Remember, way back when, I mentioned something about a castle? Once? Or twice? well, I spent the weeks at the end of February getting to know the castle rather more intimately, to my very great pleasure, and I splurged and went not once but twice.
Oh, my goodness.
It was, without a doubt, one of my favorite things I have done since I have been here, and I honestly don't think I can do it justice in either words or photos, but I will try (too many photos to put up here - they are all on facebook though!). I loved it so much, I splurged and went not once but twice; once with Victoria and Matthias and once later that week with my friend Katherine. When Katherine first arrived, we went for a long wander (as I am wont to do) in the process of which we circumnavigated the looming, lovely castle. The weather was gorgeous, and the whole spectacle was washed in the golden light of the early-sinking sun, the crocuses (croci?) were blooming, and if there wasn't a rainbow somewhere there darn well ought to have been. The two of us, as history enthusiasts and general nerds, took one look at the imposing fortress, and straightway began planning our assault. If we were going to storm the castle, how would we go about it? The causeway to the front gates was too obvious, so we would put the useless nobles there, looking impressive and distracting, then take the functional warriors around the side, and climb that bit by the outcropping and use grappling hooks to scale the next bit, and... yeah. We have it all planned out, don't you worry. If you ever need to lay seige to Edinburgh castle, we have got it covered.
If the castle is impressive from the outside, however, it is nothing to how incredible it was to pass beneath the heavy portcullis and actually go within the walls. Both my visits, one with Victoria and Matthias and one with Katherine, began with gaping jaws, and whispers of Oh wow... I felt so very American as I stared, wide eyed, at the towers, the battlements, the curtain walls, the cannons and arrow slits and holes for dropping hot oil. I tried to explain to a Scottish friend that it was made all the more amazing by the fact that we just don't have anything like this in the states, but I think that I might have been impressed even had I grown up here or some other place as wonderfully strewn with castles: the fortress that caps the Edinburgh mound is truly incredible. There were many levels to the castle, and Victoria, Matthias and I wandered around happily, climbing onto the battlements to see the view, peeking past the cannons to peer through the openings in the wall, oohing and aahing at moss covered walls and worn statues... We clambered up onto the narrow, sloping walkway that ran along the inside of the curtain wall, peeking though the arrow slits and stretching on tip-toe to peer over the top of the crenelations and down into the sunken Prince's street gardens. We imagined hordes of invading English massed about the foot of the mound, replacing the holly hedges and camellias with restless horses and bristling lances, imagining the opposite side of our pretended siege - planning how we would repel invasion. Obviously, with such a lofty fortress, and a little boiling oil, it would be no problem. There are several individual buildings and keeps within the castle, and large sweeping courtyards that curl up the rock, cobblestoned and big enough to house a village or two.We decided whom we would invite into the keep: the musicians, of course, to keep us from going mad, and the blacksmith, the fletcher (you always need arrows), and the apiary keeper (honey AND mead),), though not, we decided, the fishmonger or tanner, because tasty as salmon is and useful as leather is, we figured stale rushes, animals and ale would be causing enough of an aroma to be going on with. We hiked up the nautilus-curve of the path to the apex of the mound, where in addition to a "whiskey and book shop," and a 14th century guardhouse (dank and damp and smelling of mold) we found the royal apartments, the great hall, the prison, and a memorial to the Scottish soldiers who fell in the world wars. Under a grey sky we stood in the wind-whipped courtyard at the top of the mound, and gazed at the centuries-old buildings and tried to make sense of the age of the place. It was overwhelming, and Katherine and I kept looking at each other and grinning like mad things, lost for words.
The World War memorial was absolutely gorgeous. If it was not a chapel once upon a time, then it was specifically built to look like it was, and they did a wonderful job. They had a commemorative plaque to each of the divisions in which Scottish soldiers served in both world wars, with large books bound in red leather listing every Scot who fell in the line of duty. The stained glass windows were lovely, with a combination of rather usual floral borders and slightly incongruous images of trenches, gas masks and bomber planes, that somehow did not seem out of place but merely fragile, beautiful and heartbreaking.
The Great Hall was traditionally used for feasting and celebrating, but under Cromwell's rule in the 1650s it was transformed into an armory, so in memory of the interregnum the walls were lined with pikes, blunderbusses, bayonets, rifles, and swords and cutlasses of every period and description. The ceiling, however, is the same that stood on the 14th century keep, and still bore delicately painted knots, swirls and designs that represented a culture that was here long before England and her kings claimed ownership of Scotland. It was interesting to see different periods of history brought to life in one building, with the 19th century scarlet carpet, the 17th century wood paneled walls, and the celtic looking ridge-beams of the roof...
My inner history nerd really got her rocks off on the royal apartments, however. I was expecting some lovely rooms, some ancient paintings, and some fancy molding: I got that (and more ~ Mary Queen of Scots gave birth to the future James the VI and I in one of those rooms). What I was not expecting was a full historical tour of the history of the Scottish Crown Jewels which are, it turns out, the oldest royal regalia in the British isles, and then the 'Honours' themselves at the end of it. Like many of the museums we have visited, the displays were interesting but a little oddly organized; a little dark, a little irrelevant, and a little less viewer-friendly than many of the museums I have been to in the states. The mannequins creeped me out somewhat as well, I must admit, especially with the 16th century style wigs sitting a little cock-eyed above their vacant faces and flat eyes. But the history itself was fascinating. Mostly it consisted of fighting with the English, losing the Honours to the English, recovering them from the English, fighting some more with the English, hiding the Honours from the English (often in bread, or a woman's skirts, or under a mattress), and then fighting the English some more. Then Cromwell came stomping though, there was the Jacobite rising and the controversial Union of the Parliaments (in 1707) and a great deal more of fighting with the English. At the end of the displays, we entered a dark, barely lit room, where the only things illuminated were the sparking, gem-encrusted Honours. The crown, the MASSIVE sword (really, no one needs a sword that is five feet long! You wouldn't be able to pick it up, much less swing it! Overcompensating perhaps...?) the scepter, wand, royal collar, the Ruby Ring and the Royal broach were all very well (understatement of the century ~ they were gorgeous and breath-taking. I would steal that ring... haha) but somehow they were overshadowed by the large hunk of rock that resided in the bulletproof glass case alongside them. The STONE OF DESTINY (cannot write that without the caps, it is far too epic) is a large block of red sandstone that was used in the crowning of Scottish kings for centuries, possibly since the Gaelic Lords of the Dal Riada (the western kingdom of the Gaels) brought it from Ireland sometime before the year thousand. When the king sat upon the stone it was said to represent a symbolic union between the King and the Land, and between the King and the People, uniting all three. It was captured by King Edward I in 1292 and was taken back to Westminster, where it has been used in the coronation of English, then later British monarchs ever since. The STONE OF DESTINY remained in England, supporting the royal derrieres of British kings and queens for several hundred years, until 1996 when dear Queen Lizzie not only granted Scotland their own parliament once again (for the first time in nearly 300 years) but also returned the STONE OF DESTINY to Scotland, to be transported to Westminster for coronations and then returned to the Edinburgh Castle. Yeah, I was pretty impressed. By the STONE OF DESTINY. (Sorry, couldn't resist.)
And as any good tourists in UK ought to do, we ended the afternoon with tea and snacks in the castle cafe, where we paid far too much for a cup of earl grey but due to the fact that out the window we looked across the Firth of Forth to the northern shore which was perfectly clear, all misty hills and swelling mountains, we didn't complain. We sipped our tea and soaked up the otherworldly feeling of the place, glowing with the knowledge that we were inside a castle. It was magical.
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