if we don't find the next whisky bar...

For our first day in Edinburgh, we started out simply: sandwiches at O'Brien's Sandwich Bar on Stafford Street. ("Hiya" the lady behind the counter said.) I passed over the tikka masala; I was saving up for a special Scottish treat. (More about that later.) Jeff, after his wont, dived right in. That boy's got a bottomless pit where a stomach ought to be. Jeff's kind of a unique character all around. He's thin as a rail, gangles like a scarecrow, eats like a boa constrictor, blinks like a lizard, and travels like an albatross. These two weeks in the U.K. were only the beginning for him. He would soon embark on a five-month sojourn across Europe and North Africa, taking in all the major European countries, Morocco, and Egypt. Where he got the budget for this (and the visas) I'll never know. He only just returned to Ottawa last week. Sounds like he had a ball, chucking tomatoes in Spain during the Tomatina, pitying the goats in Egypt during Eid al Adhha, drowning in a sea of orange in Amsterdam during the World Cup Final, and all sorts of crazy stuff. That's just the way he is. An inveterate traveler. He goes home to Canada, he works, he saves up enough to travel again, and then he travels, for months or even years at a time, living in the cheapest (yet safest) hostels he can find, timing it perfectly so he can catch all the major events and festivals going down in the countries he wanders into, just generally living it up.

I envy him.

After our erstwhile breakfast, we strolled back to the center—excuse me, the centre—of Edinburgh. Once again we were awed by the sheer beauty of the place. I was getting the same feeling I'd had in Newcastle, that small feeling that came with standing on the soil of a country with thousands of years of history rather than mere hundreds, looking at churches built before my homeland was even an idea, gazing upon statues of heroes whose deeds I'd never dreamed of.

We had one thing on our minds. It was sitting up on top of a cliff, brooding over the city like an ancient battle-scarred guardian. It was Edinburgh Castle.

To get there, however, we had to cut down and around the base of that cliff and come up the hill on the south side of the castle. At the base of the cliff, however, we saw something worth checking out: the graveyard at St. Cuthbert's Parish.

We had only just walked in when something truly trippy happened. We saw the Green Man. I kid you not. He came out of nowhere. One second Jeff and I were standing there, viewing the gravestones and the greenery and nodding appreciatively, and the next second an old white-haired man, bent double, dressed in the most incredible assortment of green and brown rags, came shuffling from behind a headstone and hobbled past us. He waddled away, torso parallel to the grassy sward, head bent up to look ahead of him, out into the street and away up the sidewalk.

Excuse me, I mean pavement.

I was too shocked even to snap a picture. As the old man vanished from sight, Jeff and I just stared at each other with a classic WTF expression. We half-believed that we'd seen a ghost. Either that or there was an entirely classier breed of homeless person in the U.K. as compared to what we were used to.

And so we continued on up the hill, around the mountain and up a steep stone staircase, which suddenly opened out unto...

Well, son of a gun! It was the Royal Mile!

The walk of kings! The main drag of old-town Edinburgh. This was the way the Scottish royalty once proceeded from the castle to Holyrood Abbey for official functions.

We hung a left and before we knew it, we were on the threshold of the castle itself.

It was wild in there, folks. The walkway twisted and turned up the cliffside. Guides in kilts were walking around, extolling the castle's nearly impregnable defenses. (Apparently the fortress was taken only once in its history, and only by deceit and trickery, not by force.) The battlements weren't worn down or ruined like other castles I'd seen in pictures, they were sharp and hard-lined and looked ready to be manned by hardened warriors. Cannons and other fearsome weapons poked their black snouts from gun ports. And everywhere, tourists of all nations strolled up and down the ramparts and cobblestones, looking much as Jeff and I felt: utterly gobsmacked.

There was a lot to be gobsmacked by. Take this beast, for instance. The Scots' BFG.

It's the Mons Meg, a massive cannon capable of firing a 400-pound cannonball a distance of two miles. Apparently Duke Philip of Burgundy ordered its construction about 1449, and then gave it to King James II of Scotland eight years later as a gift. The barrel diameter was 510 millimeters, people. To give you some idea of how big that is, here's a shot of a .50 caliber Browning round (right) and a 20 mm cannon round (left).

The 20 mm was a popular anti-aircraft cartridge during World War II (and is still in use today in the M61 Vulcan guns adorning the A-10 Warthog). A single round in the right place was enough to destroy an old piston fighter back in the day. The Mons Meg's ammunition was twenty-five times bigger than that, and although it obviously wasn't fired at the same muzzle velocity, you can imagine what kind of damage a 400-pound cannonball would do to a column of infantry or a siege engine.

You'd need a mighty thick helmet, let's put it that way.

The view of Edinburgh from the castle was fantastic. We could see the whole town, north, east and west, the Firth of Forth (the estuary of the River Forth) and across to Kirkaldy and Fife. Probably could've seen Dumfermline, too, if I'd stood on my tip-toes.

The Scottish Military Museum was housed on the highest level of the castle grounds. We'd arrived on a good day—a local fencing club had set up shop in the square just outside the entrance and were busy giving the crowd an exhibition in traditional Scottish combat. They covered everything: assorted weaponry, fighting style, battle strategy, even the tactical advantages of kilts (yes, there are tactical advantages to kilts). And ladies, you would have loved the head instructor's accent. He picked one of his best students and put on a show, demonstrating a typical fencing match with Scottish broadswords. The master narrated even as he struck and parried:


"Light cut to th' shoulder, nothin' too serious."


"Anoother light cut...he'll be havin' words wi' his tailor."

The match ended with an intense display of close-quarters combat. The swordsmen closed with each other, grappling as they attempted to throw their opponent or bring their blades back into play. After a few seconds of lurching, grunting and wrestling, the instructor emerged the victor, standing over his pupil, sword at his throat.


The inside of the museum was no less thrilling. I reckon the only country whose citizens have been involved in more armed conflict during their country's history is, perhaps, Israel. But they've only been around for 63 years. Scotland's soldiers have been fighting wars all over the world for centuries, from the Napoleonic Wars to such far-flung theaters as India, Egypt, and South Africa. And they've served in every conceivable capacity...as mercenaries, conscripts, rank-and-file, and even distinguished officers like Sir Archibald Campbell, Sir David Baird and Sir Ralph Abercromby. (And let's not forget my favorite Scottish warfighter, a fellow whom most Americans should be intimately familiar with, a rather feisty sailor named John Paul Jones.)


I particularly enjoyed the extensive displays of weaponry and armor within the museum. There was one nasty-looking sidearm called a "French nail"—essentially a knife with a set of brass knuckles in place of a hand guard.

After a reverent trip through the Scottish War Memorial (inscribed with the names of every Scot to fall in battle in World War I), Jeff and I were privileged to view the grand finale: the Honours of the Kingdom, the Scottish Crown Jewels. Hidden from the eyes of the world for a hundred years after the British government dissolved the Scottish Parliament in 1707, the Honours were rediscovered, dusted off, and set in a vault under a thick glass case for all the world to see. I though I'd been awestruck before, just viewing the castle, the Mons Meg, and the war museum, but this completely took the biscuit. I'd never seen a real crown before, nor a scepter so intricately crafted, nor a sword of such exquisite construction. The Crown of Scotland, manufactured in 1540, looked as fresh and new as the day it was first set on James V's head, crusted with precious gems and freshwater pearls. The Sceptre of Scotland looked like something that Gandalf the Grey wouldn't have felt like an idiot casting spells with, made of silver gilt, topped with polished rock and Scottish pearl, and inlaid with dolphins, Saint Andrew, the Virgin Mary and the baby Christ. The sword also looked like it could've sprung from the pages of some epic work of medieval fantasy, the silver handle bearing oak leaves and acorns and the blade etched with figures of Saints Peter and Paul. Both the sword and the scepter, I found out later, were papal gifts: Pope Alexander VI gave the scepter to King James IV in 1494, and Pope Julius II presented the sword to the same lucky king 13 years later.


Obviously no photographs were allowed, but believe me when I say that each article looked too pristine, too well-preserved, too shiny and new and luxurious to be real. I was amazed. The regalia had graced the persons of Scotland's highest and most revered monarchs, been handled by popes and courtiers and kings, and had been zealously concealed from the invading English armies for a century. The history, the tradition, the culture wrapped up in these sacred objects took one's breath away as thoroughly as their immaculate appearance.

Ogling treasures worth more than the federal deficit made me kind of hungry. Jeff was always hungry, so we elected to find some eats. We exited the castle and strolled down the Royal Mile. From every quarter the screech of bagpipes came drifting on the breeze. We went back to Princes Street, cut down Frederick, and ducked up Rose Street to Dirty Dick's, a likely-looking public house.

I was on a mission. There were three things that came to mind when I thought of Scotland: Scotch, bagpipes—and haggis.

From Reference.com:

Haggis is a traditional Scottish dish.There are many recipes, most of which have in common the following ingredients: sheep's "pluck" (heart, liver and lungs) minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock and traditionally boiled in the animal's stomach for approximately three hours.

Mmmmmmmmm...that sounds yummy.

Now, many of you in the audience (particularly the ladies) may wish to ask, "Why would anyone in their right mind want to eat sheep's pluck minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock and traditionally boiled in the animal's stomach for approximately three hours?"

To which I would reply, "Because it's there."

Or rather, more accurately, since this is a plate of food we're talking about and not a mountain, I'd say, "Because somebody decided long ago that this mystical amalgamation of bestial viscera was edible, and I intend to test that assertion."

You know me. I'll eat anything. Remember sannakji?

So anyway, I was in Scotland. The home of haggis. I'd heard and read a lot about this dish. And as dubious as most people sounded when they heard about it, I was determined to try it.

And so, with a glass of good cider to wash it down, I sampled my first-ever plate of haggis, neeps and tatties (haggis with potatoes and turnips in a whisky cream sauce). For pub-haggis, it wasn't half bad. The liver flavor came through the most, but the oatmeal and suet made for a unique and pleasantly firm texture. Honestly, I never would've been able to tell I was eating heart or lungs if I hadn't known in advance. It was a delicious dish, intensely satisfying and quite filling. And there was more to come after...

Come now, I'm a bartender. A self-proclaimed whisky-lover. A wannabe Scotch connoisseur. It's in my to-do list over on the right (I hope). Someday I want to be able to divine exactly where a Scotch was distilled and how old it is just by tasting it. You have to practice to get good, correct? And as has been previously mentioned, I was in Scotland. The home of Scotch whisky. I had to try some. And by "try some" I mean "drink as much as I could get my hands on."

Fortunately, Dirty Dick's was also a whisky bar. So I ordered me up a glass of Ardbeg, a 10-year-old Islay single malt. The smoky sweetness, combined with the hefty peatiness and a spicy finish, made for a delicious sip. It was in Dirty Dick's that I learned the proper way to sample Scotch as well: room temperature, with just a dash of water to bring out the flavor. I rolled the whisky around the bottom of my glass, feeling good and sophisticated and content and manly (and to be truthful, a little tipsy), and blessed whichever inventive soul had perfected the distilling process.

Afterward, as the glorious golden sun had only just begun to set over the magical city at the close of our first day, Jeff and I waddled out of Dirty Dick's. Well, he waddled, and I weaved. That Ardbeg was strong stuff, and I'd already supped some cider. We returned to the hostel, feeling shamefully pleased with ourselves.

I'd love to tell you some wild stories about our first night in Scotland (having set the stage nicely with the church hostel, the castle, the supergun, the crown jewels, the sheep's guts, and the booze). Unfortunately, I can't. None transpired. The first night consisted of me, prostrate in my creaky bunk, trying to ignore the snores of the other hostel-goers, blindsided by some 24-hour bug, and Jeff out in the nightly Scottish chill, taking the haunted walking tour of Edinburgh.

He brought back some cool pictures of city lights and faces on gravestones and John Stuart Mill's tomb. But I'm still glad I didn't talk myself into going with him. I was just glad to be able to stretch out and take things easy, even if the comforts of home were nowhere to be found. The sheets of my bunk bed were laced with allergens, worsening my already running nose and coughing fits. I had to keep getting up to refill my tiny water bottle. And as I mentioned before, there was no ceilings in the room. And some of our neighbors were snorers. I heard at least one person blowing chunks in their wastebasket, too. Even the late-evening sun streaming through the west window of the church did little to cheer me up. It was right in my eyes, in fact.

Needless to say, it wasn't a restful night.

Stay tuned for the next installment, though, when I meet our invisible Romanian roommate and climb to Arthur's Seat.