How my way home was lost in translation
MIMI PEEL, from North Carolina, winds her intrepid way through the streets of Edinburgh before heading back towards Newcastle
WHEN traveling solo, having a mission helps; you’ll feel less conspicuously alone, less useless while everyone else is going about their business.
So when visiting Edinburgh by myself back in July, I finally forced myself to leave the immensely comfortable and fascinating Stevenson House (the childhood home of Robert Lewis Stevenson, and my B&B), because I had a vital mission to accomplish: to find a sorcerer’s wand for my 10-year-old niece back in Durham, North Carolina.
Discharging this duty proved more difficult than expected. The first Harry Potter shop I entered, on Cockburn Street, was tiny, and freshly sold out of Hermione wands. The young man behind the counter showed me their primary store’s location on a map, and warned: “Go early.” Ignoring his advice, I headed straight over to Victoria Street, the charming but slightly spooky old street that inspired Diagon Alley of the books. There, at street number 40, in front of an evocative 3-story shop built in 1840, I languished in the constantly-lengthening line for hours…until a young woman walked down the line informing us the store was closing for the day.
When next I made that journey, you can bet I went early, and this time, Eureka! Exiting the store with the wand in a disappointingly plain bag, I’d contributed fifty-plus pounds to the Harry Potter-industrial complex and was delighted I’d been allowed the chance!
Another day, I made the short trek to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery and viewed every portrait, bust and statue the museum had on display.
I find portrait museums the most accessible and pleasurable way to get an overview of a culture, and the Scottish one seemed especially colorful on that gray day. I was particularly taken with the larger-thanlife self-portrait of John Byrne in a flowered jacket, as well as his fantastical portrait of his then-lover Tilda Swinton. I was tickled to see a hyper-detailed photographic portrait of The Proclaimers, a musical duo I’m quite fond of (although they’re better-sounding than looking), and surprised to see portraits of Andrew Carnegie (I think of him as American), and Nicolas II, Czar of Russia (who was Colonel-in-Charge of the Royal Scots Greys).
A portrait of famous beauty Elizabeth Gunning with her whippet almost had me wanting my own whippet, even though I’m a dyed-in-the-wool proponent of “Adopt, Don’t Shop.”
Busts of Alexander McCall Smith, whose novels are quite popular in the US, and poet Jackie Kay, who teaches at Newcastle University, provided a nod (not literally!) towards contemporary writers.
The large, mostly yellow-green portrait of Nicola Benedetti didn’t quite seem to do her brilliant talent justice, and frankly I was taken aback by Sean Connery’s portrait by Scottish artist John Bellany; unsmiling, caricatured, his skin sallow, the movie star’s depiction looked almost scary – but presumably Connery approved of it; he was a major collector of that artist’s paintings.
But the most arresting portrait of all was a huge horizontal painting of professor and anthropologist Sue Black standing behind a medical table looking profoundly weary, her messy hair flame-red, her nose red also, her eyes bloodshot. Lying on the table under a blanket is a cadaver, one assumes; on the floor stands a foreboding blood-red bucket.
A bottle of Scotch malt whisky has become my go-to thank-you gift; it’s invariably well-received!
These occasional trips out forced me to confront the primary reason I wished I weren’t traveling alone in Edinburgh: my lifelong tendency to get lost. I missed having someone with a strong sense of direction by my side. My ex-husband used to provide that (although once, in a fit of pique, he walked off and left me alone in the middle of Istanbul without even a cell phone!) In recent years I’ve relied upon my clear-eyed daughters to guide me, or my eldest sister, Lucia Claire. “Sha” had died two months before we were scheduled to depart together on this trip to the UK. Alone in Scotland, I spent much time just trying to process her tragic illness and death. I understood this to be time well-spent.
But my feeble sense of direction caused me to spend a ridiculous portion of my time in Edinburgh just trying to find my way back to The Stevenson House.
Why didn’t I simply use my phone, one might ask? I tried! But many times it was my iPhone’s flippin’ GPS that GOT me lost; it doesn’t perform the “walking” function well, and would confuse me by offering directions for the street parallel to the one I was actually walking on. I was better off just following my own weak internal compass, and the river.
My first few days in Edinburgh I held on tightly to my coin in order to feel I’d earned an elegant night out before leaving the city. The B&B breakfasts, offering protein-rich items like deli meats, cured salmon and eggs, provided ample sustenance to keep me going all day without even noticing I’d skipped lunch, and my first three evenings I economized by popping into Sainsbury instead of a restaurant. (I assumed there was a T in Sainsbury; for days I pronounced it “Saints-berries” to my host family, and no one bothered to correct me).
I’d buy a healthy salad, then return to my room and wash it down with English kefir that tasted better than any kefir at home, sweet and delicious Edinburgh tap water, and whisky from the bottle of Talisker I’d bought my first night in Edinburgh.
But on my penultimate night I splurged at The Witchery at the Castle, a world-class, candlelit restaurant I’d read about back in the States, and been strongly attracted to the notion of its being near Castle Hill, where more witches were burned than anywhere else in Scotland. If that makes me sound depraved, believe me I wasn’t the only one drawn to this spot! To quote the back of the menu: The Witchery remains a destination for many celebrities visiting the city, including HRH Princess Anne, Justin Timberlake, Miranda Richardson, Kate Moss, J K Rowling, Jack Nicholson, Michael Douglas, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Emma Thompson, Leonardo DiCaprio, Ewan McGregor, Pierce Brosnan, Sir Ian McKellen, Alice Cooper, Sam Heughan, Steve Coogan, Alan Parker, and Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber.
I encountered no luminaries at The Witchery, nor cared. I had no idea the restaurant (and wildly extravagant hotel) even had celebrity fans until I’d arrived and read the menu-back, which by the way smacked fairly loudly of namedropping (and I’ve removed the names I didn’t recognize to shorten the list!)
My meal of Lemon Sole Meuniere (never a good menu choice in the US, but so delicious here), and the entire bewitching experience of dining in a gorgeously decorated cellar/dungeon were so completely worth the money that I went back on my final night to The Witchery’s other dining room, this one overlooking a lovely garden, and ordered the exact same meal, right down to the glass of Albarino.
I’d dressed up a bit for my first big night out at The Witchery. Walking over there, enjoying the ubiquitous posters proclaiming acts at the upcoming International and Fringe Festivals, I suddenly heard and felt someone running up on me from behind. I grasped my purse more tightly. Oh my GOD, my worst fears were being realized… but no, it wasn’t a mugger, just a bonny Scottish lass, who asked me breathlessly where I’d gotten my shawl (which was black and white in regimental stripes threaded with metallic silver). Second-hand, I told her, feeling flattered. She asked to see the label, which I’d never even noticed, and I awkwardly obliged. Once seated at The Witchery, I Googled the label myself, and discovered that the wrap I’d bought for practically nothing was by a New York designer who’d been virtually unknown until she was taken under Lady Gaga’s glamorous wing. Score! (And speaking of name-dropping…).
My delightful waiter, a jazz aficionado who yearned to visit New Orleans – my favorite city – (and who, like virtually every other waiter and bartender I encountered on this trip to Edinburgh, was not a native Scot) talked me out of calling an Uber. He insisted it was perfectly safe to walk the streets of Edinburgh at any time of night. Following his advice I got uber-lost, in a downpour. The nice waiter had not been wrong, though; I absolutely did get back safely… eventually. But only after climbing and descending and re-climbing the same countless Old Town stairs Sisyphus-style, thoroughly drenched, searching for the magic portal that could get me back to the New Town.
Exiting through The Stevenson House’s bright red front door for the final time, I felt a pang of sadness – I would miss it – but I’m proud to report that I caught my train all on my own!
Final stop, Newcastle, which would prove to be the most eventful leg of my trip to the UK.