| Edinburgh 1998
Minto Street Edinburgh is full of bed and breakfasts. After three strikes we settled on a place for the right price run by a little old grandmother type that L immediately dubbed Nonna. We tossed our gear in our room at Crion House (number 33) and then left to do some exploring. L’s dad had grown up in and around Edinburgh and she was keen to check out a couple of his old haunts whilst we still had the car. We killed a few hours driving around the city ending up at the bridge across the Firth of Forth looking west into the sunset. Almost romantic … almost.
Awoke to American Independence Day with cable news stations crowing red white and blue. The next news item was however slightly more worrisome - Marching season in Northern Ireland in full swing prompting protests, provocations and other shenanigans from the locals. Tempers were simmering on Drumcree Hill, a small pimple with a church on it, in Portadown County Armagh. Crowds of rowdy protesters were hamming it up for news crews in hovering helicopters. Tension building. Hang on? Isn’t this precisely where we were heading next? Better flick over to the Wimbledon highlights.
 L was on a mission to get her hair cut. Her bob had apparently grown to almost feminine lengths and was causing her much distress. I dropped her off in town and then continued to an outer suburban petrol station cum rental car agency to drop off our car. The whole trip had seemed to only take ten minutes and the idea of a stroll back through suburban Edinburgh appeared much more attractive than the crowded busses that occasionally passed on the main road. After several kilometres the blisters on my feet started lobbying for a bus ticket but the Scottish public transport system seemed suddenly on strike. I walked on.
Edinburgh Castle is the most dominant landmark sitting up on a hill overlooking the city centre. It is accessed via an ancient street known as the Royal Mile and I soon emerged into the famous forecourt where they hold the annual Military Tattoo. My old man had been a massive fan of marching music and we watched the annual pomp and parades on the tellie each year. On the sides workmen were setting up bleachers and camera stands for the event. The whole area seemed much smaller than it appeared floodlit on television. I was contemplating this and the impressive castle walls that loomed above when there was a loud explosion and I hit the ground in a flash.
Normally terrorist attacks are not accompanied by peals of laughter. Suddenly my prone state was the centre of attention for all nearby and I felt a hand on my shoulder and an accent straight out of a Billy Connelly monologue.
“Don’t worry lad it’s just one o’clock, ‘tis all.”
Edinburgh Castle is still an active military facility and every day at one the soldiers fire off a solitary salvo from a cannon up on the ramparts. Apparently taking the piss out of newbie tourists flinching at lunchtime was a popular pastime for locals. I had lost my Edinburgh cherry and sheepishly lost myself amongst the tourist throng heading up the ramp into the castle.
I spent the rest of the day wandering around the undulating interior of the castle. A thousand years of Scottish history was on display and iconic ghosts of its history walked the castle corridors. The entrance to the fortress was through William Wallace Gate via a bridge across a waterless moat, further along the cobblestone pathways Robert The Bruce watched on from a statue and around every corner was a blue plaque detailing some adventure from the life of Bonnie Prince Charlie. I tailed along on the end of a tour group being led by a bloke with an accent that could have been straight from the mouth of the Begby the Robert Carylse character from Trainspotting, except that he didn’t drop the C word or try to glass me because I glanced at him the wrong way.
Dinner consisted of fish and chips from the shop a few blocks down Minto Street. The order placed via a series of hand gestures as nether Groundskeeper Willy behind the counter nor myself could understand what the other was saying. I had successfully ordered metro tickets in Paris rush hour and bagettes in Prague but the major language obstacle to commerce that I experienced was talking English to a Scot in Edinburgh. After a few “Ochs” and “There ya go laddy’s” I left with some heavily battered marine life and what seemed to be the entire Scottish potato harvest deep fried. After double checking that our travel insurance covered open heart surgery I had also succumbed to curiosity and decided to try the local delicacy – The deep fried Mars Bar.
 The biggest surprise is that caramel chocolate encased in batter is not as disgusting as you would think. Actually finishing the bar however, is a challenge as the sheer sickly sweetness of it all, not to mention the brown goo dripping from each finger, soon has you looking for a trash can. With bellies full we settled down to watch The Woodies win Wimbledon in the doubles and I gave my mate Richie a ring in Northern Ireland to set up the next part of our adventure.
Back on trains again - Edinburgh to Glasgow, bleak landscapes of treeless hills and the odd forest, we pass through Linlithgow after which a lake is named near home. Not exactly the scenic overload of the Swiss journey of weeks past. A short stop in Glasgow as we lumped our gear the three or four blocks from one station to another to connect to the service south. No money left for taxis. Neither of us would say it but we were both nervous as to whether our cash would last to the end. Fingers crossed that a few of the credit card purchases would not be processed for a few days yet. By mid afternoon we stood dockside in Stranrear waiting to cross the Irish Sea to Belfast.
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