when I dug out my old student card
from the University of Chicago, the girl behind the glass took pity on me.
“Ach,” she said. “This is three years
expired, Miss.” She looked around in both directions and leaned in on the
crackly mic. “But seein’ as it’s the low season and all, and as there are no
stewards on at the moment to tour you aboot, we’ll go with the student rate,
shall we?”
I beamed at her.
“Jes’ spend the extra in the gift shop,
love,” she said, and slid the ticket through the slot in the window.
As I stepped away, I saw she’d slipped in
a bonus voucher for a self-guiding audio tour.
Moments later, I clutched the audio guide
to my bosom and scurried off before she could change her mind.
And the castle?
Blew my mind.
I stood inside the blue sentry box at the
front gate, and looked down the road they call the Royal Mile. The air was
crisp and wintery, but most of the snow was gone for the moment. The bits that
remained were crushed into slush between the cobbles on the street. It
stretched all the way down to the Scottish Parliament buildings, just about
exactly a mile below, though I couldn’t see them, because the road leading away
from the castle was not exactly straight. I did get a glimpse of the roof of a
church I had passed on the climb up, its spire now below me; black against the gray
sky. I caught my breath from the hike up and thought about the more than two
thousand years of history that lay under my feet.
Two thousand years. I had no idea. But according to my audio guide——and I
held that audio guide in the greatest authority——there had been
settlement on this rock since at least nine hundred years before anyone thought
of following a star to see a baby in Bethlehem. The first fortress had been
built on the rock sometime around 600 AD and its walls were mortared in time
and blood.
It was breathtaking.
Determined not to let the girl at the
entry booth down, I listened to every option on the headset. I walked through every
storied room, stared at every tapestry, admired every sharpened death
implement. In spite of no sleep on the plane and severe jet lag, I spent the
entire day prowling the grounds. I stood under the razor-sharp points of the
portcullis gate, grateful that the thing appeared to be stuck open. I leaned
against the studded iron door. I caressed the cannons, and even wept a little
over the graves of the garrison dogs, buried in a tiny section of garden.
I don’t know what I expected, but those gray
castle walls won my heart completely. I wandered every inch of the place.
If Jamie (or his doppelgänger) was
anywhere to be found inside that monumental building, I would have found him.
He was not.
I did spend a lot of time smiling at
Scottish men, but most of them just averted their eyes and scurried off. My
flirting technique clearly needs work.
But tomorrow is another day, and for now
I plan to seek my dinner somewhere near the Royal Mile. Goodnight all my
wonderful new blog friends, and (since I am feeling generous) goodnight to you,
too, Sophia. Next time we chat, I will be in Inverness, the Highland location
of Frank and Claire’s second honeymoon.
- ES
Comments: 67
OzziGrrrl, Brisbane, Australia:
Cheerin’ you on Emma——root
them plaid laddies!
HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:
All Scottish men wear kilts, yes? Or not
in daytime?
SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:
Are you inventing these so-called
followers, Emma? I wouldn’t put it past you. Anything to prove a point. But
fake followers are not going to help you find a job. Come home. And listen——there’s
this cute guy working IT in Paul’s office. He’s an actual human being, Emma.
Better than some Scottish figment of your imagination, right? Come home.
(Read 64 more comments here …)
I
thought long and hard about heading out for food after writing the last post. The lack of sleep and the over-abundance of exercise had combined
to make me feel like
from the University of Chicago, the girl behind the glass took pity on me.
“Ach,” she said. “This is three years
expired, Miss.” She looked around in both directions and leaned in on the
crackly mic. “But seein’ as it’s the low season and all, and as there are no
stewards on at the moment to tour you aboot, we’ll go with the student rate,
shall we?”
I beamed at her.
“Jes’ spend the extra in the gift shop,
love,” she said, and slid the ticket through the slot in the window.
As I stepped away, I saw she’d slipped in
a bonus voucher for a self-guiding audio tour.
Moments later, I clutched the audio guide
to my bosom and scurried off before she could change her mind.
And the castle?
Blew my mind.
I stood inside the blue sentry box at the
front gate, and looked down the road they call the Royal Mile. The air was
crisp and wintery, but most of the snow was gone for the moment. The bits that
remained were crushed into slush between the cobbles on the street. It
stretched all the way down to the Scottish Parliament buildings, just about
exactly a mile below, though I couldn’t see them, because the road leading away
from the castle was not exactly straight. I did get a glimpse of the roof of a
church I had passed on the climb up, its spire now below me; black against the gray
sky. I caught my breath from the hike up and thought about the more than two
thousand years of history that lay under my feet.
Two thousand years. I had no idea. But according to my audio guide——and I
held that audio guide in the greatest authority——there had been
settlement on this rock since at least nine hundred years before anyone thought
of following a star to see a baby in Bethlehem. The first fortress had been
built on the rock sometime around 600 AD and its walls were mortared in time
and blood.
It was breathtaking.
Determined not to let the girl at the
entry booth down, I listened to every option on the headset. I walked through every
storied room, stared at every tapestry, admired every sharpened death
implement. In spite of no sleep on the plane and severe jet lag, I spent the
entire day prowling the grounds. I stood under the razor-sharp points of the
portcullis gate, grateful that the thing appeared to be stuck open. I leaned
against the studded iron door. I caressed the cannons, and even wept a little
over the graves of the garrison dogs, buried in a tiny section of garden.
I don’t know what I expected, but those gray
castle walls won my heart completely. I wandered every inch of the place.
If Jamie (or his doppelgänger) was
anywhere to be found inside that monumental building, I would have found him.
He was not.
I did spend a lot of time smiling at
Scottish men, but most of them just averted their eyes and scurried off. My
flirting technique clearly needs work.
But tomorrow is another day, and for now
I plan to seek my dinner somewhere near the Royal Mile. Goodnight all my
wonderful new blog friends, and (since I am feeling generous) goodnight to you,
too, Sophia. Next time we chat, I will be in Inverness, the Highland location
of Frank and Claire’s second honeymoon.
- ES
Comments: 67
OzziGrrrl, Brisbane, Australia:
Cheerin’ you on Emma——root
them plaid laddies!
HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:
All Scottish men wear kilts, yes? Or not
in daytime?
SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:
Are you inventing these so-called
followers, Emma? I wouldn’t put it past you. Anything to prove a point. But
fake followers are not going to help you find a job. Come home. And listen——there’s
this cute guy working IT in Paul’s office. He’s an actual human being, Emma.
Better than some Scottish figment of your imagination, right? Come home.
(Read 64 more comments here …)
I
thought long and hard about heading out for food after writing the last post. The lack of sleep and the over-abundance of exercise had combined
to make me feel like
Similar Books
