Tag Archives: Edinburgh

Dispatch from Edinburgh #5–Afternoon Tea

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The Georgian restaurant at Harrods

In the U.K., Afternoon Tea (don’t call it High Tea!) has been elevated to an art form.  It is not merely drinking a pot of tea and eating some cakes—but rather enjoying an experience of delicacies accompanied by tea and served on beautiful china with bright, shimmering silverwear. Loose tea wades in a silver teapot, just waiting to be poured through a silver sieve into a cup. A bowl of sugar cubes (white and brown) is overflowing, and on the side are tiny silver tongs with which to retrieve and drop sugar into the teacup. Then comes a tier of plates laden with sweets and sandwiches and scones just waiting for clotted cream and jam.  One leaves Afternoon Tea stuffed to the gills, but happy and satisfied, and feeling a little like a lady of the ton in a Regency novel.

This summer, I partook of Afternoon Tea three times for lunch—once at The Georgian restaurant at Harrods in London (it took me forever to find the place in the department store–that store is labyrinthine!), sparkling with crystal and soft light, once at The Willow Tea Rooms with a view of Edinburgh Castle, and once at Prestonfield House, also in Edinburgh.

Harrods was the most elaborate of the three, with an individually-assigned waiter who took care of my every need.  His name was Dennis, and he was born in Australia but raised in Italy. With every delivery of treats (all vegan), Dennis explained what each item was and encouraged me to try everything.  The tea he suggested was Harrods own special blend—a black tea combination of Sri Lankan, Assam, and Darjeeling with hints of spice like star anise. Combined with milk and sugar, the tea was smooth and bright and I drank two huge pots of it.

I took a bite out of the grape-and-carrot sandwich before I remembered to take a photo. Oopsie!

The first course was the finger sandwiches, which included a Grape and Carrot sandwich, a Cucumber sandwich, a Button Mushroom Savory Praline sandwich, and a Cheese and Caramelized Onion Tart. My favorite will always be the Cucumber and cream cheese, but the nutty, earthy taste of the Button Mushroom sandwich was very good as well. Dennis offered me a second plate of sandwiches (minus the tart; I could have gotten another for £5 but I didn’t want it that bad), which I heartily enjoyed.  Following that came the plain and fruit (sultanas or currents, not sure which) scones, with Madagascan Vanilla Oat Chantilly (vegan clotted cream) and a selection of four jams—apricot, strawberry, blackberry, and cherry, each in little ramekins with a silver spoon.  I worked my way through the jams, a different flavor for each bite, though the strawberry was particularly fine.  Apparently I did not eat enough of the blackberry, because Dennis seemed disappointed that there was so much of the jam left.

Desserts and scones

Next came four sweet treats:  a Chocolate Calisson, which was a chocolate cake with chocolate cream mousse, and a yuzu center, which is a kind of hot pepper; an English Strawberry and Elderflower Tart; a Matcha Sphere, which had matcha mousse and cake, with a bit of strawberry sauce and real gold leaf; and an Apricot and Thyme baba (a kind of soaked cake) with white chocolate.  Of course, things are brought out very slowly, so that presentation is front and center—at Harrods, one is overwhelmed with service and luxury, and given time to appreciate each bite.  When I left Harrods, I was quite full and delighted.  I only wished I had had someone with me to enjoy the meal with.

Willow Tea Rooms

I tried the Willow Tea Rooms across from the Castle on the recommendation of my students who went there to satisfy one of their “cultural experience” assignments for me. All four of the young ladies gushed over the presentation and the food, and I thought I would give it a try too.  It was about a quarter of the price of Harrods, but the tablecloths were a pristine white, and service was nice enough.  The large room accommodated many tables, but mine was tucked in a corner, across from a lady eating a bowl of soup and a cheese scone, and reading something heavy and Russian, maybe Anna Karenina. The design of the chairs was Art Deco, with black backs much taller than the person sitting in the chairs, and the logo printed on the napkins was like an Art Deco window with a rose on it and dark black lines mimicking the chairbacks.

I chose the classic Afternoon Tea, which came with four dainty sandwiches—Egg Mayo (otherwise known as Egg Salad), Scottish Salmon and cream cheese (I don’t think I’ll ever like cold salmon), Cucumber and cream cheese (again, my favorite), and Ham and butter (I did not eat the ham).  These arrived on a tier with a fruit scone with raspberry jam and clotted cream, and a nice slice of carrot cake with a vanilla buttercream frosting. I was not particularly adventurous with the tea—I just enjoyed a pot of peppermint, which was lighter on a hot day than a typical black tea would have been. The carrot cake was really the star of the show—while not as good as the kind I make, it had a lovely, spicy taste replete with carrots, and the sponge was soft but firm.

A sleepy Heilan coo!

View of Prestonfield House from the gardens

The final Afternoon Tea room I discovered by accident. One of my Facebook peeps mentioned they were in Edinburgh and had taken pictures of the tier of treats, and I was immediately drawn to it and the background of the room.  She told me about Prestonfield House, and I made my reservation for the last Friday before I left. I arrived about half an hour early, so I wandered the beautiful grounds on the lee side of Arthur’s Seat (the extinct volcano in the east side of Edinburgh), while I waited. The current Prestonfield House dates from the 1600s, but apparently way back in the 14th century it was an abbey. On the grounds live Heilan Coos, a peacock in a tree, and a rather scraggly black cat whom the major domo told me was “a bit of a hellion.”  The cat seemed perfectly nice to me, but as I was calling to it, the House’s flower arranger also called to it, and the cat, demonstrating utter disdain for me, zipped over to the flower arranger.  I don’t think that qualifies as hellion status, but it certainly betrays a bit of poor decision making, as I would have been happy to love on him.

As for the Afternoon Tea, how could it be anything but lovely? The room where I was led bore heavy, red and ochre damask wallpaper and velvet curtains, and paintings on the wall of previous owners of the house, plus two big bouquets of purple hydrangeas in the center of the room. Every table sparkled with multiple forks and knives, and more glasses than one person would actually need to drink with.

Prestonfield House prides itself on its exceptional service, and its service was, indeed, out of this world.  Not only did they seat me at a wonderful table (though, to be fair, all of them looked nice) with comfy bench seating, one of the servers actually put my napkin on my lap as she took my tea order.  I had thought about getting the Evening Chai, but then I noticed something called Black Fig Sencha, with aromas of forest fruits and fig. It was a green tea, or perhaps a white tea, which smelled like Christmas. Its delicate flavor was a little on the weak side for my taste, but it was plenty good with sugar in it.

A cool spach

The “water bearer” came out next and poured a glass of sparkling water into my water glass, and left the bottle.  So I had both water and tea to drink.  Then a third server brought out an espresso cup full of gazpacho for an amuse bouche, and believe me, my bouche was suitably amused to be drinking a cold tomato salsa. I sipped it slowly—it was very good—but had to smile when this Goth Girl at another table got hers.  She took one sip, wore a look on her face that was half horror and half disgust, and she put her espresso cup down with a thump. I did not see her girlfriend’s expression, and wondered if it had been the same.

Prestonfield tower o’ treats

After a while, the tower of treats came out.  First was a plate of savory crackers, one with English pea, mint, and marigold (interesting, but not my favorite); one with cream cheese and tomato on a little oat cake; and the third a whipped applewood cheese on cranberry toast with a bit of apricot (the cheese part was whipped but didn’t taste very cheddary).  All were tiny, no bigger than half a thumb, but they were pleasant to eat.  On the bottom tier were four sandwiches:  Avocado and Tomato; Corned Jackfruit and Pineapple Chutney (I didn’t really taste the pineapple but the jackfruit was interesting); Egg with Caesar Mayonnaise; and a Roasted Red Pepper and Hummus on half-a-roll.

Prestonfield desserts

But wait, there’s more!  A fruit scone and a butter scone with raspberry jam and clotted cream awaited me.  Both were dusted with turbinado sugar, and the clotted cream was almost the consistency of butter. But by then I was starting to feel full, having drunk a wine bottle full of sparkling water, plus two silver pots of tea, plus eating the sandwiches and savories.  How, I wondered, could I possibly eat anything else?

Too much chocolate for me; it rather overpowered the rose.

I was afraid that asking for a to-go box would be déclassé, but when I asked for a box, the server didn’t bat an eye.  I did try two of the desserts—a raspberry and dark chocolate rose cake (which was almost too chocolatey), and an apricot and pistachio macaron.  That left a coconut, pineapple, and ginger mousse sphere and a strawberry tart with black pepper (!).  But I packed up the scones and the clotted cream and the jam, and the two desserts I couldn’t finish.

Once I was done eating, the manager came by to tell me the history of Prestonfield House and he also remarked on the box of sweets I was taking home.  I told him I couldn’t possibly eat another bite, but everything was divine.  He looked as pleased with this remark as if he had created the feast himself.  And everyone else I passed as I made my way to the front of the hotel was charming and pleasant, and made me feel like I was someone famous and important, the way they fell over themselves to wish me well.

Of the three Afternoon Teas, I think I liked Prestonfield House the best. It was elegant and cozy.  Harrods was perhaps a little finer on the food, but I just felt more comfortable at Prestonfield House. For one thing, I wasn’t ragged and sweating like I had been when I was walking in London and suffering a bum foot. Instead, I had taken an Uber to Prestonfield House, and I was perfectly put together (though still with a bum foot). The Willow Tea Rooms was nice, but not in the same class as Harrods or Prestonfield House—it was more of your “everyday” Afternoon Tea, whereas the other two promise special occasions. I think Prestonfield House felt like I could belong there, where The Georgian at Harrods seemed more like a place you would go to be seen.

The only thing that would have made all three of these Afternoon Teas better would have been if you were there with me.  Maybe next time!

Entrance into Prestonfield House

A brown Heilan Coo placidly getting rained on

Teapot at Prestonfield House

Strawberry-pepper tart

Prestonfield sandwiches, with the Pineapple Jackfruit one on the right.

Another view of the Rhubarb Room

So many glasses!

Pineapple-coconut-ginger mousse ball

Pistachio macaron

The Peacock in a tree!

Harrods matcha ball

Harrods Apricot-Thyme tart

Harrods Chandelier

Harrods chocolate mousse cake

A view of Edinburgh Castle from Willow Tea Rooms, with an ugly lamp post with a seagull on it directly in front

Savory crackers at Prestonfield House

 

Dispatch from Edinburgh #3–CATS!!!!

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The only cat cafe in Scotland (I think)

One of the real privations of spending the summer in Edinburgh is the lack of cats.  I desperately miss my cats back home, but I just miss cats in general.  Since Edinburgh is a city with lots of traffic, people (fortunately) don’t seem to let their cats out of doors (maybe in the suburbs, but not in the city).  Though I did see a white cat with orange spots at the house across the street, but only a flash of it, as it disappeared into the garden and I haven’t seen it since.  The only other cat I’ve seen is Turret, in the Highlands, at the distillery.  Aside from those two, Edinburgh is a dry county when it comes to cats.

Or so I thought.  Last week, my ears pricked up at the faculty dinner when someone mentioned something about a cat café.  So I looked up online and sure enough, Edinburgh has a cat café called Maison de Moggy, and I was determined to go.

For £12 you can go to Maison de Moggy and pet and play with cats for a full hour.  You can also get a snack, and I chose a strawberry lemonade and a slice of carrot cake—but I was there to pet some cats. And pet them I did.

Fleur the Oriental Shorthair and Sebastian (?) the Norwegian Forest Cat

All of the cats were young—I don’t think any were older than a year.  They cavorted and chased after feather wands and jumped on tables and sat on chairs.  A few of them were sleepy and snoozed where they dropped, and no amount of petting could rouse them.  (I did not pet snoozing cats—that’s rude.)

At the table next to mine, a couple had ordered fancy hot chocolates with whipped cream and sprinkles, but they were off playing with some cats when their drinks were delivered. A grey Oriental Shorthair named Fleur saw it as her moment to get on the table and lick some whipped cream. Unfortunately for Fleur, the “cat nanny” who had dropped off the drinks saw what she was about and scooched her off the table. But not for long!  When the couple sat down to drink their hot chocolate, Fleur reappeared and did her best to look deprived and starved, but the couple wasn’t fooled.  So the cat just sat there, hoping, and looking very pathetic.  But also, sleek and beautiful, as all Oriental Shorthairs are.

Maude, Fleur’s sister

There were four pairs of sibling cats—the two Oriental Shorthairs, with Maude the chocolate cat being Fleur’s sister, two Ragdolls, two Norwegian Forest Cats, and two British Short Hairs.  The brown tabby Norwegian (whose name I didn’t get but I think might be Sebastian) let me dangle a feather wand at him, and he caught his little “birdie” a few times.  I almost got to pet his brother Nico, but this little 10 year old child just wouldn’t let me—she just had to get all the cats to herself.  (She kind of chased after them which was bad, flicking her feather wand at them, even when they couldn’t care less.)  I also got to play with one of the Ragdolls (until that little girl chased after the cat into the other room).

I mostly spent time with Fleur because she seemed to appreciate my calm, and my unwillingness to throw the feather wand feather in her face.  She let me pet her, which was nice.  She was very sweet and rather vocal.

Sebastian (?) playing with the cat wand

Gilbert the British Shorthair

I can’t say that my cat needs have been completely assuaged, but I feel less cat-missing and cat-lonely than I was before I went.  Maison de Moggy is in the Grassmarket part of Edinburgh, and it’s a little hidden, so if you go, make sure you pass the Women’s Hostel—it’s kind of—err—cattycorner to the Maison. Meow!

Sleepy kitty whose name begins with D

The other Ragdoll cat who was thinking about jumping onto my table

Bartholo–MEW!

A view of Edinburgh Castle from the Grassmarket

The famous Greyfriars Bobby statue (not a cat, obvs.) on the descent into the Grassmarket.

Dispatch from Edinburgh #2–Wet and Wild

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Saturday the 14th was a soggy mess.  All of Edinburgh had as many puddles as umbrellas and lots of damp, sour faces.  But not mine.  I thrive in the rain. I had lined up the Scottish Highlands Sail, Bike, or Trail Experience (all new for 2025), which would take me to see Loch Katrine, a place I have not been before. What?  A place in the Highlands I have not yet seen?  Could this be true? It was!

Surprisingly, I had the tour to myself.  There were two other folks registered, but they canceled—probably because of the weather.  That suited me just fine, because it gave me the chance to pick any seat on the bus I wanted, window or aisle.  Also it was nice not to have to wait on stragglers who come to the bus late from outings.  And also, I think it spoiled me a little, which was nice.

The Forth Rail Bridge in the rain

The tour began with a close-up of the red Forth Bridge that I had only seen from a distance before.  The misty, dreich weather only enhanced its beauty, making it easy to imagine that I’d gone back in time and was seeing the bridge for the first time. There used to be a ferry from this point in South Queensferry over to Fife, to allow the pilgrims in St. Margaret’s time to travel (early 11th century; in fact, St. Margaret was the one who made the ferry free).  But now there’s only this rail bridge, an icon of the late 19th century, considered one of Scotland’s greatest man-made wonders.  Of course there are other bridges nearby, the 1964 bridge and the 2017 suspension bridge, but it’s the 1890 Forth bridge that has the allure and history, and is a World Heritage site.

The beauty of having a tour to oneself is that the tour guide can dispense with some of the cheesy patter and really only tell you things you want to know.  I think it helped that I mentioned I’ve been on about a dozen Rabbie’s tours over the years and could practically tell all the Scottish jokes and history right along with the tour guide.  He appreciated this comment, because he told me more tailored stories and we could talk about the sights with more depth.  For instance, we talked about the making of the Kelpies and why they were situated on the little river where they stay (because that area was known for its iron works), and they were based on the Clydesdale horses that pulled the wagons that held the iron. He told me about the legend of the Kelpies too, but I already knew it.  (In case you don’t know the Kelpies legend, they were demon horses that came out of the sea, so beautiful that anyone on the beach would feel compelled to touch or ride the horse.  But, beware! As soon as one touched the horse, one would be stuck fast, and the horse would return to the water, dragging the hapless victim to his or her death.)

Gentle Heilan Coo!

We drove along the motor way, with yellow weather warnings periodically showing up on the signs alerting us to heavy rain (as if we couldn’t tell), but then we turned off onto two-lane roads and started our climb toward the mountains.  Because there was only me, he made a surprise extra stop at a woolen mill where some Heilan Coos waited patiently in the rain for photos and food.  For a £1 you could purchase a bag of carrots, raw potato, and other goodies for the cows, and they would take the food right from your hand with a wet sweep of their huge black tongues.  I am sure they are used to standing in the rain, bedraggled and sad-looking, but I felt a little bad for the cows.  They liked the veggies though and I was delighted to give them to the cows.

Misty Loch Katrine

Our next stop was Loch Katrine, a huge reservoir that serves Glasgow for its water needs. The loch was deep in the Highlands somewhere, up a twisty, windy road that was so narrow the tour guide asked me not to speak to him so he could concentrate on the drive.  I was glad that I wasn’t the one driving—some of the turns were hairpin, and almost 90 degrees at points. Maybe on a day it wasn’t raining like hell, the road would be less treacherous, but it felt pretty scary and I thought he took the drive too quickly.  But we arrived more or less in one piece, though I was a bit frazzled.

The Sir Walter Scott… if you look close you can see the rain

Had it not been raining, I might have done some walking along the trails that led away from the boat launch.  There was a walk that went past some yurts that I was interested in looking at, but I really just wanted to get out of the rain.  I got lunch in the little café—to-mah-to pepper soup and an egg salad sandwich on wheat, which was more lettuce than anything else. The boat ride wasn’t until one, so after lunch I called Mom on the area’s sketchy wifi to catch up with her. (She was fine.)  The boat ride was on the Sir Walter Scott, a steam engine boat celebrating its 125th anniversary.  There were 41 passengers for our boat ride, but I was amazed to hear that back in the day, even up to the 1950s, the ship carried up to 500 people.  I can’t imagine how 500 people could fit on the ship—we were cozy at 41.  The Captain made a joke that people are “wider” now and so it would be a lot harder to fit 500 on the deck. What he didn’t say was where the 500 people would be going.

Another misty view of Loch Katrine

The rain pelted down and the deck was damp and cold but the ride itself was pleasant—the mountains were hiding in low clouds, and the loch splashed and wavered as the boat steamed its way through it. The Captain was full of cheery chat, among which included the fact that no sheep graze in the mountains surrounding the loch because diseased sheep made runoff into the loch, and poisoned the water…not so good for Glasgow.

Turret the Cat

Towser the Mouser

Eventually the rain subsided somewhat as we turned around to get to the boat launch. I returned to the coach and we made our way to the last stop, Glenturret, apparently the oldest Scottish distillery, in Perthshire.  They don’t have an assured date, but they settled on 1763 based on archival research and a land deed.  Glenturret was unique because they have distillery cats, Glen (shy; I didn’t see him) and Turret (quite gregarious and affectionate).  A monument to Towser, the Guiness Book of World’s Record winning mouser, stands right as you are walking up a rise to go into the distillery.  Towser caught almost 29,000 mice in her lifetime.  Glenturret doesn’t have the mice problem it used to with the barley, so the cats are mainly decorative at this point, but I liked that they were there.

The smooth 7 Year

As for the whisky, I tried a dram of their Triple Wood whisky and their 7 year lightly peated whisky, which I liked very much, better than the Triple Wood, which I found a little harsh on the palate, even with its buttery notes.  The distillery tour guide told me that they are phasing out the peated whiskies because they were never but 10% of their business. I think part of that is the recognition that peat is a basically unrenewable resource—but sustainability aside, probably phasing out the peated whiskies mostly has to do with the fact that it doesn’t make money for Glenturret.  Another interesting thing about Glenturret is that it is half-owned by the Swiss company who also owns Lalique art glass.  I had noticed all the fancy glass bottles and the Lalique markers, and wondered.  The bottles are beautiful for sure. I would have liked to have checked out the Lalique Boutique but I didn’t have time.  Still, seeing the Lalique bottles for the special whiskies was impressive.  (So was the cost!)  Even though it wasn’t an arduous tour, I was tired by the time we came back to Edinburgh.  I think all the tramping in the rain did me in.

The Cacao Jungle Room at the Chocolatarium

The next day I went to the Edinburgh Chocolatarium, a little hidden hole-in-the-wall chocolate shop off the Royal Mile.  For £29, we could hear the history of cacao and chocolate making, taste several “flights” of chocolate from exotic places like Belize, San Tome, Colombia, and Ecuador, and make our own chocolate bar (mine was milk chocolate with candied ginger and candied orange rind). We drank a hot liquid chocolate made with oat milk that was so thick you could have spread it on a biscuit, as well as tried an Aztec chocolate drink that was made of cacao nibs (basically a macerated cacao bean), honey, water, and hot pepper.  It was as bad as you can imagine. Very gritty, and not very chocolatey.  And for this, they sacrificed 40 people a year to honor the gods who gave chocolate to the world—and 40 because there are an average of 40 beans inside a cacao pod, and 40 pods on a cacao tree.

Our Chocolatarium tour guide making the heinous Aztec drink

After we drank the weird Aztec drink, we could try as many bits of chocolate as we wanted.  I had a flight of four—lemon poppyseed white chocolate, Vienna coffee chocolate, Cornish sea salt and lime, and Carrot Cake infused chocolate, and by then I was chocolated out.  A girl of maybe 11 or 12 tried over 20.  She never sat down.  (We were supposed to retrieve the chocolate from the jars, then bring four at a time to our seats.)  Not her though.  She just ate them straight out of the jars. She was a serious connoisseur—but I was surprised her mom didn’t tell her to quit grazing and settle down and let other people try some samples.  At the end, we picked up our chocolates and were led back into the store.  I would have been tempted to buy a bar of the lemon poppyseed, but the £6.50 pricetag stayed my hand.

Lunch at the World’s End Pub

Then I somewhat enjoyed lunch at the World’s End Pub, which has been in business since the 1700s, when the wall to Edinburgh ended right beside the pub.  I had made a reservation reluctantly (because really, a reservation for a pub?), but I was glad I did, as they only have about 6 or 7 tables to dine at, and a steady clientele.  I tried their fish and chips, and while it looked very nice on the plate (accompanied by green peas, not at all mushy), it was surprisingly dry and tasteless.  The tartar sauce interested me because it wasn’t like tartar sauce at all—it was creamy like yogurt with something crunchy in it.  Maybe onions.  I am glad I actually went to the World’s End, since it is a tourist trap, but I wouldn’t go again.  The pursuit for Scotland’s best fish and chips continues.

At the end of the weekend I was bushed.  Still not over my cold, I rather wore myself out trying to squeeze all the goodness I could out of the days.  But it was a fun weekend.  I wish you had been there.

Yurts on Loch Katrine

View from South Queensferry

Chocolate flight

One of the toppings I thought about putting into my chocolate bar

A tube of liquid chocolate for the mold

A wee sweet birdie

A view of Holyrood…do you see the plane?

Loch Katrine

No one fell overboard, thank goodness

A pretty flower in the rain

He looks sad, this sweet coo

The wee bird again

The Glenturret mash tun

Boat launch

My candy bar cooling in the mold

Loch Katrine

The two Aussies in the front of the picture talked to me all through lunch at the pub

On the deck of the Sir Walter Scott

A second chocolate flight

Orange rind and ginger for my candy bar

Another sweet coo

Dispatch from Edinburgh, #1

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A large pink rose with water droplets on it against a green and white background

A fat rose outside my window

My First Week Back in Edinburgh

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman on holiday in Scotland must be in want of a cold.  That’s right, I managed to get a cold and have been suffering with it for over a week. So I don’t have an amazing portfolio of pictures to show you, the way I normally do when I go to Edinburgh to teach.  Of course that will change because I have to get better soon (please God, I must get better), and I will make some trips and take lots of photos, so don’t worry.

My class, while small, seems good.  There are twelve women and two men, and they seem nice.  I’m looking forward to talking with them more about the readings, and hopefully we can have robust discussions.  They were a little shy this week, but it seemed like they did the reading and are engaged with the class, and that is all I could ask for.

Image of ornate crown molding at the ceiling, with poppies and tulips in white

Look at this crown molding in my apartment!

Tuesday, I found out that the GT professor teaching after me is teaching a class on mindfulness, so I asked him if it would be ok if I sat in on the class, and he welcomed me in.  Mindfulness is something that has been—well—on my mind since I started taking the Happiness Studies class I’m in.  I’ve been meditating and trying to regulate my breathing and just being really present with what’s going on in my life. (Granted, lately I’ve just been “present” with my cold, but you know what I mean.)

An image of an old building with a spire in the background and palm trees in the foreground.

A building near the Uni of Edinburgh’s Pollack Hall dorms

Yesterday in Dr. Verhaeghen’s class, we did a mindful eating exercise, and he gave us each a piece of chocolate from the Edinburgh Chocolatarium (which I’m going to tour on Sunday) and asked us to really look at it, notice its textures and appearance and color, then we were to smell it and notice any particular scents beside chocolate, and only then could we taste it.  But we couldn’t chew it.  We had to let it melt on our tongue first, and only at the very, very end could we swallow it.  It was a sensuous experience, and delightful.  The candy I had was a toffee with caramel (my favorite), and I had the most remarkable realization:  that after eating the candy, I didn’t want to eat any more.  It was as if the experience of noticing the chocolate with all the senses had given me a satiety—as if another piece would have just been too much.  So that was novel.  Now, when I go to the Chocolatarium, I’m sure I’ll be eating more than one piece.  (I am ok with this.)

A free Palestine flag hanging in a window

Free Palestine! A Palestinian flag in a window across from mine

Since I haven’t really gone anywhere since I’ve been here, I’ve spent a lot of time quietly observing out my window, watching the birds.  I’ve seen a number of seagulls, and a ridiculous crow determined to eat something he found in the road, only to have to fly off when the buses roll by.  There was a myna at my window ledge, but I couldn’t get my camera out in time.  But he seemed quite interested in looking in at me while I looked at him.  I’ve seen yellow finches, and sparrows and fat Scottish wood pigeons.  The other morning, the tree directly outside was full of mourning doves cooing. I’m no birder, like Kathleen Jamie in Findings is, but I enjoy birds in nature. There are a surprising variety of birds in Edinburgh—you wouldn’t think so, since it’s a city, but there really are. It’s one of the things I like about being here.

I know this wasn’t a particularly thrilling post, but it’s the best I can do being sick.  I will have more soon.

Morning Musing

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5 a.m. from my bedroom window. It ain’t what you call “dark.”

It’s 5 a.m.  I’ve been awake since 2:30, when the seagulls decided they wanted to hold a concert right outside my window. In case you haven’t heard a seagull lately, its cry falls somewhere between a half-cranked motor and a baby being stabbed to death.  Seagulls like to fly over the courtyard out back of my apartment, and I like to watch them…but not this early.

Since I’ve been in Edinburgh, my sleep patterns have been disrupted.  Partly that’s due to sleeping in a strange bed, one that lacks multiple blankets and too many pillows.  Partly it’s the light situation. I can tell you that around 3:30 the sky was definitely turning lighter, and I’m used to dark nights and black-out curtains back home, so that my bedroom is cave-like and no light enters in to bother me.  (Yes, yes, I could wear a sleepy mask here—and I have one—but I never can keep it on my face long enough to let it work.)  I also miss my cats, especially Jenny, who keeps me company at least for a little while as I sleep.  All of these things combined have contrived to keep me up later and to sleep less deeply when I finally go to bed.  Even my Fitbit has been giving me poor sleep marks since I’ve come to Scotland.

I’m not sure why I couldn’t just roll over at 2:30 and fall back asleep.  I guess I do have some weighty thoughts on my mind.  For one thing, I remembered I promised to write a blurb for a new poetry book, and I was suddenly panicked that I was late with it.  (Turns out I’m not; it’s due mid-July, not mid-June). For another I guess I’m worried about my class.  Discussion is going really well and what I’ve graded so far has been good, but teaching a new class is difficult and I worry my students may be disappointed with me.  (I’m so used to teaching creative writing these days, that teaching literature seems just so much harder than it used to be.)  And finally, as I mentioned before, I’m lonely, and also finding it hard to write.  My Dad asked me if I’d written a lot of poems since I’ve been here when we talked on Father’s Day, and I bashfully admitted I have not. (On the other hand, I didn’t write about Venice when I was in Venice, but when I did finally write about it, I came up with a book.  So perhaps a book of Scotland-related poems might be percolating in the back of my mind?)

I suppose I’ll wind up taking a nap at some point today—I suspect I’ll just crash.  (But hopefully not while I’m teaching. 😊)

Anyway, I just wanted to jot a quick blog for my five loyal readers, and to take a picture of 5 a.m. so you know what I’m dealing with.

Weekend Sightseeing (Is Exhausting)

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Portobello Beach

This weekend was a busy one for me—I packed a lot of living into two days.  On Saturday, I took a bus out to the seaside, specifically the Portobello Beach Promenade.  It was cold and blustery, but there were plenty of people (and dogs!) playing in the sand and several people had their feet in the water.  There was even a couple of lunatics up to their waists in the North Sea.  The temperature wasn’t quite 60, so I can only imagine how cold the water was.  They didn’t stay in the sea long.  (Not surprising).

The truest ambrosia

While I was there, I stopped at the Shrimpwreck for lunch, and tried a fish finger sandwich, made of battered fish, French fries (on the sandwich!), tartar sauce, and mushy peas (also on the sandwich!).  It was good.  And those of you who know me IRL will understand how thrilled I was to drink a Lemon Fanta, the drink I fell in love with when I went to Italy several years ago (and one that is not available Stateside).  It was a perfect lunch, accompanied by entertainment: the Portobello volunteer clean-up crew dancing to the B-52’s “Rock Lobster.”  One of them wore a crawfish “fancy dress” costume, with a placard that read “No Fear! Be queer!” on the back.  Another one of them wore striped pants, and had a red-painted face and dreadlocks.  Not exactly the colorful characters of a Venice Beach scene, but they definitely had a boardwalk vibe going on.

Altar at St. Mary’s Cathedral

Afterwards, I came back to the apartment for a few hours and rested.  (I don’t know about you, but every time I go to the beach—in any capacity—I get tired.  I wonder if it has something to do with the sea air.)  Then I took another bus ride to the vigil Mass at St. Mary’s Cathedral (since I knew I would be out all day Sunday, and I didn’t want to miss church). It is lovely inside, but not what I think of when I think of a cathedral—it was certainly more elaborately decorated than St. Columba’s from last week, but it isn’t stately in the way cathedrals usually are.  It’s like, if a typical cathedral is a thoroughbred, then St. Mary’s is a workhorse.  It gets the job done, but isn’t magnificent to look at.  It’s just a nice, big church.

The Kelpies, by artist Andy Scott

Sunday I walked down to Waterloo Place (just over the bridge from the Royal Mile) to take a sightseeing tour outside of the city.  The first—and best—thing we saw was The Kelpies monument, outside of Falkirk.  You can’t imagine the scale of these horse heads—they are massive, about 100 feet high, and made from steel.  I would have liked to have longer than 25 minutes to visit them, though, because that was hardly enough time to go to the bathroom, see The Kelpies and then duck into the gift shop.  I loved them at first sight.  Of course, folktale kelpies are horrible creatures who lure unsuspecting people to get on their backs and ride them into the ocean where the horses drown them and feast on their bones.  But these kelpies were certainly wonderful to look at.

Loch Lomond marina

The next thing we did was visit Loch Lomond, of the eponymous famous folksong, and the surrounding farmland was green and lush and dotted with white sheep like confetti.  I could have wished that the tour drove around the perimeter of Loch Lomond, but we were confined to a little bit of shore where the boats were tied up.  There was a path around the marina, which I walked some. Mostly I watched the ducks who were sunning themselves on the banks.  The loch was as picturesque as you can imagine—the beginnings of the Highlands in the background, the sun glinting off the water in golden waves, the boats floating gently around their anchors.  And the air was so fresh!

A mama sheep. Very ewe-nique.

Our next stop was for lunch in a little hamlet called Aberfoyle. At the café I ordered a cheese toastie (kind of like a grilled cheese but not exactly) and a bowl of carrot and lentil soup, heavy on the carrots. I chose to sit outside and people watch, although the people weren’t all that interesting. Their dogs were, though.

There was a sweet shop next door, and I bought a package of homemade butter shortbread that literally, deliciously disintegrated on your tongue.  And then I headed over to the big wool shop, and figured there would be too many things I’d want to buy inside (like yarn, which I have no room in my suitcase to take home), so I skipped it, and went around back where they kept some sheep. Their pens stank (as you might expect), but the sheep themselves looked so cute.  They got into a bleating contest—it reminded me of a sheep opera (because you know, that’s a thing) (it’s not really) (but it should be), as they each tried to outdo the other in their “singing.”  I really wanted to put my hand out to pet them—which we were allowed to do—but the caveat that “These animals bite” kept my hands firmly on my side of the fence.

Stirling Castle

The awful Stirling Heads

Stirling Head art close up (yuck)

After lunch we headed to Stirling to visit Stirling Castle, the birthplace and home of King James VI.  I didn’t actually get to see the palace itself—I couldn’t figure out where it was—but I walked around the castle battlements, the dungeon, the chapel, the Great Hall, and the hall of the Stirling Heads, which are these large, wooden, medallion bust images of various people James wanted to commemorate.  And they were just horrible, creepy, weird pieces of décor, probably about 2-2.5 feet in diameter, and several inches thick. I know they served a purpose, but I really couldn’t get over how ugly they were.  I am probably revealing myself to be a philistine, but they were nothing like I was expecting. (They had really been talked up by a tour guide.) In my head I was imagining something magnificent; the reality was quite something else. But the castle itself was impressive with amazing views of the countryside from its sheer drops.  What was coolest about the castle was that Mary Queen of Scots was crowned there.  And, I think no matter who you are, Mary’s tragic life resonates.  At least, I always found her life story to be compelling, if sad. (I might actually have read her biography at some point, because I seem to remember a whole lot about her.)  Still, I didn’t need two hours at the castle, and wandered back to the garden to wait until it was time to get back on the bus and return to Edinburgh.

Castle gardens

I finally got home around 7 and I was exhausted.  The tour was longer than I was expecting.  I thought we’d be back by 5, but it was closer to 6:30; I should have taken a little nap on the bus (I usually take naps on Sunday), but I didn’t want to miss seeing any of the countryside. Just in case there was something amazing.  (I did get to see a glimpse of The Kelpies on the way back, so I count that as a win.)

I enjoyed the tour over all, but I was the only single traveler.  Everyone else had family or friends to visit things with, so I was kind of lonely.

Actually, if I were to complain about visiting Edinburgh at all, it would be because of how lonely I am.  Maybe I should pretend I am Mary Queen of Scotts in her prison cell; perhaps that would make the loneliness a little more bearable.  But even Mary had her little terrier dog for company.  I have no one.  (Weep, weep, sob, sob.)

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed all the pictures.

A view from Stirling Castle

Another view from the Castle

My First Week in Edinburgh

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I was reminded yesterday that when you’re in a new country, everything is interesting. Based on my experiences so far, I don’t know about that.  For me, I have mainly spent the first week in Edinburgh adjusting to the crazy amounts of daylight (4:30 a.m. to 10:30 p.m.) and the daily wind and rain.  (I’m so happy I brought a lined raincoat, and I Amazoned a new umbrella since I forgot to bring one.)  I have spent a good amount of time locked up in my flat, preparing for my class, but I’ve also taken some long walks, trying to get the lay of the land.  And I have drunk a metric butt ton of Scottish Breakfast Tea.  Which is like English Breakfast Tea, only it uses a really complicated dialect. 😊

Friday, I did a cursory visit to the National Museum of Scotland, which is a fantastic natural history museum with a huge atrium and tons of natural light.  I will go back and do a “deeper dive” in the exhibits, but I mainly looked at the science/technology hall, the hall of design, and the world cultures hall.  I visited the museum with the coordinator of the Scotland Study Abroad program, and we didn’t have a lot of time there because he also wanted to go to Clarinda’s Tea Room, on the Royal Mile, which was fussy and frilly (in the best way) and full of tea-related décor.  I had a scone with butter and preserves.  I was expecting more of a biscuit, but this scone was sweeter than that, but very crumbly.  Afterwards, we walked back past some bagpipers and drummers and Richard went his way, and I went mine…right into a freak storm.  Imagine a day where it’s bright and windy and gorgeous.  And then come the clouds like a galloping herd of gazelles.  That storm soaked me to the core, and of course I wasn’t wearing my raincoat.

In the rain, a man with a large backpack bumped into me (don’t worry, he wasn’t a pickpocket), and then as I passed the Museum again, he put his hand out for me to shake it and asked who I was.  I was so shocked, I told him.  He said his name was Sam and he was looking for a Tesco (a grocery store).  There was one right around the corner, and I thought he was going to go toward it but he went the opposite way.  It was a little strange.

Saturday, I tried doing laundry and found the washer to be beyond my intellect level.  Then I went for a walk in Holyrood Park.  There’s an entrance close bywhere I’m staying, so I walked over to it, and it turned out the entrance was a steep set of stairs down to the street (Queen’s Drive), and about 10 steps down it, I said to myself, “Self, if you go down these stairs you’ll have to come back up,” and while I was debating this shaggy sheep dog came out of nowhere.  He looked pretty good so I wasn’t worried he was lost, and then as if from mist, his owner appeared.

“Rolo,” he said, “quit botherin’ th’ lass.”

“Oh, he’s not bothering me,” I said, putting my hand out to pet Rolo.

“In tha’ case, quit botherin’ me dog.”

With that, the man and Rolo passed me going down the stairs, and after being flummoxed for a little bit at the surprising turn of events, I followed at a discreet distance.  I walked up the hill a ways (not the big hill, the one that puts you on top of Arthur’s Seat), and then down a grassy knoll.  I tried taking some selfies, but it was so windy my face was all scrunched up and my hair had its own postal code.  I sat on a convenient rock until I was ready to face the 400 steps back up to the park entrance.  I’ll have you know I died about 6 times on the hike back up the stairs.

Yesterday, I spent the day reading for class, but all day I wanted to go to church.  I just couldn’t get motivated for the 9:30 Mass.  Fortunately, St. Columba’s church had a service at 6:30, so I walked south till I got there.  It was definitely a no-frills service… no music and a homily that contrasted our relationship with God and the Trinity to this kid at his grammar school selling stick insects (don’t ask). It was a tenuous connection at best.  I was glad I went—it let me see a different part of town.  Next week I think I’ll try St. Patrick’s.

So, that kind of catches you up on my visit so far.  Not overly exciting, but I’ll have more exciting plans in my future I’m sure.