I have splurged on one more night at this whimsical Edinburgh B&B. I plan to eat all the biscuits, in spite of the fact that it will bring my total to six for the day, thereby ruining the mathematical rhythm of the opening sentence of this post. And tomorrow? First stop: Inverness. (Actually, my first stop will be the Edinburgh bus station.) Shortly thereafter followed by a visit to the city where Frank and Claire second-honeymooned before she made her life-changing journey. I’ve found a hostel near the center of town that boasts hot running showers.
What more can I ask?
- ES
Comments: 37
HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:
Book club members SO excited you are in the land of Jamie and Claire, Miss Emma. We re-read OUTLANDER in your honor.
ParisiansLovePipers, Paris, France:
Nous retenons notre souffle…We hold our breath that you might travel safe. Drone on, Emma!
(Read 35 more comments here…)
I closed the lid of my computer feeling completely gobsmacked (a word I picked up at the train station here and plan to work into conversation as much as possible). It had taken me a full twenty minutes to read the comment section of my blog.
Twenty minutes, because, gosh, it appeared that HiHoKitty had a whole host of friends who were ardent fans of Jamie-san. The idea that thirty-six Japanese readers cared enough to comment left me feeling delighted and heartened. I’d even picked up what appeared to be a member of a marching pipe and drum band from France. Take that Sophia and Paul, you naysayers!
But hot on the heels of the flush of success came an unexpected feeling of responsibility.
When I’d begun the blog, it was more or less a means to keep me focused on the idea of finding my particular version of Jamie. Clearly, I hadn’t really thought things through, as evidenced by my sister’s disdain. But less than three weeks after starting the thing, it had become a kind of … addiction.
Finding Fraser was supposed to be a personal diary to my inner self. But in a way, it had also become my sort of version of a Canterbury Tale, situated slightly further north and some six hundred years into the future. The only difference being the object of the pilgrimage; not so much the shrine of a saint outside a big church as a contemporary Scotsman ready to pledge his heart to an errant American girl.
Practically the same, really, wouldn’t you say?
Fortunate Foreigner…
6:30 pm, February 26
Edinburgh, Scotland
I’ve recovered a bit after the long day, and decided in honor of my collection of blog friends, to summarize my trip to Edinburgh Castle.
The trip started poorly, mostly because the place was so freaking expensive. But 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.