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EDINBURGH: ATHENS OF THE NORTH
Ahazy, faceless, robed figure moved into our peripheral vision. Someone shrieked with terror. The steady drizzle continued mercilessly. Clutching an umbrella with one hand and fumbling between the uneven tomb stones, the panicky beat of my heart had blocked out all sounds. This was not a nightmare.
My son and I were part of the tours of “Doomed Dead and Buried” of the Underground vaults in Edinburgh (capital of Scotland). In a hushed tone the guide told about the troubling tales of cannibals, body snatchers, torture, murder, hangings and the plague victims who had been walled up in the vaults. ‘Tourism with a Difference’ I thought.
An innocent query, from me to my son, had resulted in the windfall of this sudden trip to Edinburgh. He mentioned that his firm rewards with bonus air-ticket for wives/girlfriends. My immediate response, “Policy does not apply to mothers?” had yielded the proud journey on behalf of my ‘little boy’ now grown up.
After checking in the hotel, we had decided to walk to the Edinburgh Castle. The air was cool, crisp and exhilarating. Perched on top of an extinct volcano, this 12th century fortress, dominates the skyline. The cobbled pathway wound through a Farmers’ Market. Beneath the fluttering blue and white striped canopies, the array of fresh vegetables, fruits, jams, pickles and the aroma of freshly baked scones and croissants was tantalising.
We were left in no doubt that Edinburgh Castle, the most iconic building, was the top Scotland attraction, testified by snaking ticket lines. Our lanky Scottish guide Aodh, which meant fire in Gaelic, told us that Iron Age warriors understanding the castle rock’s strategic military potential had built a hill fort here. He took us to the Crown Room where the Honours of Scotland, the ‘Crown Jewels’ were displayed. The Crown hidden below a medieval bathroom closet, to prevent the enemy from finding it was rediscovered by Sir Walter Scot in 1818.
The sceptre presented by Pope Alexander VI in 1494 and first used for coronation of Mary Queen of Scott’s in 1543 was also here. A popular exhibit was the ‘Stone of Destiny’ which had witnessed the coronation of its Kings for centuries. Considered sacred, it was taken by Edward-I of England and built into his throne. Used in the coronation ceremonies of England and Great Britain, it was returned to Scotland in 1996.
We hurriedly visited St. Margaret’s Chapel, National War memorial and One o’clock Gun. The firing of this dates back to 1861 when it allowed ships in the First of Fourth to set the maritime clocks they needed to navigate the world’s oceans. A huge crowd with their mobiles and video cameras was ready to click. One boom and it was over. I wondered that may be life was much better when we really used to anticipate and savour the moment instead of the present frenzy of capturing the right video/photo.
Aodh, excitedly asked us to look northwards. The city sprawled below, dotted with some modern constructions amidst black spires, rising like sentinels. In the distance, the sea shimmered like a silver ribbon. Built on Seven hills, this modern city boasts of earliest known human habitation to Mesolithic camp site of 8500 BC. His proud list about Edinburgh was endless Golf originated in the 1400’s; 1st UNESCO city of Literature in 2004; famous authors who lived here – Sir Walter Scott, RL Stevenson of Treasure Island, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes, and JK Rowling, creator of Harry Potter, who begun her first book in an Edinburgh coffee shop. Sean Connery, the first James Bond and the former British PM Tony Blair were born here. A sudden rumble and fat drops of rain had us scurrying in to one of the tourist shops selling the holy trinity of tartan, cashmere and whiskey. The riot of petunia baskets at the entrance added to the fragrance. Overlooking the stuffed shelves and wicker baskets with local souvenirs, we bought the need of the hour item umbrellas. The canopied, attractive footpath cafes serving non-vegetarian fare were of no use to our hunger pangs. The walk to the Indian restaurant involved a long climb down the stairs from the old city to the road leading to the newer areas at the bottom. It was a kind of meditation, when you enjoy every morsel of ‘arhar daal’ and ‘aloo-gobhi’, though needing generous topping of salt and pepper, in foreign locale.
On our way back, we loitered through the exotic Princess St. Gardens, in the shadow of the Castle. The huge Clock of intricate flower patterns was an art-piece. Our next stop was the blood curdling ghost tours for which I had been coerced to go by my son.
(To be continued)