An Ohio Yankee in Sir Walter Scott’s Court…Still Bumbling Along

edinburgh

Our dubious hero was last seen peeking through the windows of The “Oxford” Bar on self-effacing Young Street in Edinburgh. No sign of James Bond. (Click here.)

But, let’s follow our hero back to ground zero: the Royal Mile, near Edinburgh Castle, where non-locals go to eat, tilt Scottish whiskies, and hear the same bagpipe song at each intersection.

My blogging friend, Neil (Yeah, Another Blogger) had earlier visited Edinburgh and recommended Deacon Brodie’s Tavern for lunch. Brodie’s is located at maybe the busiest corner in Edinburgh, on Lawnmarket and Bank Streets. I stepped inside, but the place was as crowded as a New England sports bar on Super Bowl Sunday, so I continued downhill along Lawnmarket until it turned into High Street. Neil also recommended Whiski Bar and Restaurant, and this joint was ideal: cool, dark-paneled, and tourist-free (except for me). I took his advice and ordered a Brewdog Punk IPA, along with a shot of whisky and a dish of haggis.

Normally, I dislike sharing photos of the food I consume. Word descriptions are one thing, but there’s something tacky about posted photos of one’s meals. But haggis is uniquely Scottish, and rarely found elsewhere, so forgive me for breaking my self-imposed restriction.

Haggis and Brewdog Punk IPA

Haggis, at least as prepared at Whiski, is a small globe of mashed potatoes with bits of ground beef, ladled with a smooth gravy sauce, probably made with sheep guts. My dish had a rounded wafer of some sort piercing the potatoes like circular buzz saw.  It was a little flag that said “Eat me!” So, I obeyed. I lean toward more spicy cuisine, but this Whiski haggis was a unique experience, quite tasty, and perfect light lunch fare.

Oh, I almost forgot: the Brewdog Punk. Maybe I’m losing my taste for IPAs, but Neil, this Brewdog tasted a bit too “hoppy.” Next time I’ll go with your other IPA suggestion of Stewart First World Problems.  Maybe it hops around less.

While sipping my whisky at Whiski, I had a short conversation with a pretty waitress who told me that she was the only native Edinburgher employed there. This confirmed some suspicions I’d had of Edinburgh.

For dessert, I ambled across the street to Mimi’s Little Bakehouse (another Neil recommendation) for a cheese and chive scone. (I’m glad you were around, Neil, as Graham Kerr was nowhere to be seen. Anyone remember him?). Scones are fat, flaky muffins, usually wheat or oatmeal based. Brits often nibble on them with their afternoon tea. My scone was as big as a cake, and helped soak up a lot of the booze from the Whiski. Best scone I ever had. And, I might add, the only one I’ve ever had.

Leaving Mimi’s, I started seeing narrow brick-lined alleys with interesting names like “Tweeddale Close.” The alleys led to cozy courtyards with dwellings and businesses punctuating the perimeter. Curious, I wandered down Tweeddale Close.

After squeezing through a pack of dazed-looking sightseers wearing nametags and tethered to a tour guide, I entered one doorway, climbed the stairs to the third floor, and barged into the offices of a local leisure magazine. Brewdog Punk on my breath, scone crumbs at the corners of my mouth, I asked one of the employees about this “Close” phenomenon. She explained it’s an exclusive Edinburgh term meaning…well, an alley with a courtyard.

Gee, and I thought there was something deeply meaningful about a Close. Thanks for the info, Fiona! (Burp.)

Back on High Street, I saw several more Closes. My favorite was World’s End Close. Okay, but please, how much time do I have? I really wanted to investigate this one. But I was afraid I might tumble into one of Calcutta’s black holes, or into a one-way celestial omnibus, or worse, spontaneously combust. So I fought my curiosity. Like heaven, hell, and the appeal of the Republican Party, some things are intended to be a mystery.

World's End Close

World’s End Close is the stone entrance on the left. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

Before hopping my train back to the Glasgow suburbs, I visited a few more monolithic hunks of rock in beautiful Edinburgh: Calton Hill, with its towering monument to English naval hero Lord Nelson, the highest point in the city, and where I could scan all of Edinburgh, along with the placid waters of the Firth of Forth; Old Calton Cemetery, where the bones of Scottish Enlightenment philosopher David Hume are honored with a large tomb; and skyscraping Melville Monument, erected to a guy who was impeached in 1806 for misappropriation of public money, the last public official to be impeached in the United Kingdom (thus far).

Just as in the states, massive stone memorials to dead people seem really important to some folks. I don’t know, but I continue to scratch my head on that one.

I think it was German writer Bertolt Brecht who said not to pity those nations without heroes. Pity instead those that need them.

(Next time I’ll be stepping onto the West Highland Way trail to visit the natural carvings of the Scottish Highlands. Stay tuned!)

 

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An Ohio Yankee in Sir Walter Scott’s Court

scott monument

Last year, our daughter moved from Nashville, Tennessee to a sleepy village in Scotland called Milngavie. It’s located seven miles northwest of Glasgow. (The move was precipitated by our son-in-law’s job transfer). While my wife and I have always encouraged our kids to travel, Nashville to Milngavie seems quite a cultural shift. But Holly is comfortable over there. She’s more Vauxhall Corsa than Dodge 4×4, anyway.

Last month, I finally got to visit them and our two granddaughters. The only thing I missed, aside from The Lawrence Welk Show, was American sunshine.

One of my familial lines leads to Scotland, so it was a sort of coming home. My middle name is Scott, a family clan name traced to ancestor William Scott, who ran a deer park and salmon fishery in Scotland in the 1700s. Bill fled Scotland for County Derry, Ireland (something about papists). His grandson, James, then ratcheted up the rebel thing and sailed to the state of William Penn. Jimmy Scott then joined the Pennsylvania Line to battle British Redcoats during the American Revolution.

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1822 painting of writer-historian Sir Walter Scott

Coincidentally, my plane landed on July 4, which is America’s Independence Day (also my birthday). In England, some call this “Treason Day.”  Really, everything is a circle.

But I discovered both the English and Scottish were exceptionally friendly, bending over backwards to help a stupid Yank with train and bus info, directions, money confusions, etc. They all noticed my hayseed accent and were curious where I was from. To avoid apologies and embarrassments due to recent events, I just said “North America.” Fortunately, they didn’t push for details.

The highlight of my trip was spending time with my granddaughters, Avi (22 months) and Rory (4 months). But I did manage to sightsee some. Here’s a wee bit of my travels in the land of clans and kilts.  And I promise, there will be no photos of kilts or bagpipes here.

MILNGAVIE (pronounced “Mull-guy” per the original Gaelic): the Scottish love their dogs, and I saw more dogs here than anywhere I’ve ever been, and they’re all very well trained. Hikers also flock to Milngavie, because the 96-mile West Highland Way, one of the UK’s most popular distance trails, begins here. I met hikers from Denmark, Sweden, Germany, Croatia, California, Seattle, and elsewhere. Early one morning I met a local man named Chris, who was doing a one-man protest to save an old English phone booth (“phone box”) from being removed. He explained that, in Scotland (or maybe just Milngavie), authorities won’t remove or destroy anything if at least one person shows up each day to protest. (Does that include living things like trees?) Anyway, I think that’s a great law.

Chris in Milngavie

Chris, rescuing red phone boxes in downtown Milngavie

The center of Milngavie, like many towns across Europe, is a brick walkway for pedestrians. Lots of quaint shops and cafés, including Fantoosh Nook, where Holly and I ate lunch one day. My friend Neil…Yeah, Another Blogger…visited Edinburgh recently and mentioned Cullen skink, which I sampled while at the Nook. It’s a smoked haddock and potato soup that has a bacon flavor. I loved it…a far cry from Campbell’s New England clam chowder. Thanks for the tip, Neil, you blogger you.

Along the West Highland Way, just north of Milngavie, I visited Mugdock Park. The park is named after Mugdock Castle, which dates back to at least 1376, and was in use until the mid-1600s. It was the stronghold of a clan named Graham. Parts of the remains of the castle were rebuilt over the centuries, but the main tower is original. When I visited Jamestown, Virginia a few years ago, my mind was boggled to think that, just under my feet, there rested relics and bones dating to 1607. But 1376?? That’s beyond boggling.

mugdock castle

Mugdock Castle in Milngavie

GLASGOW: along with Edinburgh, Glasgow is one of Scotland’s two major cities. Both have their merits. Edinburgh is definitely more scenic, with its storybook architecture. But it’s also rampant with tourists. (Tourists spend quid, which help local populations, but we also taint exactly what we’re drawn to.) Glasgow, on the other hand, is more of a working city, and the Scaw-ish brogue is more evident here. It’s said that Edinburgh is where you want to visit, but Glasgow is where you should live. Not sure this is 100 percent accurate, but it might come close.

I spent a half day with Holly and Avi in Glasgow. We visited Kelvingrove Park and University of Glasgow. Both were impressive, but I have to be honest and say that the main delight was pushing Avi on the swing, and holding her hand while strolling across the university grounds. That grandparent thing is for real. Next time, maybe Avi won’t be along to absorb my attention, and I can soak up more of this vibrant city.

Kelvingrove Park, Glasgow

Avi and Holly at Kelvingrove Park, Glasgow

EDINBURGH: one day I took the train from Milngavie to Glasgow to Edinburgh and enjoyed a rare hot and sunny day in this historic city. I exited Waverley Station in Old Town, and the first thing I saw was a massive blackened spire piercing the blue sky, towering hundreds of feet above Princes Street. With Ohio Yankee naivety, I initially thought the spire might be part of a castle. Then I got closer and discovered it was a monument to my “cousin,” Sir Walter Scott. It’s the second tallest monument to a writer in the world.

Speaking of Mark Twain, the bard of the Mississippi River used to, if I recall, ridicule Scott’s penchant for high romanticism. And maybe that’s why I never read him (Scott, that is). Does he really deserve such an impressive monument, even if we are related? Alfred-e-newmanMaybe one day I should put down Mad Magazine and read Ivanhoe.

Then, across a valley, I spied Edinburgh Castle, the centerpiece of the city. It sits on a rocky promontory overlooking much of old Edinburgh. It’s exact date of construction is unknown, but it may go back to the 12th century, and human habitation on Castle Rock dates to the 2nd century AD. It was the site of numerous military sieges from the Middle Ages until the 1745 Jacobite rising. Kings and queens, royal intrigue, crown jewels…you name it. I refer you to Wikipedia for a full history.

I walked all around the perimeter of the castle, and up to the front entrance, but the heat and locusts (tourists) made things too claustrophobic, so I declined joining a tour.

Edinburgh Castle_Weller concert

Paul Weller and others: appearing soon at a castle moat near you!

Instead, I was drawn toward a threatening looking man standing in a café doorway, just down from a makeshift stadium in the castle esplanade. He had a shaved head, was clothed entirely in black, and had muscles on top of tattoos on top of muscles. I walked up to him and joked that he must be the Castle bouncer. But he said (in thick Cockney) that he was security for a concert later that evening. I asked who was playing.

“Paul Wella.”
Paul Weller? Yeah, I love him! The Jam and Style Council!”
“Ass roit, mate. Stoyle Cancel.”

I couldn’t believe an ex-punk rocker was performing in a collapsible stadium sandwiched between a former church (now ticket office) and the Edinburgh Castle gates. But I guess that’s life in the 21st century. I later asked about tickets. There were only six left, priced at 60 pounds apiece. It was time to move on.

I left the locust swarm in Old Town and strolled downhill, away from Castle Rock, across several blocks to 136 Lothian Road. The premises are now occupied by a pastry shop, but in the early Sixties it was The Howff, one of the top folk clubs in Great Britain. Pete Seeger, Brownie McGee, and Archie Fisher played here, and Bert Jansch had a regular residency.

The Howff_Edinburgh2

The Howff (with inset of Bert Jansch)

Jansch is an acoustic guitar legend, a Scotsman, and one of my musical heroes—he directly influenced Neil Young, Jimmy Page (Led Zeppelin), Nick Drake, Al Stewart, Donovan, and many others—so it was cool to see the place where he first earned a reputation. My side trip here might strike some as strange, but little musical connections like this always get my juices flowing. (Wait till I discuss my trip to Liverpool.) Besides, I got to see a quieter side of Edinburgh that most tourists never see.

My search for an oasis in the locust swarm took me to St. Cuthbert’s Church, at the foot of Castle Rock. This quiet cathedral may date to 850 A.D., which makes it the oldest building in Edinburgh. The burial ground here is filled with noteworthy Scotsmen and women, and, since real estate is at a premium here, some are buried under more “important” people’s tombs (monuments).  Hey, just like life!

I climbed back onto Princes Street, then crossed George Street to a tunnel-like lane called Young Street. Here, far from the madding crowd, a cool breeze pulled me along, past discreet shops and businesses that one would overlook if not for a modest plaque mounted next to a narrow doorway. I expected any second to see a Scottish version of Scrooge, Marley, or Cratchit emerging.

Oxford Bar_Edinburgh

The modest “Oxford” Bar, on modest Young Street

I was half-tempted to wet my whistle in the scrunched The “Oxford” Bar (the quote marks are part of the name). It’s a pub established in 1811, made famous in Scottish writer Ian Rankin’s Inspector Rebus series of novels…which I also haven’t read. It’s also a hangout for Edinburgh policemen—and secret agents, since Sean Connery supposedly quaffs here (although I wonder how many Scottish pubs make this same claim). But I had a mild headache from the whiskey and Brewdog Punk IPA that I’d earlier tipped on High Street in Old Town, so I kept “strolling down the highway.”

In my next installment, I’ll conclude the rest of my Edinburgh visit, discussing High Street, aka The Royal Mile, and the World’s End…which is Close.

Edinburgh Castle 2

Monolithic Edinburgh Castle, from foot of volcanic Castle Rock