Stravaigin aboot Dundee

Thursday in Dundee

... Domesticity and a Night on the Town

For those of you who forget where Dundee is ...

a map ...




Here is a map of the city -- the downtown part. If you look closely, you can see the Overgate Centre and the Steeple Church, right in the middle... Yeah, it's a little blurry, but I have learned, through trial and error, that I cannot sharpen the image. Sorry.



Rowan lives outside of the city. She gets to where she needs to go by bus or by taxi or under her own steam.

Rowan writes:

Thursday dawns, and we are to spend a day in Dundee, after the glories of London and Edinburgh. Dundonians are known for being dismissive about their city. I have always been amongst the peeps that have risen to its defence. It is a post-industrial city, now high-flying in its bio-science sphere. There are more people with degrees per head of population in Dundee that anywheres else, seemingly, which is partly due to the bio-science institute and the numbers of staff it is pulling in, as well as the qualified staff employed by Ninewells, the local teaching hospital, and the other professionals and former students scattered in posts throughout the city. There are also those not contributing to the labour market, but still belettered – I am not sure if they are represented in the figures. Anyways – Dundee is a city on the turn.

I remember a favourite Science Fiction book I devoured as a teenager in the Seventies. The Earth had stopped turning, and one half remained in darkness, whilst the other half was bathed in light. The protagonist was a respected scientist on the light side, and when he ambled over to the dark side, he had a flipside life as a magician. Dundee has its light and dark sides. The issue is bringing them together.Dundee is an interesting clash of cultures – the remnants of the meltdown of local industries, resulting in the large numbers of long-term unemployed, often second generation. They have little in common with those who are at the sharp end of the new industries, such as bio-science innovation and medical research. The co-existence is, however, companionable – Dundonians are generally amenable types, shuffling along, conversing openly with strangers at bus stops and in spontaneous chats struck up in shops. Dundee is a curious mix of the old and the very shiny new. Jute dust still seems to blow down some of the old dark streets, where the abandoned jute mills have not yet been converted into tiny, be-broadbanded but claustrophobia-inducing flatlets.

Bob says:
I woke up early and had an on-line chat with my husband. I blearily went downstairs and found that Rowan had made tea to go with the toast and cereal. For some reason, she keeps putting out cheese for me, as if I am a cold-cut eater. I am not, but I politely take a slice of cheese to go with my carbohydrates. I wonder if she thinks that Americans have lunchmeat for breakfast. I take a peep into her refrigerator and look for things that I cannot find at home. Everything dairy has bio-something or others. Like active spoors -- you know, live bacteria to aid in digestion. I like the fact that the nutrition information is in kilocalories. I took my tea upstairs and said good-bye to my husband. I showed him the backyard with the laptop webcam. It is beautiful and green, but very little privacy. You can see into everyone's back yard. Everything is tidy, though. I miss my husband and I miss the kids. On my mobile plan, I can receive texts for free and can send them for about a dime. We have been keeping in touch by texting. I love technology. I told everyone to text me a lot. My sister, husband and kids have all been texting me multiple times a day. It is nice but makes me miss them. They feel a world away – in time and space. It is funny to be eight hours ahead of them – I am not used to being on this side of the time zone.

It is going to be a stay at home sort of day, as we are going back to Edinburgh tomorrow. It is my second to the last day in the UK. I will fly home on Saturday morning.

After breakfast, Rowan and I consider the game plan for the day. We are going to go to get some football scarves for my son and husband and I am interested to see what supermarkets look like in the UK. I love historical places, but I am always interested in how people live. I like to see what is different and the same. I am always a little uncomfortable to see American goods or innovations -- half pleased and half embarrassed. I don't want everything to look like home. It is like when you travel around and see that every strip mall has the same five shops. It is a little depressing -- I like regional differences. International differences are even better. After the store, we are going to go into town and wander around a little and then have lunch and get back to get ready for the evening's festivities. We are going to go see a pantomime, which seems to be a holiday tradition -- I am happy to see what will occur. We get ready to go and leave Rowan's house. I thought that you would like to know that Rowan has a garden gnome hidden in the greenery next to her front walk. I am not sure why he is wearing lipstick, though.

We set off, full of nice warm tea. Lena is in a good mood, holding my hand as we walk along. She is bright as a new penny. She asks questions in her grown-up, considering fashion. I still find her accent adorable. Rowan and I talk about kid’s TV, as Sam and Lena are about the same age -- shows we like and shows we abhor. She comments that you can tell that a show is from the US if the backyard fences are wooden. They would not generally be wooden in the UK, but would be stone or something that will not rot in the damp. I am much struck by this, and start to look around with new eyes. She is right – there are no wooden fences. I have a wooden fence – the desert air has desiccated it to such a degree that it might be petrified or nothing more than wood molecules. If you brush up against it, it might explode like a staked vampire on Buffy.

As we walk to the grocery store, I quiz Rowan about her life and habits. She walks to the store, except for those times that she takes a taxi because there is too much to carry back. It is about a ten-minute walk. When I was young and did not have money for a car, I remember having to take the bus to the store and haaaating it. Once, traveling back from the store, the bag tore and I vividly recall watching my apples roll around the aisles. However, this was when I was single and had only myself to worry about. I cannot imagine schlepping diapers and milk and cereal and youurt and bread to and fro. Yeesh. Rowan is striding along, clearly used to the trip. I again note that there is no grass in Lena’s school playground, which continues to surprise me – the countryside is sooo green, even in the winter. There is no playground at all, really. In the US, some parent would be suing because their first-grader skinned a knee on the blacktop. Again, it is a nice day – brisk and nippy, but not freezing and sleeting down rain. I thought that Scotland was supposed to be rainy. I am vaguely disappointed.



(This is a recent photo, as I did not have one of Rowan's street handy. Spring has engendered lovely flowering trees ...)

Rowan writes:

My house is in a street of post-war houses flung up to be flung down again at some ill-defined point in the future. They are concrete and steel, and faced with sheets of steel, and painted a rather groovy range of yellows. The odd one here and there is a toffee colour, a scattered few a sort of milk chocolate. It is like walking down the two halves of an enormous banana toffee lollipop, or sailing downstream on a river of caramel sauce between matching bergs of vanilla ice cream. It has not been rescinded – the funny steel houses seem to be here to stay.

Not far off, is my local supermarket. I am fairly well stocked up, but Bob wants to get football scarves, and they have very nice Scotland ones in the Asda supermarket. As I do not drive, we will be going by Shanks’s pony. Bob is a good schlepper, as has been established, and she is very city-curious. However, she permits herself a little eye-roll at the schlep through the streets towards superstore retaildom. It is not a schlep of very great interest, I agree, and I see Bob’s point of schlepping to see and experience being a worthwhile end, as opposed to a slog. Trekking to the grocery store without a car is indubitably a slog, much as I attempt to introduce a bit of spin to proceedings and call it a workout. I need to get a car. I need to shrug of the last vestiges of Luddism and hit the open road.

It is a sort of down at heel area. Nice enough, better than it used to be – the houses and gardens mostly very neat and looked after. There is one sporting an abandoned shopping trolley, and I talk loudly and point to something on the other side of the street to divert attention. A nice, sleepy down-at heel area of decent public housing.

Bob says:
(Rowan is secretly delighted by the limos. She finds the pink one all kinds of funny. I cannot imagine negotiating a roundabout in one of these.)

Here are a couple of shots that I took as we walked toward the store. And I should say that Rowan is incorrect when she says that I rolled my eyes at walking to the store. I categorically deny this. I might have been shaking my head at the idea of negotiating children and shopping through the streets of Dundee, but that was not eye rolling. I think that she is projecting ...

Rowan's idea of down at heel and mine are sorta worlds apart. But my mailbox just got tagged, and we used to have speed freaks in the abandoned motel behind our house, so I might be a little jaundiced. To me, down at heel means having only one broken-down vehicle in front of the house.

The houses seem charming and the streets are clean. Yards are well-kempt, with the occasional over-the-top ornamentation. I like it when people take their yards seriously as a part of self-expression, either crowded with toys or brimming with plants and garden statues. People have started to put out Christmas decorations. I miss home for a moment, and wonder if my husband and the kids have thought about putting up the lights.

We cross the streets and emerge next to the Asda store. Rowan can tell you about it, but it has recently been bought by Walmart. And Tesco carries Target brands. Americans are taking over the world, one cheap t-shirt and liter of soda at a time. A couple of months ago, Rowan sent me a football scarf for my daughter and we have managed to misplace it – it was a lovely blue with a St. Andrew’s cross …

We are getting Tartan Army scarves in honor of the National Scottish soccer team. According to the website,

“The Tartan Army are travelling supporters of the Scottish national football team. They were named the World's Friendliest Fans during the 1998 World Cup, and have won numerous awards over the years for their combination of rabid support and friendly nature. This friendly attitude is all the more surprising bearing in mind their team’s track record, which is often neatly summed up as glorious failure. * Some say that the amicability of the Tartan Army is due to the large volumes of alcohol imbibed before, during, and after a game, a fact that few members would dispute. Countries drawn against Scotland welcome the arrival of their fans. Scotland away matches are generally accompanied by a low level of policing due to their good behaviour over the years.”

(* -- does this make anyone else want to say, "This is Sparta!", or is it just me?)

Shoshana said that she got the scarf at Asda, so off to Asda we go. We go in and the store is smaller than I expected – not even close to the average Walmart. More like a large grocery store than a supercenter, I would say. Maybe a leeetle bit bigger. I have to be really careful, because I am going to sound like a Terrible American Snob. And I don’t mean to, but I gots to calls them as I sees them. Asda looks like a discount store, but at twice the price. I am not being stunned by the prices anymore, but I cannot help calculating the difference between the UK and the US. The Scots are getting gypped, but royally. We wander through the aisles and the selection is only fair – not large at all.

However, I am very pleased at the selections of Christmas Crackers. I have heard of them, but never actually pulled one open. I was tempted to take a box or two back for the kids, but limited suitcase space and common sense prevailed. As a funny side note, we went to visit friends in Bakersfield over the Winter Break and they had Christmas crackers! We snapped them open and read each other the lame jokes and ended up with lovely paper crowns. Mine was green. It was fetching.

So, as we wandered around the store, I looked to see what was the same and different – different foods and labels. There was practically a whole aisle devoted to sauces that I had never heard of – I was happy to see brown sauce. And curry sauces and frozen things that I don't recognize.

Rowan was still looking for a camera and we stopped to look at those displayed. They were overpriced.

We had a list of things to get, including a paper tube for carrying some posters that I had obtained. I had some maps for Sam, as he loves maps. Rowan very sweetly donated to the map collection and gave me a very cool poster of "Birds of Prey of Great Britian" for a friend of mine who is a falconer. I think he will like it. I forget what else we had to get, but prolly tape, too.

Scotch tape … : D

Rowan did not find that nearly as funny as I did, but she humored me.

Anyway, we were not finding the scarves, and Rowan was getting anxious, so I asked a sales clerk if they had any. Rowan is the type of person who would look forever and then stagger out in an exhausted daze. I ask people. She does not like to put people out, and I figure that is what they are getting paid for. Just another little cultural difference. After due effort, the nice sales lady found the scarves in the back. I got two. As we waited, we looked around, and I tried to soak in the atmosphere.

If you are paying very close attention, you will have noted that there seem to be two main vegetable staples of the Scottish diet. (Or at least Rowan's Scottish diet.)

They are

Now don't get me wrong. I like potatoes as much as the next person.

And, although beans leave me a little cold (a result, I think, too many servings of beenie-weenie-cheesie as a child), I will eat them. My sister calls me a bean hater, but this is not at all true. I just don't love them. I did not see all that many vegetables while traveling in the UK. Actually, I don't even think of potatoes as a vegetable, but I am sure that they must be.

Rowan told me about how, a while back, people were investigating the dietary habits and mortality rates. It was found that people who had lower incomes tended to not have a lot of fresh fruit and vegetables in their diet. Theories abounded as to why this would be. Finally some bright spark in the public health department realized that people don't eat these items because they were heavy. And people had to carry them all the way from the bus to their homes. It is funny how things like having a car or good roads impact something like the variety in a diet and therefore health. I was reminded of this when I looked around.

It seems that it is a more pervasive a problem – Rowan sent me an article about how far behind the Scots are in terms of their consumption of fresh fruit and vegetables. Asda rolled out a new initiative to try to get the numbers up to snuff.

I think that I can shed a little light on the problem.

Um.

The produce in Asda is a bit, well ... um ... Actually, the produce might kinda suck.

There. I said it.

… and costs an arm and a leg and a few other bits and pieces of important anatomy.

Glad that I could help.

Now, I should give a caveat, because the produce at home in Walmart sux. That is just my opinion, so please don't try to sue me. I am entitled, as an American, to have a completely uninformed and closely-held opinion. I will shop at Walmart, but will only buy produce there in dire circumstances. I am not going to mention that I bought bananas there this week and one of them literally exploded in a cloud of little, hostile, persistent fruit flies. Bleck. So, it might just be Asda/Walmart produce quality that I saw. The produce is supposed to be famous in Scotland, but it was not to be found in Asda.

I may have to duck after saying this, but the produce at Asda was very, very, very sad. It all looked unhappy – limp and sparse. And when Rowan mentioned how much better the produce was than it used to be, I just kept my Big Californian Mouth Shut. The produce aisle in Asda made me want to run to the nearest Albertsons produce section and roll around in the oranges and kiwi and strawberries and broccoli. I could feel the nutrition being leached right out of my system. No wonder Scots are a little pale. I think that I got a little pale because of the prices. Granted, I had to do a bit of fancy converting from kilos to pounds and pounds to dollars, but the prices were outrageous. Honestly. If I lived there, I would make my kids suck on the gnawed apple cores – I can see myself admonishing them that the stems are really good! And full of chewy fiber-goodness.

However, I digress.

Rowan writes:

The Asda store is now part of the Walmart chain, or so the large display board outside proclaims. The Asda chain buy in a lot of local stuff, but also tend, like most local supermarkets, to buy in what the customer wants. You can buy potato crisps in any flavour dreamed up by the inventively greedy. Thai green chilli, sweet Thai red chilli, balsamic vinegar and sweet braised onion, roast Peking duck, along with the tried and tested varieties like good old cheese and onion and salt and vinegar. We still have, rather unaccountably, a collection of flavoured hand cooked kettle chips. Hand cooked means under-flavoured, shiny and unacceptably greasy. Who buys them?

They sound up-market, so maybe folks who have never bought them and think they sound good, buy them to give to folks when they go visiting.

We wander amongst the staple wares on show in the supermarket. I often come here for whole roast chickens, with various flavours. I like the garlic and herb and the barbecue. I am keen to know what Bob has to say about the place.

Bob says:

We left the store, after successful forage. I am going to point out that Rowan did NOT tell me about the Peking Duck potato chips, or I would have had some. Even though they sound a little odd. I enjoyed browsing through the newspapers on the way out. We were getting a little hungry and went into town for lunch. We were on a bit of a schedule, as we had to beat Aidan (Rowan’s son) home. Rowan is funny about food – there was a place that looked good – it had been recommended by a taxi-driver and she recognized it. It was a fish and chips place, and once we got there, she peered in and declared that it looked dodgy. I, myself, saw nothing wrong with it.

Rowan writes:

We have to be home in time for my son coming home from school at three. We also want lunch. The time is short – we have two hours to zip into town, eat, and then zip home. At night, we are going to see a pantomime at the local repertory theatre.

We get a taxi into town and quiz the taxi driver about good places to get fish and chips. I have a little café in mind, but have heard through the grapevine that it has undergone a change of management and gone downhill. The chatty taxi driver suggests one of the nice pubs in the Westport area of the city, not far from the wee café. I remember them from teacher-training days – we used to go as a group sometimes for a pub lunch after class. There is a nice one called Mickey Coyles which has a nice roaring fire and good food.

We get out of the taxi and I survey the little cafe from a safe distance. Although famous for good fish and chips, I have never eaten in here before. It is sort of customer-visible – you can see peeps eating if you look through the windows (not to be unexpected, I know...) there is just something sort of grim and Spartan about it. It has an air of seriousness, somehow. And it is generally full of older folks, eating seriously and staring out of the windows…or so it seemed to me when I was a student, schlepping past on my way to uni. Some of that vibe has remained. And it looks small…I like space around me, if I can, in eatery places. Don’t know why...perhaps it is just a little munching anonymity. Just don’t want anyone but my companions seeing how much grub I am actually putting away.

I decide against the little café, feeling a little guilty, as time is short. I want lunch to be nice for Bob, and just wish we had more time to chill over our food, rather than having to rush. We wend out way up to the pubs, all on the same street. I know we will get a nice atmospheric lunch here, and am chuffed. It is a bit of a hike, and Lena is complaining a little, but she is pacified with the thought of a nice lunch. Sadly, when we get to the door, the polite barman informs us that it is not licensed for children. O_o We have to schlep off back toward town and plan C. Plan C? I am hastily searching about for someplace very quick to eat and settle on Debenham’s restaurant. Debenham’s is a department store I like. It has trendy fashionable stuff, very expensive tailored stuff for well-heeled wifies and also nice quality normal stuff for folks like me who like long denim skirts and tops. It caters for all age and budgets, then. I ought to have just said that at the beginning! Anyway, it is a good old-fashioned format of a store, bright and up to date, with an internet café, and stuff.

The restaurant is expensive, and the fish and chips I order are a bit dry and greasy. Bob has something that looks a little more interesting, involving stilton cheese. Lena has a kids’ box filled with bits and pieces. Bob seems to be finding her meal fairly palatable, and I eat mine, as is my wont, greasy or otherwise. We make a sharp exit and get a taxi home to be in time for Aidan getting home from school. The pantomime will start in a few hours – I am hoping it will be entertaining. I had a small part in a pantomime as a child, and enjoyed the experience, though I don’t think I’ve ever been to watch one, as other than a very small child myself. They are a sort of festive tradition in the UK. The pantomime we are going to see is a version of the fairytale Hansel and Gretel. I am sure Lena will like it. She is a bit of a diva, and has a penchant for quality musicals starring Julie Andrews and Dick van Dyke.

Bob says:

I find it hilarious that Rowan does not know where to get good fish and chips. I know that I would be able to discuss the merits of the best hamburger in town or the best chimichanga.

This is the intersection that we got out at -- near the Overgate Centre.

Once again, we ended up downtown, near the Steeple Church, which I still love. Hi, Steeple Peeple!

Debenhams is a nice department store – comparable to a Penney’s, I would think. It is funny to see tea towels with Scottish sayings on them and other souvenir-y stuff. It is a little incongruous. We end up in the café and have lunch. Lena is doing well, and selects her lunch with the seriousness such an event merits. She has definite preferences. I select something with chicken and potatoes and Stilton cheese. I have never had Stilton cheese. Rowan says that it is like bleu cheese, but milder. I like bleu cheese, so I try it. In our discussion of food, I discover that Scots like lasagna with chips (fries). Just sayin’. I have never had pasta and potatoes. It violates all kinds of food rules. I am seriously shaken by such an idea. My lunch was fine – sort of cafeteria-type food, which I love. The only thing that I do not like about cafeteria food is when different kinds of food bumps into each other. I avoided this by not getting any rolley food. Rowan’s peas roll into her fish and I feel sorry for her. We shared a Christmas cake with lots of powdered sugar for dessert, (a stollen) as I had never had one. It was pretty darned sweet. But good.

We got back to Rowan’s house and just sort of lazed around until it was time to go to the pantomime. Lena drew some pictures. She is a natural artist, as you can see. Her art is remarkably detailed and pretty advanced, developmentally speaking. What is interesting to me is how she just dashes off her drawings. Her hands have no problem translating what her eyes see – she is nonchalant and often draws while she is doing other things, such as watching TV. Soon it is time to get ready for dinner out and then the pantomime.

Rowan writes:

Pantomime has a loooong tradition in the UK. It has several conventions which are intended to introduce humour and incongruity before the jokes even start to fly. The story being told is related via much slapstick and cross-dressing, in a mildly vulgar and generally all-round silly way. There are levels of jokes for children and parents, sweet throwing, a lot of built up bust-lines and heaps and heaps of greasepaint and wacky wigs, boots and crinolines.

The most important person in a pantomime is the pantomime dame. She is never the named protagonist, but the supporting lead, the powerful female figure, and is played by a man, to comedy effect. The pantomime dame in Aladdin, for example, Widow Twankey, runs a laundry, and has ample opportunity to bemoan the condition of the male underwear and socks which come under her daily scrutiny. There are layers of laughs in pantomime, archaic, and formulaic, but recognisably so. It is sort of “I know” theatre. There is a nice relaxed anticipatory vibe.

The Pantomime Dame is a bloke – the Principal Boy is a woman. She is the male lead. In Aladdin, Aladdin would traditionally be played by a woman, as would the prince in Cinderella. This tradition is changing now, and the roles becoming more familiarly gender-oriented. Panto is losing its light-hearted cross-dressing tradition.

The pantomime we are going to see is at the local repertory theatre.

I have seen some very good performances there over the years, my favourite being the Scots version of Moliere’s play, “Le Malade Imaginaire”, translated as the Hypochondriac. The medical jokes and cynicism flew, the acting was superb. I went back to see it a second time.

Before the panto, we have our evening meal in the little restaurant in the theatre foyer. Bob has pizza with anchovies, and I have a Moroccan dish which has lumps of sweet potato in it. It is spicy and very nice. Lena is feeling very important, and gets to sit and crayon as she eats. As I have somehow booked us in for the meal too early for us to go straight into the theatre, Bob suggest a short walk through the pre-Christmas shopping centre close by, to stretch our legs. Sitting contemplating yet another coffee is not her style. There is a nice new Starbucks in the centre, and we will have our coffee on the hoof.

It is a nice crispy cold evening. The centre is busy with Christmas shoppers, although it is early in the month. We queue in Starbucks, and view the wares on show. Lena has flavoured milk, at “children’s temperature” which I think is a nice idea. Bob and I have coffee. I find it very nice indeed, and we schlep back along the bright corridor of the shopping mall towards the theatre. An unexpected but interesting interlude and yummy beverage-dom.

Bob says:

Rowan has explained about the cultural aspect of pantomimes, and I am happy to be going. Lena has not been to one before, and she is excited. We get to the theater and have a nice dinner. Rowan eats like a Brit, with her fork upside down, smushing little bits of everything onto the back, using her knife as food-pusher. It is pleasantly unfamiliar. It is like watching Iron Chef, when the judges use a fork, but you see that they way they use the fork is a little different. Rowan does not hold her fork like someone used to chopsticks, but it is just not the way an American would.

We finished and had time to get some coffee. I have not had a real cup of coffee in days, and the Starbucks is calling to me. It was delicious – I could feel the bite of the caffeine and a pleasant little buzz when it hit my bloodstream. Maybe I was just woozy from spending about seven dollars for it … but it was worth every penny.

We hustled back to the theater – it was just starting to fill up. The sidewalks were crowded – little groups and families with girls were dressed up in their theater best. One group was scampering along, coatless, trying to get into the warmth of the foyer. Theater-wear is not warm, and I shivered for the girls in their spaghetti-straps and high-heeled sandals. We passed a group of adolescents with hats decorated with Christmas lights and lit-up candy canes. Lena was excited. There were brightly colored houses on the walls inside of the foyer, colored, I would guess, by local school children. Lena looks them over with interest. I am guessing that she is already mentally designing hers.

Rowan writes:

Once inside, the pantomime unfolds. The audience are ready for a laugh. The stage-set is dark, very gothic, a sort of Black Forest, minus the gateau, although there are lots of those later, cakes and sweets galore. The gingerbread cottage is well-made, the acting good. It is all just a little dark for me. I don’t know why…perhaps it is just a little too far away from the traditional pantomime light-heartedness I remember from my youth. Light, colour, laughter ..frothy yellows and reds. Silly dance routines. Inexplicable water. Men in fake wigs and padded bras commenting on their lot in life. Somehow, it didn’t undermine – as someone who spent many years researching feminist issues in old dramas it would have jarred, if any jarrage was visible. it was just of itself, for itself, and extremely silly.

The Pantomime dame role in this panto was played by a woman – a dark role, as she was a malicious character, interesting in itself. I am having to rein myself in seriously here – doing an Odysseus tied to the mast sort of thing. The Sirens are singing, but don’t let me write a Marxiofeministpostmoderist critique of a jolly children’s show. I am just going to say that I was sort of ambivalent about it. Found it a wee bit overly vulgar in places, though it wouldn’t normally bother me – now, could that be that the toilet humour is usually the male reserve? Was there more of it than expected? Perhaps. One or two little things spooked me a little. Still, the sets were very good, the acting good, and the kids all enjoyed themselves.

We get a taxi home, and I wonder what Bob thought of the performance. We don’t really discuss it in detail. It is late, and we are still feeling a bit tired from all our jaunts of the previous days. The taxi driver is again jolly. Taxi drivers in Dundee generally are!

We made it home, and have a wee chat with mum who has been babysitting, then turn in. Friday will be another nice sightseeing away-day – we are going back to Edinburgh have a closer look at the Mile and St Giles. Yo!

Bob says:

Okay – about the pantomime. It was fun and a bit different. The crowd was clearly into it and was obvious that there are time-honored traditions that are observed – expected audience reactions. Lots of candy was thrown around. I enjoyed it, despite the fact that the humor was pretty broad. I found myself getting a little tired, though. The days of traveling were starting to catch up a little. We caught a taxi home and the driver and Rowan talked about the show. Lena managed to give a pretty good synopsis of the whole thing – she has a good memory for detail and explained the play with panache. I am glad that I got to see the pantomime and Lena had a good time. I crawled into bed with a sigh of relief. It was not too late, but I want to get up early tomorrow. It will be a busy day.

Tomorrow we go back to Edinburgh.


I am going to do a quick update, as it is spring already. Rowan sent me some lovely pictures, and I thought you might like to see them. First, she would like to emphasize the fact that one can get Mexican food in Scotland. She sent me this picture from Asda.

Yikes. And that is all I can say.

On a more aesthetic note, here are some lovely pictures of Dundee in the Spring. This is a picture of the Howff, which is a very old cemetery in town. I love this picture.

And a final picture of The Steeple Church in bloom. A very nice note to end on...

Wednesday in Edinburgh -- the Gallery and Castle

We hit the National Gallery and Edinburgh Castle ...

... and have a capital time.

Bob says:

We get up early in the morning and I use the hot towels from the hot towel rack. The towels are not toasty -- not freezing, but not toasty -- and I am not exactly sure what the fuss is about. As an advertised amenity, I would have to say that it ranks far below, let’s say, thick towels or fluffy pillows or a phonebook. We get up and out of the room, quickly repacking our stuff. I would say that our room was serviceable. Our plan is to drop our bags off at the train station, go to the National Gallery, and then make it to the Castle and down the Royal Mile and then back to Dundee. We set off at a brisk pace down the equally brisk streets. I am starving and I know exactly what I want for breakfast. One of the traditional take-away breakfasts in Scotland is a pie. Not a fruit pie, but a meat pie. Rowan seems a little reluctant, but I blithely ignore her. I can tell that she is thinking that this is not very high-class, but I am very pleased at the thought of a yummy meat pie for breakfast in Edinburgh. I marked some bakeries on the street as we walked to the hotel last night and am determined to have a pie for breakfast. Maybe two.

Rowan writes:

We get ourselves together early on Wednesday, and leave the hotel in search of breakfast. The hotel version is expensive, and we are keen to hunt down something on the hoof. As we yomp up the narrow pavement from the hotel towards town, we pass a small bakery, fairly typical of those small establishments tucked away in the back-streets of Scottish cities. Wee old-fashioned bakeries. The backbone, or rather, the hardened arteries of Scotland. The foundation of many a spare-tyre. Our cultural anchor. The wee unpretentious high-cholesterol bakery… purveyor of saturated fat and succulent mutton to the nation. These wee bakeries do sausage rolls, mutton pies, treacle scones, fruit scones, cheese scones…plain rolls, hard-fired rolls, floury rolls, butter rolls…all yummy. All filling a distinctive niche, and doing their bit to create new ones.

I wonder what Bob will choose. It is an Edinburgh shop, so I am not quite certain as to what is what. I would know my way around locally, in Dundee, but this is all a little alien. We have time to peruse, as we are herded aside at the door by a troupe of hungry and rather strapping workmen, clad in their day-glo yellow vests. They are aware that they are ever so slightly strapping, and there is a cheerful testosteroney vibe to their good-humoured orders for filled rolls and pies for their morning “piece” a mid-morning or lunchtime snack. The workmen file out, and we are left to make out choices. The girl serving is fairly helpful, when Bob asks her to point out what the different articles before us contain. Bob chooses a meat pie, and, as it is an Edinburgh pie and I do not know what the meat is, I go for a triangular bran scone. It is a very dry scone, and it is soon ingested. I wish I had bought another one, but I am too greed-conscience-stricken to run back. Bob only has one item, and it seems to have sufficed. I am being breakfast-austerity competitive.

Bob says:

The girl waiting on us is very kind, but seems to be taken aback by my questions about what we are eating. I ask her what she would have, if she were having breakfast, but she says that she does not eat the wares. I am amused. Her accent is pretty heavy and I do not understand everything that she says. I pick a minced beef pie. Rowan is very funny – she is dubious about the baked goods, as it is Edinburgh, not Dundee. You would think that it was a world away. Apparently there are culinary differences between pies in different cities. I can't see saying -- oh, that is a doughnut from Pacoima and that is one from Pasadena. I refrain from teasing her, but it is quite an effort. We leave and I unwrap my pie. It is like a hand-held pot-pie. Minced beef turns out to be ground beef – not crumbly, but soft. The seasonings are different – mild. It is quite nice, and we walk along, looking into store windows while we eat. It is cold enough that my breakfast steams and keeps my hands warm. The streets are a little busy with people rushing off to work.

We leave the train station and a piper is playing on the corner.

A group of children stopped and listened to him. He finishes the Scottish air that he is playing, and, slyly, slips into a rendition of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer". The children are delighted.

We walked past the Ferris Wheel and then browsed for a moment or two in the market. The Loch Ness hat is still calling to me, but I resist.

We went into the National Gallery for the next few hours. The Gallery is much like Scotland, so much packed into a small space. It is a little like a pocket-universe -- impossibly bigger on the inside than on the outside.

Rowan writes:

We stride down the street, past the Edinburgh Playhouse, feeling chuffed that we have saved the cost of breakfast, and keen to have a nose about the shops in the hope of being tempted to spend the sponduliks in other ways. We are heading inexorably towards the castle…all roads lead to the castle today. I am not quite sure how to get there, but know it will involve a steeeeep climb. Have memories of a previous steeeep climb. I am wondering if I was heavier or lighter than I am now. I am thinking I was likely lighter….

Before negotiating the climb, we decide to go into the National Gallery of Scotland. I am aware that this will be a marvellous experience. It is many years since I have been here - about fifteen years or so, but the memories of surprises and happy discoveries still remain. The building is fronted by colonnades, and tasteful banners promoting one of their most prized exhibits, a wonderful Botticelli, “The Virgin Adoring the Sleeping Christ Child.” This was painted in fourteen oatcake, and it absolutely stunning, in the most luminous hues of blue and pink and gold. I think it is my favourite exhibit, before I even go in and see it for reals, and the other contenders for the title.

We enter the foyer and chat to the pleasant security guy, who tells us there is a cloakroom for bags and coats. We decide to take ours with us, and climb the marble staircase to the top floor.

There are wonderful Mediaeval and Renaissance paintings in here, many with Biblical subjects, beautifully portrayed.

This is my sort of place. I am not good in museums, but a bit of a gallery geek. I like portraits… representations of people in the throes of thought: pondering, reacting, puzzling, qualifying, appealing, worshipping.

I love the texture of light and shadow, the play of sun and shade on the earnest faces which look out of the heavy ornate gilded frames. We step back, breathless at what we are seeing.

There is a party of schoolchildren being told about the gory story behind the portrait of St Nicholas. They are rapt, as they sit cross-legged in their green jerseys and grey skirts and trousers, putting up their hands politely to ask and answer questions.

Bob says:

The Gallery is just ... spectacular. We start out on the top floor and find ourselves in the midst of the Medieval and Renaissance art.

The colors are stunning – rich reds and blues and golds.

The quality of the color is hard to describe, it goes beyond vision and becomes something that is almost palpable.

I like the triptychs.

Some of them are massive.

There are a number of paintings depicting the Madonnna and Child, and it seems appropriate to the season. I love Christmas. This one was one of my favorites -- the scarlet of her cloak is almost black. Very unexpected.

The angels were surprising, as well. What wonderful wings.

There are things that one cannot even begin to adequately to describe, and the art that I see is like that. It is beautiful and powerful. I listen to the guide talking to the children, and learn what I can, as he explains the symbolism of the colors in the paintings.

I wish that I had time to really study each item and know what the symbols mean.

There is an exhibit of Scottish art, of famous people and places.

Some of the canvases are more than life-sized. The gallery has an amazing roster – Dali, El Greco, Botticelli, Rembrandt, Reubens, Cezanne, sketches by Da Vinci.

A Van Dyck...

It is just mind-blowing, especially in such a tiny place.

Did I mention Titian?

Rowan writes:

The atmosphere is solemn, but the suppressed excitement generated by the beauty of the paintings is palpable and intense. We just stand and soak up the paintings, drifting down to the lower levels, where there are more romantic scenes of stags and glens, aristocratic figures painted with their horses and entourages on shoots, scenes from clan battles, and romanticised views of dense forests and cascading waterfalls.

Some of the canvasses are huge. I am happy to find that some of the ones I like are on loan from the McManus galleries in Dundee, our lovely Museum/gallery which is being refurbished.

Looking around, I find one of my favourite paintings, Raeburn’s “The Reverend Robert Walker Skating”, and the fabulous Rembrandt self-portrait.

I remember seeing a picture of this painting in my sisters’ “History of Art” textbook.

It is truly fab. We sit for a little while, and listen to a talk being given by an elderly lady (she is giving off artist vibes) to a party of elderly ladies and gents who are sitting before her. She talks knowledgeably about the paintings and with a hint of authority, as though her audience is going to somehow challenge her point of view. I am hoping that someone will, as I am finding myself getting irritated, taking issue with her explanations, somewhat inexplicably. The gentle audience, who I suspect are her painting class, drink in the information quietly and patiently.

After looking at the paintings, we have a wachle around the gift shop, looking at the nicely presented items, the books reflecting the various art collections, pens, posters, notebooks, writing paper. We make a few small purchases, and go to check out the café.

It is in a nice open setting, looking out towards Prince St Gardens. The fare is fairly Spartan, as there is a fancy restaurant next-door. I order mushroom soup and bread for us, and attempt to carry the tray over to the table. I am finding the task more than usually difficult, as the ceramic bowls are a sort of arty and off-centre, sheared off at one side, so that the soup slops out. Bob is good at balancing trays, but she does not raise an eyebrow at me. I think she is with me on the silly design of the bowls. I am thinking that a mistake has been made somewhere in hospitality management, and the pot plant holders are being used mistakenly as soup-bowls. Heads will roll. The soup tastes kind of funny, but the thick wholemeal bread is nice.

Bob says:

Actually, I was afraid that Rowan was going to do herself an injury with the soup bowls and the trays. I took them from her and set them down on the table. The soup tasted hoity-toity – a thick mushroomy taste. It is fine, but the pub lunch yesterday was better. We eat and then head outside to walk across Princes Garden and up the hill to Edinburgh Castle. I ask directions on how best to get to the Castle, and get one of those “oh, it’s really easy …” type sets of directions that take about three minutes to relay. I stop listening after 15 seconds and try to remember the main points – across, turn right, long stairway, steep climb …

Things were simpler in the 1800s ...

I like being in a city that is this old.

We catch a glimpse of the train tracks as we cross behind the station.

As we near the top of the hill, we come across this little garden.

I wonder how many gazillion pounds you have to have to live here.

I have completely forgotten our directions. I am not completely lost, because the castle is at the top of a hill – I figure that we should just keep going up until we see it. At the top of the hill begins the Royal Mile. This is the view down that road.

I like the narrow street.

Panting a little, we get to the top of the hill and walk through the parking lot. There are huge stone crosses lining the edge of the hill over looking the city.

It is a wonderful sight – the massive crosses etched against the sky.

Rowan writes:

The steps are interminable, and my thigh muscles are complaining bitterly. We ask a passer-by as to our direction, and are pointed in the right direction. It is an imposing setting. The castle opens out at the top of our long climb, and we can see the powerful bulk of fortress Edinburgh.

Edinburgh castle is a very ancient seat, an impenetrable stronghold dominating the city skyline. I am going to leave the history bit up to Bob, as I know she will want to do it. I am generous that way.

Bob says:

Castle Rock is where Edinburgh began. The site was inhabited - and probably fortified after a fashion - in prehistoric times. Recent archaeological excavations have discovered evidence for a settlement of round houses on the rock dating back to the late Bronze Age (about 900BC). The Castle stands on the core of an extinct volcano. Though the castle existed in the 6^th century, very little is known about its role. From time to time it had been starved into submission or betrayed from within, but only twice was Edinburgh Castle ever captured in combat, once through an attacker's stratagem and once - fearsome thought - by direct frontal assault over the walls. On each occasion the victors were Scots vanquishing an English garrison.

This is the view coming into the castle.

Rowan writes:

The Castle entrance reflects a no-nonsense gritty and almost challenging vibe to the visitors who climb the cobbled hill to reach it. Grim, imposing, slightly ironic in a dismissive sort of way. “Come awa in then, if yiz hae tull. Geez yer money. Dinna drap sweetie papers or ye’ll feel the back o’ ma haun’.”

I love the castle. It is very, very cold this afternoon – I am coveting Bob’s scarf. It is way better than the shop-bought varieties, which tend to be skinny and leave gaps for the frost to attack. We roam around the cobbled quadrangle, exploring the various buildings – the military museum, the military memorial, the prison, the jewel room and corridors painted and dressed with tableaux from history. I like mannequins in historical garb. They almost never look right. I don’t know why they have to be so startlingly unrealistic, but they invariably are … hats askew, moustaches awry. I am enjoying myself. The comparison with the Tower of London is unavoidable – I loved the Tower too – Edinburgh Castle is more austere, the rough-diamond cousin, canny, unpretentious, volatile.

There are staircases which lead to unexpected chambers, wonderful state rooms with floors resounding with hundreds of years of footfalls. Bob would say that this place has serious heft, and one could not but agree. It is heft-mungous. You can sense the thickness of the walls, hear them hiss inflammatory oaths at potential invaders disguised as passing tourists. The Historic Scotland curators who lurk in the corners of the buildings are friendly, and look positively ill with hypothermia. The cheerful young man who huddles in the corner of the tiny and ancient St Margaret’s chapel, looks ready to pass out with the cold. The chill factor is undoubtedly sub-zero. He confides in us that he has several thermal layers, but he looks as though he ought to sue the manufacturers. These poor dudes need heaters. Just sayin.

What is a castle without a portcullis?



The phone boxes are a nice contrast, I think. Very pragmatic.

We walk past a row of cannon.

And catch this lovely view of the city.

Rowan writes:

We admire the row of cannon, facing out through the ramparts towards the city. The sun is low, and the sky a beautiful azure, fading into a soft gold, over the jumble of spires and rooftops far below. It is a charming vista. Edinburgh has a charm of its own – elegant, and sophisticated, yet thoroughly chunky and substantial. Edinburgh is a plus size diva, who looks the biz and knows it, and lounges with style.

Bob says:

The oldest part of the castle dates back to the Normans, and there are buildings and fortifications covering every period since. The castle is home to the Scottish Crown Jewels (Honours), the Stone of Destiny, the giant 15th century siege gun, Mons Meg, the Scottish National War Memorial ...

and the famous One O'Clock Gun, which is fired daily at 1.00 pm.

We missed the firing of the gun. The castle also contains several military and regimental museums, which we thoroughly enjoyed.

Here are some more pictures of the outside of the War Memorial.

I liked the fierce eagles. Or gryphons. Or eagles. They were fierce.

I am not sure why this was a favorite shot. I think it is because of all of the different textures of stone and the gorgeous light. And the beautiful horse.

This is the Great Hall. There are lots of weapons.

The sun was streaming through the windows.

The Great Hall of the Castle was built in 1511 on the orders of King James IV. It has a hammer beam roof. It was used for meetings of the Parliament of Scotland prior to the building of Parliament Hall next to St Giles Cathedral in 1639.

The Great Hall is still sometimes used for ceremonial occasions.

This is the view looking at the entrance. You can almost see the detail -- the carving is wonderful.

This is the view as we left --

... the colors from the stained glass window splashed across the walls.

We took our time wandering through the Castle. We got to see the Honours of Scotland -- Crown jewels and regalia. The crown dates from 1540, is made of Scottish gold and is set with 94 pearls, ten diamonds and 33 other precious and semi-precious gemstones. The most treasured possession of Scotland is also located among the honours. It is the Stone of Destiny, otherwise known as the Stone of Scone and upon which the monarchs of Scotland are traditionally crowned. It had been taken to England and incorporated into the Coronation Throne in Westminster Abbey but was returned to Scotland in 1996.

The Castle has its own jail -- it was once used for Scottish soldiers.

This is one of the cells. I wonder what it is like to be locked up here.

The Castle was used as a prison at different times. We walked through a kind of eerie dramatic re-enactment. You walk through the prison part of the castle, and they project scary shadows on the wall and it is just like you were there -- an imprisoned American sailor. Sort of.

I don't know where the staircase went. However, as we walked up the steep cobbled street, a gaggle of school children ran past us, wearing paper crowns and safety vests. Some brandished cardboard swords.

We catch a glimpse of Edinburgh spread out below.

It is a beautiful sight. The city is beginning to emerge below us, and the massive walls of the Castle are to our right.

The kids rush past us, as they hurry to see the city from the walls of the Castle. We take it a little more slowly, admiring the beauty of the stone walls.

The streets are surprisingly broad, and you can imagine donkey-drawn carts laboring up the cobbles.

There is evidence that the Picts inhabited this area -- it is amazing to think of prehistoric ruins here. There is an organic feel to the walls, almost that they were the bones hidden under the rock and revealed rather than built.

Rowan writes:

We spend a good couple of hours at the castle – there is a great deal to see. A guided tour group settle near us, and we drift close enough to hear some rather interesting snippets of history wafting on the air towards us. I am suddenly gripped by a sense of guilt, realising that Bob might have enjoyed an informative structured element to her visit. I am not a good native guide. I am good at sniffing out cafes and gift shops, though, and know my Botticellis from my Raphaels. Just don’t ask me when stuff was built and who lived there. I may well just make something up, to cover my tracks.

Rowan and I stopped to get a picture taken. You can see what we see. Rowan is on the right -- I thought that we were the same size. How did she get taller than me!? We are proudly wearing our GrayCharles.com hoodies. We are hopeless ... but we find ourselves amusing.

Rowan writes:

The equally bloodless and pleasant young man in the little booth in the western corner of the quadrangle is helpful, and kindly takes a couple of photographs of us. I feel sorry for him, having to work in those temperatures, and hope that the booth is heated. If it is, I am hoping he swaps over at regular intervals with the ice-man look-alike in the freezing chapel.

Bob says:

This is the view from the castle wall. It is cold and clear and very quiet -- like being on a mountain top. The colors are wonderful, aren't they?

You can see Princes Street -- the department stores and Princes Garden.

The colors of the castle are echoed in the city below. You can see what a gorgeous city Edinburgh is -- and a little of what it was like to be a defender on the wall. If you look very closely, you can see a blue sign.

It is the corner of the Soldier's dog cemetery. I can just barely see a little bit of the site.



The picture looks a little skewed, but that is because I was hanging over the wall. The curve of the wall is a little woozifying.

I am pleased to see Mons Meg, a cannon that I have read about. I try to imagine what a cannonball that size looks like when it is hurtled through the air.

In 1457, King James II was presented with two massive siege guns by his uncle by marriage, Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy. The surviving gun is now called Mons Meg and it is displayed in Edinburgh Castle. ("Meg" in Scotland is one of the short forms of "Margaret"). Made in Mons in Belgium it fired missiles weighing 330lbs (150kg) over two and a half miles. It saw action against the English at the siege of Norham Castle in 1497. But its great weight (over six tons) meant that it could only be moved at the rate of three miles a day so it was retired and used only on ceremonial occasions.

St. Margaret's Chapel resembles some of the primitive Celtic chapels of both Scotland and Ireland in being small and irregular. Essentially, it is a rectangular structure, with an apsed sanctuary and a nave separated by a chancel arch decorated with chevron mouldings.

The oldest building in all Edinburgh is to be found within the Castle precincts. It is St. Margaret's Chapel, a tiny Norman building which has been standing there intact for more than 900 years. This panel depicts St. Margaret.

The Chapel has survived all the sieges and bombardments to which the fortress on the rock was subjected during that period. On several occasions the castle was razed - but the demolishers invariably spared the chapel of the good St Margaret because of its religious significance. Today, members of the castle garrison still have the right to be married within the Chapel.

It is a very small building, set atop of the Castle. It is a rectangle with the altar at the front and small stained-glass windows, set in deep arches in the walls.

Each tells another tale. This is Christ calming the waves.

I especially liked this one. The fiery reds are a distinct contrast with the greens, blues, and purples of the other windows. This one ( I think) is the one on the back wall.

We walked out of the little chapel and again stopped to survey the city below. It is a sight that I could go to again and again. It is remarkably peaceful, sitting atop the craggy hill at the top of the city.

Rowan writes:

As we prepare to leave, we take some more last minute photos, and peer over the parapet once more in the fading brightness of this lovely winter afternoon.

The Lang Stairs are the original stairs into the castle in the Middle Ages.

‘Lang’ from Scots, word meaning long.

And we leave the Castle.

Rowan writes:

We are laughing uproariously – it is one of those days when every quip and rejoinder is funnier than the last. It is sooo cold – our laughter prevents our jaws from freezing solid. We drift into a couple of the souvenir shops, on our way back towards the entrance. In the smart one, we examine maps, history books, and meritorious facsimiles of meaningful documents. We pick up a couple of souvenirs. In the more tacky shop (they become progressively more tacky as we skirt towards the castle perimeter). I buy a couple of packets of Edinburgh Rock. I am keen for Bob to try this. Unlike the usual seaside rock which you can buy -- which is hard candy -- Edinburgh rock is soft and melts in the mouth. It has its own special consistency, and breaks with the soft thump of solid icing sugar, which it may well actually be.

Pastel coloured, fruit flavoured solid icing sugar, with added sugar, just for good measure. It is indescribably sweet, and makes the eater tachycardic after the first couple of bites. Lub-dup/ Lub – wtf? /Wtf-wtf?/Wtfwtfwtfwtf… Edinburgh Rock is a cardiac workout. Not a sweetmeat for the fainthearted. It needs working up to. I watch Bob take a piece of livid pink rock from its cellophane, hear the soft snap, and watch her eyes open in a way which tells me that she is not too overly keen. I think she is wondering what to do with the bit she has bitten off, but is a trooper and swallows it. I do not think Edinburgh Rock has made a transatlantic convert. I am secretly pleased…all the more for me…

Bob says:

I admit that my kids were not overwhelmed with the Edinburgh Rock.

This is what the packets looked like in, oh, February. Before I threw them out. But they were only a pound! Such a deal!

The Royal Mile beckons. I have yet to have fish and chips, and I am feeling culturally deprived. I ask a young woman at the guard shack at the end of the castle parking lot about where a good fish and chips shop might be. She recommends the Clam Shell and we walk down the hill toward dinner.

Rowan writes:

The castle sits at the top of the Royal Mile, a lovely long thoroughfare full of historical buildings, interesting nooks and niches, shops and pubs.

We peek into a couple of tartan shops, listen to a piper, and prevaricate over going into a cosy pub for an early evening meal.

Bob is keen to walk on, as there is still daylight left for exploring. We drift on down the Mile, and come to the frontage of an ornate and beautiful building. The outside stonework is being refurbished, but it is possible to go inside.

Bob says:

We were walking along, and approached what was clearly a construction area. I don't know who the famous person is, but I liked the orange cone perched cheekily on his head.

We walked up some stairs, where the workers were going in and out. It was very dark and our steps echoed. We did not even know where we were, and as we walked around the sheet of plywood that was inside the door, we were greeted by this.

I think that we just stopped -- trying to figure out where we were. You could not see much, as it was dim. The impression was of space and age. It was dusty and cold. As we wandered around, details began to emerge and finally, in a moment, we realized that we were in a cathedral. The cathedral is famous for its stained glass, and rightfully so. (Please forgive the poor quality of the pictures -- the subject deserved much better than my poor attempts.)

Rowan writes:

The interior is breathtaking.

Ornately carved wooden buttresses, and an amazing intricately-wrought pulpit,

sit amidst the splendour of the most unrivalled stained-glass panorama I have ever encountered. It is getting dark – way too dark to see the St Giles Cathedral at its best, but it is still a truly humbling and breathtaking experience.

It is not a place you want to leave. I want to stand still and download. I think part of me is still there, saving files from St Giles.

It is a truly remarkable cathedral. It is too dark for photography – Bob wants to return another day to fully appreciate the stained glass with the gift of sunlight to reveal the full extent of its beauty. I am very glad – I am looking forward to my return visit too.

Bob says:

There is record of a parish church in Edinburgh by the year 854, served by a vicar from a monastic house, probably in England. It is possible that the first church, a modest affair, was in use for several centuries before it was formally dedicated by the bishop of St Andrews on 6 October 1243.

The carvings are wonderful.

As we left the dark interior, we saw this celtic cross, just to the right of the construction entrance. I can just barely see the stained glass, and I can imagine that it is truly glorious in the sunlight. Friday is our free day -- it is a day that we had nothing particular planned and I decided that I am coming back to Edinburgh. It is an amazing city and I feel like we just scratched the surface. I know that I want to see the stained glass with the daylight streaming through.

Rowan writes:

After gleaning some useful information from a salesgirl in one of the shops about good fish and We come to the take out shop and order fish and white pudding and chicken pakora. Bob asks for napkins.

We drift back around the corner into Cockburn Street, eating our hot pakora (yum) and looking in the windows of the grungy hippy shops and piercing parlours. Princes Street is still busy and alive, and we take a final peek at the Christmas market before heading toward Waverley Station and the train home. We do another lightening raid on the tiny Marks and Spencer’s shop. I buy chocolate snowballs for the children – two big packs, as I am planning to give a good help with demolishing them. Inexplicably, neither child has a sweet tooth. Hot coffee beckons – I order a cappuccino and we wait on the chilly, busy platform for the Dundee train.

Bob says:

The whole day was a little otherworldly. So much beauty and with Time being a palpable presence. The day was filled with moments of stillness -- the present weaving in and out of the past. I will have to go back to Edinburgh. No question about it. There are places that I would like to see again, and St. Margaret's Chapel is one. It is small, and not very ornate, but it has beautiful stained glass windows and you can feel that people for centuries have been coming up here to gain a sense of peace, even amid turmoil. I liked the message from The Guild of St. Margaret.

This holy place, which crowns the Castle of Scotland's Capital, is open for all to visit. In the turmoil of our modern life, whether amid the turbulence of strife, or the restlessness of peace, people come here; and here receive even for a moment something of that real peace; and the peace of God which passes all understanding; and here the gracious words of Him who is the Prince of Peace can be heard again. "I tell you not to be anxious...Consider how the lilies grow in the fields; they do not work, they do not spin; yet even Solomon in all his splendour was not attired like one of these...Set your mind on God's kingdom and his justice before everything else, and all the rest will come to you as well."

So in that spirit, will you come in imagination out of the world into a few minutes of God's peace, and go back again to whatever work you have to do, renewed and refreshed, feeling that it was good to have been here.