UK Diary, Day 4

In which we climb a foggy mountain and dine in a proper Scottish Pub

Above is all eight Dallmans on the top of Arthur’s Seat. This is the peak of a group of hills, in Edinburgh, and it rises to 822 feet. We climbed it in a very thick fog. This was both quite fitting and a bit of a shame. Quite fitting, because it made for magical ambiance; a bit of a shame, because as we are told, the views from the peak on a clear day are outstanding. While it is the case that when we climb the spiritual mountain, we indeed are more able to see, yesterday was proof that in the material world, that is not always the case.

As this day’s entry begins, and I sit with a newly poured cup of Earl Grey tea, let us again hear the teaching of Evelyn Underhill, from her little book, Worship:

“In our corporate worship we stand again with the awestruck Isaiah in the Temple and hear the ceaseless cry of the seraphim. We join the long line of Hebrew and Christian saints in using that poetry of the Psalms which was so often on our Lord’s lips. We confess that like lost sheep we err and stray from a flock that is always one. We perform the same humble and sacred acts that have been handed down to us by the long succession of lovers of Christ. We can hear again in their primitive freshness the mysterious story of the Gospel, or the letters of S. Paul; can discover that the joy of the first Christians was just the same joy as our own ought to be, because based on an experience that continues still; and that we are being led an identic goal—God, the unchanging country of the soul.”

And now to the recap:

It became clear from the moment that we left our apartment on West Bow Street that our climb up to Arthur’s Seat, if we were successful, would be a ironic journey. Not only was it wet from steady mist, but the shroud of fog had descended. We had first seen Arthur’s Seat on Thursday from the top of Edinburgh Castle; I believe it was then that we decided we would attempt a climb of it. On that day, not a cloud was to be seen, and the sun made the day almost warm. Would that yesterday had those came conditions! Alas, yet we still set out with gusto down the Royal Mile to the foot of the hills.

Upon nearing the trails, we passed the King’s Palace, properly called the Palace of Holyroodhouse. It is the official residence of the British monarchy in Scotland. I was able to snap this photograph:

On the other side of the property there was this architectural detail which caught our eye:

Anyway, we found the trailhead, and began our ascent. The terrain was a mixture of damp grass, mud, and rocks. It was generally a medium level of difficulty (at least for this very part-time hiker). The angle of descent was steady, with occasion large step-ups necessary to scale the rock in front of you and the steps following. I was at times breath-taking, in both sense of the term: beautiful, and exhausting. At one point I joked out loud to the family, that the arduousness of the climb was making up for three years of life in the flatland of Florida. Here is a sequence of photographs:

Along the way we saw some flowers and blackberries:

We made it to the top, and could see almost nothing.

Here’s the five older ones at taking their hill-top snap:

On our descent, we stopped to look at abbey ruins, called St Anthony’s Chapel. The story on it is unclear, but it is old and associated, it seems, with other local abbey’s nearby. The remaining structure was still quite something to behold. If the walls and stones could talk!

We also passed a humble old well (we think) and it caught our eye:

After completing our descent, we slowly headed back to the apartment to freshen up. Then out we went to window shop, people watch, and grab a tea/coffee and snack before dinner. We found a cafe called The Milkman.

I hung out with these characters:

And we all cannot stop looking at this one:

The sun was out by now. Made us slightly regretful that we chose the morning for the hill climb rather than the early evening. Irony!

The planned evening was to head to a local Scottish pub we eyed on Friday when we went book-shopping. It was a short walk through the Grassmarket district, which, being a Saturday evening, was jammed with people doing the same thing we sought: a good place to eat and drink with good company.

We were able to find a table at Fiddler’s Arms. I see it described on the internet as a “dark wood pub” and I like that description a lot. In fact, it describes every pub we have ever liked that we have been to (we have found many pubs which would not fit this description). The Dallmans are big on pubs. We are pub people. This, my friends, was a legit pub, thanks be to God!

Other than Martin’s bowl of Mac and Cheese, we all ordered either bangers and mash or fish and chips. This is what sat before me, blessed by God:

(The Guinness, while appropriate for the photograph, was actually Hannah’s drink.)

I had two ales, one of which was an Innis and Gunn IPA, and the other was a Joker IPA. I would have both again.

Afterwards, we meandered and again found ourselves in the Greyfriars’ churchyard. And it is on this photograph, below, that I will end. Today is a travel day to London, where we hope to attend Mass and Evensong at All Saints’, Margaret Street. God bless you all!

P.S. One more photo, of the two littles before bed: