Princes

We spend the day in Edinburgh, having stayed the night in a cosy guest house on Dalgleish Road. Mum refuses point blank to stay anywhere else the idea of camping or Butlin’s is an anathema to her. We stay in nice clean guest houses or respectable bed and breakfast establishments like the nice clean respectable family that we are. Once Dad decides where we are stopping for the night, we have to drive around to find a bed and breakfast with a vacancy. My job (and that of my sisters) is to keep “my eyes peeled” for any “Vacancy” signs as we drive into the town. Mum’s job is to hop out, and knock on the door to see if we can be accommodated for a night or two. The rest of us sit in the car, fingers crossed, watching to get a signal from Mum (a quick nod). She checks with Dad about the cost, and then it’s a cheery, “All for here fall oot!” from Dad, and we tumble out of the car. Our Edinburgh room is a rarity –– it is huge and accommodates all of us, including the dog. My sisters get a single bed each, and I get a camp bed. I really don’t mind, since it feels less like being at home, and more like camping. We share a bathroom, but there is a huge old-fashioned sink in our bedroom where Mum washes up our picnic things. She is concerned that the owner of the establishment will find out and quickly returns the items to the picnic basket when she is finished. This makes no sense to me. What is the difference between washing a dirty cup or dirty hands? We share a bathroom down the corridor with other guests. My sisters and I go together, embarrassed in case we meet someone else. The bathroom is small and pink, and smells of baby powder. There is a cutesy picture above the sink, reminding guests of their bathroom responsibilities. It shows a cherubic child with a little halo above its head leaving the bathroom, holding its bar of soap aloft like a trophy. The rhyme reads:

Please remember - don't forget - never leave the bathroom wet.

Nor leave the soap still in the water - that’s a thing we never ought’er…

I don’t understand the last word, which does not seem to fit. “Ought’er” is clearly not a proper word. Ought to? Never ought to? That’s not very good English, and it bothers me. 

I like perusing the gift shops along Princes Street. I walk next to Dad, hanging on to the edge of his homemade brown jumper. The cuff is becoming unravelled from my clutching of it, and strands of kinked wool are coming away. The shops are stuffed full of all kinds of wonderful goodies, but my pocket money will only go so far. Mum always buys us some Edinburgh Rock, which is pastel-coloured and softly crunchy, like biting into plaster, but sweet and satisfying. I’m always drawn to the  geological collections: chips and chunks of semi-precious stones, sometimes rough, sometimes polished. This time, I choose a collection of sharp, jaggy specimens stuck to a card. I like the mixture of colours: bright turquoise, glassy bronze, olive-green and sky-blue. A tiny piece of my birth stone ––garnet –– is included in this collection: dark blood-red, cuboid, pointy-edged. My sister, meanwhile, buys a Peggy Nisbet doll of Robert Burns. The doll is a copy of a famous portrait: green frock coat, buckskin breeches and tall riding boots; he sports a fine waistcoat with tiny buttons and a silk cravat. His clothes have been carefully made: the boots and breeches are soft leather, and the coat is woollen. His face, complete with somewhat receding hairline, is hand-painted. This is a real prize: he will be the star of the show in the dolls cabinet, outshining our rather commonplace, cheaply-dressed Rexard dolls, who all have the same face: everyone from Nell Gwynn to Catherine of Aragon looks exactly the same, as if a terrible cloning production line has been manufacturing royal offspring through the ages.

The Scott Monument stands on Princes Street…although in my thinking, the "scot" Monument is on "princess" Street. I believe that it is a monument to a person from Scotland to be found on a street named after a king’s daughter. I clearly pay little attention to the wording of these places. The monument is imposing, but ingrained with dirt, blackened by layers of coal dust from passing steam trains. I know nothing about the author to which this gothic pile is dedicated, but I like it very much. Whoever designed it obviously held my belief that you can never have too much decoration or frilly bits: it is covered in swirls and turrets and spires and arches and sixty-odd statues - as any self-respecting monument should. The climb up the stone spiral staircase is not too arduous, and the views from the top are splendid. I don’t mind heights too much, as long as there is a railing or two between me and a grizzly death. On our way out we are given an official certificate to say that we have climbed all 287 steps. I like certificates, and add it to the ones I have collected for swimming that Dad keeps in his desk drawer for safe keeping. 

The last night of our holiday is the best. Dad has bought tickets to the Edinburgh Tattoo well in advance. We walk from the car up the hill to the castle, and take our seats in the stands. We have our blankets and boiled sweets to keep us going for the evening. The show starts with the military pipe band coming up from their barracks through the streets to the grounds of the castle, and we jostle to see who will spot them first. They arrive in all their finery, marching splendidly, magnificently in step with each other. Every year there are different groups from around the world. This year, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police put on a display, their poppy-red jackets and raven-black horses daintily criss-crossing the parade ground with perfect precision, as if each horse has taken ballet lessons and is skipping along en pointe. The show nears its end. There is a moment of complete quiet as we await the Lone Piper. Somehow, all of Scotland’s tragic but valiant history is condensed into one man, playing a lament that makes the sad ghosts of long-buried Scottish princes weep for want of breath in their lungs. I feel sad too, and want to cry, but I don’t know what for. It’s a feeling in the core of my bones that I belong here, that these are my people.