A Walker in the Suburbs

Through the randomness of notebook selection, the travel journal I took along for this trip has the following words on its cover: “When Your Heart Speaks, Take Good Notes.”

It was a gift from long ago, and I always liked its whimsical, wry message. I chose it for the trip because I’d just completed one of my larger, hardbound journals and was looking for something smaller and lighter. 

The notebook worked like a charm. It’s 6 inches by 6 inches, spiral bound, 180 pages. I wrote loopy and large with generous margins (unlike my usual), and am hoping to finish it today, cheating by just two days with “end-of-trip” thoughts. 

I’ve leafed through it this morning, marveling at what I might already have forgotten had I not written it down: the taxi driver in Fort William who used to be a shepherd, the group of hikers in Kererrer who found my sweater and gave us a ride back to town from the ferry, the absolutely perfect cottage I saw during that rainy walk in Oban.

It wasn’t my heart that was speaking. It was the world. 

My hope for any trip is that I return home with altered eyes. How has Scotland altered them? 

It’s made me an even more confirmed walker — or perhaps I should say hiker — than I was before. The boots I considered not bringing were just about the only footwear I wore. So many of Scotland’s riches are best seen on foot. We covered as many of them as we could, given the miles not just on the boots but on the old bod. 

There was the antiquity. The Neolithic stones of Orkney, the Roman ruins in the Border Lands. The ancient stones of Edinburgh Castle. All of them put us in our place, which is puny.

And then there were the sights, sounds, sensibilities of any European country. Traffic is calmer, people not as stressed. American life is a high-octane, jangly affair these days. I’m thankful we could dip our toes into calmer waters for a few weeks. 

I’m sure there will be more observations to come, but these are few to start …

(A road beckons on the Isle of Skye)

Before there was clean(ish) indoor heating, before Edinburgh’s medieval old town became a tourist mecca, Scotland’s capital city earned the nickname Auld Reekie, Gaelic for “Old Smokey.”

There were so many people crammed into such a small space, and so many chimneys belching so much smoke. It’s hard to believe the nickname on a day like today, with blue skies and clouds more puffy than forbidding. 

But Auld Reekie it was, and Auld Reekie it has remained — though it’s now just a term of endearment. 

(Victoria Street, said to be the inspiration for Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter books.)

 

How can you not love a city with a mountain in the middle of it?  Arthur’s Seat rises 823 feet above sea level, rewarding hikers who reach its summit (or close to it) with generous views of land and sea. 

Today’s rare clear morning drew people of all ages and climbing levels to the hill. You can see them here, making their final ascent up the extinct volcano. 

Once on top, you could see for miles — park and city and the Firth of Forth. Imagine having these views in your back pocket, there for the taking whenever you have the energy for the climb. 

We approached Edinburgh Castle from the rear, which shows to good effect the extinct volcano plug on which it’s built. It’s mostly sheer rock back there, and the fortress seems to grow from it. Impregnable is the word I would use, though it’s the most besieged castle in Scotland.

Now it’s tourists attacking the fortress — not Jacobites. 

But if you can find a quiet corner — especially a place like the 12th-century Saint Margarett’s Chapel, the oldest building in Edinburgh — you feel the majesty and antiquity of the place. 

 

We interrupt this regularly scheduled Scottish programming to bring you …. England. Yes, we crept down into “enemy territory” today, joked our tour guide as we headed out on our day trip to Hadrian’s Wall in England’s far north. 

Built by the Romans about 2,000 years ago, the wall was either a raw display of power or a way to enhance the local economy, depending upon who you listen to.

Whatever its rationale, it’s still having an impact two millennia later, though perhaps not the kind originally intended. I wasn’t counting on it to protect me from heathens — but to fill me with awe. It did.

 

It’s August in Edinburgh, and we felt the buzz the moment we stepped off the train. Scotland’s capital city has a force field. 

In part it’s all the people clogging the street, so many that we could barely snake our way through with our pull bags and backpacks. 

In part it’s the festival, the original Edinburgh Festival and the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, which we sampled this evening.  

And then … there are the bagpipes.

It’s the first place we’ve left and come back to, though only for one night. An early start and late drop-off from our Orkney trip has made Inverness the place to be, and now the place to leave once again.

Still, there’s something quite nice about returning to a city, a way to know it better. 

I felt at home here right away, and now, par for the course, I hate to leave.