34^th Street in New York. We found a café that looked over the market and happily sipped our hot chocolates while watching the skaters on the ice.

We stayed long enough for me to have a second cup and for me to hear and totally misunderstand the heavy brogue of the man behind the counter. We wandered about the market for another hour, buying some gifts and giving Charlotte the chance to finally have one of those enormous German sausage rolls. We walked Erin part of the way back to her hostel and Charlotte and I headed back to Waverley to wait for our train.

There was much we hadn’t seen or done during our time in Edinburgh. The first visit to a new place always gives you just a little taste, the flavour. Subsequent trips provide the substance, the meat and potatoes (or haggis and potatoes as the case maybe). I will return to Edinburgh. I will see the castle and the palace. I’ll go back to World’s End and check that our dollar is still there. I’ll roam further afield and explore the underground city. I’ve not quite finished with Scotland’s remarkable city.