Finding Fraser(19)

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 a zombie. But in the end, the idea of eating yet another packet of shortbread cookies drove me out the door. The little bed and breakfast I was staying in was located in what the Edinburghers called the Old Town, just up the hill from the train station on Princes Street.

That was, apparently, to distinguish it from the New Town, which was the part of the city below the castle. The New Town was first built before America was a country, and once I knew that, it pretty much gave me a sense of the way Scots view the passage of time.

From the guide on my bedside table, it looked like all the cheapest places to eat were to be found in the New Town, just down the hill. It was a decent walk from my place, and after six hours of climbing stone steps and slithering along icy cobblestones, my legs and feet were just about done in. I had no idea if a bus could even take me in the right direction, and cab fare would have been five pounds at least.

I learned this because I asked the lady who took my audio guide back at the castle gate.

So, as I slid out of my little bed and breakfast place onto the Royal Mile, I steeled myself to pay the cab fare. But it was nearly seven-thirty, and night comes early to the gray Scottish lowlands. There was not a taxi to be seen in the dark. A block or two down, the road intersected with another that appeared to wind down toward Princes Street, and I headed that way on my very sore feet.

On the winding road however, my luck turned and I spotted a small pub, from which emanated the sounds of joy and frivolity. Surely they would have a phone I could call a cab from?

In I went.

It turned out the price of a beer was less than half the cost of a taxi ride to the New Town.

I learned this, because I asked the lady taking beer orders behind the bar.

As I sank down on what appeared to be the only open seat in the place, my feet screamed in relief. Or they would have, if they’d had little mouths. Which they did not, I’m grateful to say, because how weird would THAT have been?

The server who had so generously told me the relative price of beer and taxi cabs reappeared seconds later with a golden glass of ambrosia in her hand.

My table was a tall one and had a dangerous tilt to it, which may have explained why it was unoccupied. I leaned back against a wall in the corner and slipped off one of my boots. By the time I’d taken the first few sips, I’d forgotten that I didn’t generally like beer, and had been transported into the strange euphoria of exhaustion, hunger and the ecstasy that came of being able to rub one’s sore foot in secret under a table in a Scottish pub.

I decided to sit there for a bit and just soak in the atmosphere, listening to Edinburghers enjoy their end-of-workday cheer; and when my feet had sufficiently recovered, I’d walk down the hill to find someplace to eat.

The plan was somewhat thwarted, though, when I knocked my entire beer into my lap.

In truth, it wasn’t totally my fault. I’d been watching the ruddy nape of a neck at the table beside me and idly wondering if Jamie would drink beer in a place like this—if he lived in the present day, of course.

Whoever the guy with the ruddy neck, was, I could only see the back of his head. It was a nice head. Well-shaped, and covered in a thick thatch of dark blonde hair, lighter at the tips and gelled a bit northward, from the looks of things. His shoulders were square under the cover of a heavy cable-knit sweater, and he was enjoying the company of a sweet young thing, very blonde and blue-eyed. His hand lay proprietorially on her arm as they talked.