A Day in Edinburgh

The craggy, dark bluff loomed down the street. Imposing, harsh, unforgiving, a jagged reminder of the thinnest line between here and not. The shops on either side underlined the message: Scotland, brave, bold, harsh, bleak, tenacious. I understand why they showed their tartan before heading into battle. There is a better chance of surviving the fight. Lose your kilt and you are gone for sure.

Everyone can find a Scottish clan to name that is their own, somewhere. Maybe a few. I go Wallace, and our host went bended knee when so informed. Unimpressive though the tartan is (a pale yellow affair) the movie brought fame to the spirit of the Scots.

We found the castle, walked through a valley of blue plastic chairs to the gates and wandered around the walls.

I found castle snails dressed in tartan.

The view from the garden was impressive, made even more memorable by the band practicing.

We walked the mile.

We saw the palace.

We counted the thrift shops, seven at least and that was just in one block.

We marveled at the dark, solid, blocky churches, Gothic traces trying to be soaring and uplifting.

As we left, the sun came out. Richard has been here three times and has never seen the sun, until now. The weather lifts, we head north.