Early Morning in Edinburgh, Scotland
It’s four a.m. in Edinburgh, Scotland. Nine a.m. in my hometown of Virginia Beach, Virginia. But after an overnight flight from JFK to Heathrow and then to Edinburgh — where I didn’t sleep at all — it feels more like three in the afternoon two days later.
There’s no hope of going back to sleep. I have a headache and my eyes have that crusty “who threw sand in my face” feeling. After years of traveling, I’m familiar with jet lag but have yet found ways to avoid it.
I peek out the sliver of a window from my hotel room. Edinburgh Castle sits majestically on the aptly named Castle Rock as it has for a thousand years. Surprisingly the elusive Scottish sun sneaked in for a quick “Hi-ya” before battleship grey skies bombarded the morning glow into submission. For a few minutes, it was the color of a creamsicle.
Thirty minutes later, I’m walking the streets of Edinburgh. It was quiet except for the occasional hoot of a dove, or a laugh from a seagull or a bus grumbling by with a handful of sleepy commuters. This morning’s destination is Arthur’s Seat whose trail head which is about a mile and a half away.
Arthur’s Seat is an extinct volcano that supposedly last erupted 350 million years ago. It doesn’t have the cone shape one associates with volcanoes. It’s shaped more like a cow that decided to belly drop and rest for a wee bit. At just over 800 feet, it looked like a proper place to take a morning view of Edinburgh.
I’ll be there before six a.m., noon in Virginia Beach and more like 36 hours later in my hazy head.
The Robert Burns Monument in Edinburgh, Scotland
Google maps took me northeast along Regent Road where I stumbled upon the Robert Burns Monument, renowned 18th century Scottish poet and lyricist
My grandfather was Robert Burns, my mom’s father.
Not the poet but a hard-working lineman who walked bowlegged after a telephone pole fell on his leg. Even at 80, he had Ronald Regan hair. He often sat in a wine-colored leather chair that farted with the slightest movement. The deer he shot in the neck was the centerpiece of the living room. My mom used to sit nearby and fashion matchsticks into make-shift paint brushes and pretend to paint the flowers which adorned the rug.
Evidently, the Burns were a creative lot.
One because of famous prose. Another because my mom, who at 90 still paints and has inspired family members to become photographers, writers, artist, woodworkers and interior designers. After a quick right turn, I’m alone in New Calton Burial Ground.
Morning glow on New Calton Burial Ground
Like most folks who stumble upon a graveyard, I take note who’s buried there. It’s a macabre reminder of one’s mortality. Some lived long lives, others didn’t. James Mcintosh passed away in January of 1864 at the age of 68. William Redfern only made it to age 20 and was buried in 1833. Several members of Robert Louis Stevenson’s family are interred there, namely his parents and brother. A quick literary reminder, he penned “Treasure Island” in 1881 along with many other notable literary classics. Surprisingly, he’s buried at Mount Vaea in Samoa some 9,000 miles away from where I stood. Health reasons and a warmer climate led him there.
I couldn’t help but notice the number of children’s tombstones. It takes only a quick calculation to see the passage of time between the born date and died date was way too short. Some lived less than a year, others to only three or four. I was surprised to learn later the child mortality rate in the United Kingdom in the early 19th century was high, and approximately one in every three children born in 1800 did not make it to their fifth birthday.
I said a quick prayer and found the exit at the bottom of the graveyard. After a quick left and a right, reach Holyrood Palace which happens to be the Queen’s official royal residence whilst in Scotland. It’s surrounded by fences, walls, security cameras, and on the morning of my walk, security guards spaced every two hundred meters. They wore bright neon jackets the color of lighting bugs, black pants and clunky black shoes. I don’t recall if they were armed with anything other than a walkie-talkie.
Never shy in foreign countries, I slowly approached one of the guards. “I’m used to the cold because I lived in Alaska for a few years,” James said with barely a hint of a Scottish accent. He looked about 40 and had black hair and eyebrows that looked like caterpillars. He was very cordial and told me he’s been standing guard in the parking lot since 10 p.m. the night before. I asked if he always works the overnight shift at Holyrood.
“Oh no, we are only here because some royals are staying here.” I surmised it might have been William and Kate because they were in Glasgow the night before. My brush with royalty, albeit from 300 meters away and on the wrong side of fences, walls and security cameras didn’t deter my hiking plans for the morning.
The bushes along the trail to Arthur’s Seat looked like they were covered in yellow frosting. None was higher than chest high. Pockets of green grass and brown veins of various trails made for a beautiful walk even under grey skies. Gusts of wind tried their best to knock me off balance. I later learned that these flowering bushes are called Scottish Broom. A quick Google search doesn’t return nice results. The plant is often referred to as invasive, hard to kill, drought and salt tolerant and unaffected by freezing temperatures.
Scottish Broom along the trail to Arthur’s Seat
But they sure are pretty.
According to historian Robert J, Crouch, “Scottish Broom can be found anywhere along the Atlantic coast where British troops were quartered during the Revolution. The seeds were naturally mixed in with the oats imported from Scotland that fed the redcoat’s horses. A great example can be found growing along the sides of Interstate 64 in the Charlottesville, Virginia area.”
Round trip on the loop trail is just over two miles, and I had the trail to myself thanks to early hour. Scottish Broom bloomed at every turn. In the distance, an arm of the North Sea touched the northern boundary of Edinburgh. Boats speckled the water. And it was down right blustery. I failed to mention this was late May, and the weather in Scotland has quite the sense of humor.
Pack for four seasons in one day, always. And never believe the forecast.
The weather will do what it bloody well pleases.
After walking through brooms and dales, I rock scramble my way to the summit where the wind was insistent. A stumbled about as if I downed too many Scottish Whiskeys. It was hard to keep my eyes open and my cap blew off not once but twice. I think might have seen Edinburgh Castle. My time on the summit was mere seconds. Often it’s more about the journey than the destination.
It was time to move on.
“I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move.”
― Robert Louis Stevenson