Edinburgh

A day or so after Durham, I headed off for a brief sojurn in Edinburgh, which really is almost exaggeratingly picturesque - there's a similar smugness in Edinburghers writing about their town that Sydney-siders share, that undertone of 'doesn't really matter what else is wrong with us because we're the prettiest'). Which is fair enough because it is gorgeous. I began by heading for the large turrety thing, safe in my assumption that this would prove to be Edinburgh castle. Perhaps going to a castle on a school holiday was not the best laid plan, of either mice or men, but the castle was impressive despite being surrounded by small shrieking hoards. [incidentally when it become actually illegal to be a small girl child not dressed in either pink or that sick mauve colour?] It was incredibly windy, so I kept waiting for one to be caught by a sudden gust and be transformed into a small pink/sick mauve missile and go flying off into New Town.

The castle is impressive in the way that it has been built out of the top of the hillside, making the most of all the defences the landscape provides. And ensuring that Edinburghers will always have great thighs, as such a large part of their lives will be spent climbing up and down some steep hillsides. It has been used over the centuries for a succession of state functions, and still hosts state occasions. It is a great location for the Scottish war memorial - which apart from being in that weird early-20th-C-explosion-of-empire style decor that does seem to characterise memorials built initially for WWI, is incredibly moving. It has books listing each regiment and their losses for each major war they have been involved in, flicking through these I found particularly moving because of the numbers of people with my surname that died in WWI.

After leaving the Castle I went for a stroll down the Royal Mile. Which actually means that I went for a shuffle along what I think should be more accurately known as the Tartan Mile, such is the predominance of souvenir shops along this street. I stopped in to visit the Whisky Heritage Experience [I always thought that that was getting drunk?] and learnt lots about malting barley and so forth, and went on a 'barrel ride' to discover the history of whisky. Then I did a malt whisky tasting (more whisky than I've ever drunk before, and at 2 in the afternoon). And thus I became a malt whisky drinker, a few short hours after arriving in Scotland. For years I've shaken my head at this pursuit, based on my previous experience of all malts tasting like salty dirt, but now I understand that these are just the whiskys that come from the Islands, whereas I prefer highland single malts (just pause on that detail for awhile, 'highland single malts', could be handy to remember if you find yourself in a duty free shop in a spirit of generosity some day... that's highland). It turns out my Dad's been buying the wrong ones all this time! I'm sure he won't mind switching though. We can always sprinkle some salt and dirt in his to ease the transition.

After this I gambolled off to find a scarf in the family tartan, and then went to the Fruitmarket Gallery (exhibition of Callum Innes, excellent, and travelling to the Museum of Contemporary Art in Sydney next year, so abstract art fans should keep an eye out for it.) Found the Scottish Parliament Building, which opened last year (I think) something like 4 years late and 200 million over budget. That's a lot. And I didn't really warm to the building either.

The weather was the coldest that I had yet experienced on the trip, unlike everywhere else Scotland doesn't seem to feel the need to give me the unseasonably warm (relatively speaking) weather that I have had everywhere else. I decided that it wasn't 'cold and rather horrible' but rather 'good weather for drinking whisky', and surely it is the climate that drove the scots to find the perfect way of fermenting malted barley. Well that and the desire to get pissed.

After an average night in a hostel, I pondered that 'good weather for drinking whisky' isn't really appropriate for 7.30am, and went off to find the cafe that the Lonely Planet recommends. Which turns out to be where JK Rowling used to go when she was writing Harry Potter - has an excellent view of the Castle, so kind of an appropriate setting. But either JK Rowling has an acceptance of substandard scrambled eggs or doesn't eat them there. After breakfast I set off on a soggy, misguided walk to the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, eventually, damp and circuitously, I found it. Half of it was shut for reinstallation, but they have a very good collection of Eduardo Paolozzi, including a recreation of his studio (looking at people's studios is even more nosily satisfying that going through their pantries... [lucky I didn't miss out that 'r' hey?]). Then I discovered that there is a free shuttle bus into town to the main National Gallery, so I was happy to catch that back and avoid more soggy circuitousness. The older collection is pretty much Euro-Standard, but has some v. nice pieces, incl. a v. good Cezanne.

And then it was home time, and I got the train back to Newcastle.