It's not. The Internet is a funny thing -- at once a wealth of information, but, too, it's a mix of good and bad ideas. When travel books were more in fashion, things were less hit or miss. Most authors weren't published if they lacked credentials, so that when you read their list of, say, good gardens or best museums, you could assume that things would be as they appeared in print. (Slightly more iffy were hotel and restaurant descriptions; these have mostly benefited from the Internet's wide sweep.)
When I googled "places to walk in Edinburgh," hoping for some interesting, more remote destinations, I came to a listing of 15 musts. And since I'm inclined to like park settings, I picked number six on their list: Dr. Neil's Garden. Google tells me it's an hour's walk from where I am. So perhaps an hour to get there, an hour once there, and an hour on the return? Perfect.
Right after breakfast, where I actually fortify myself with Scottish salmon one last time...
... I set out. In my neighborhood, all is quiet on this working Monday. I pass an interesting doorway or two...
... and then pick up the long and busy London Road to the side of Arthur's Seat (Edinburgh's big peak jutting out to the east). As I walk, the road proceeds through possibly the saddest neighborhoods of the city. I am reminded that when you google the fastest way to a place, it's not necessarily the prettiest way. Eventually I veer toward a residential area of modest but well tended homes and here at last I am rewarded with well tended gardens and smart entryways.
And now I'm in the last stretch. I turn into Church Lane, which weaves along the base of Aurthur's Peak. This is where I am to find Dr. Neil's Secret Garden. The website reads: "Dr Neil’s Garden is one of Edinburgh’s most secret gardens, but is one of beauty and a place for inspiration, meditation and contemplation. A wonderful collection of plants and flowers fills this peaceful space."
But where is the darn thing? I pass a church and then immediately enter Holyrood Park. Did I miss Dr. Neil's gate? I backtrack. I ask. I get some vague directions. I walk along the length of the street. Nothing.
Finally I ask the right question at a local pub: does the garden have a name plate by the entrance?
Oh no, it doesn't. It's just a gate. Just go inside it. Right by the kirk (aka church).
I showed you the gate in my last post. It does open and it does lead to a garden that is small. Very small. And, I'll be blunt: not especially interesting. You'll tell me I'm spoiled by the Botanic Gardens and by Hornel's garden in Kirkcudbright. But I think I am open to new and modest arrangements. I like many groupings of plants, honestly I do. But here, my camera dangles around my neck, uninspired, barely used. Here -- this is the classic shot that appears in most discussions of the garden. It's of a bridge over a pond.
There is one small compensatory moment -- it's right toward the end, as I'm leaving the garden. Toward the side, there is a lovely blooming rhododendron (you can faintly see the kirk in the background).
Instantly, the whole Scottish adventure dances before me -- from the first day in Dumfries and Galloway, through the hills of Islay, to the Botanic Gardens in Edinburgh: rhododendrons that blazed my walks up and down the hills and dells of this beautiful country. Scotland has four National Botanic Gardens and collectively, they grow 700 of the 1000 species of this flower. And so it is fitting that on this last day here, I should come across a splendid display once more.
I do not retrace my steps afterwards. I take the longer road, this time to the west of the mountain...
... and though I don't get to my destination 'afore ye, I have a quite pretty walk at the base of St. Arthur's and so long as I am nearing all those scaling paths, I may as well scale one and, from the top, take in the views of the city.
Rather harsh beginning of a hike has a pleasant resolution, even if I added another hour to my ramble.
Having done the high road, I'm now back at the low roads. First a look at the Holyrood Palace, where the Queen resides when she is in town.
...Then at the very modern Scottish Parliament Buildings right across the road.
From there -- up up along the Royal Mile again. Severe in these blocks, isn't it?
And then I am back in the New Town again, pausing at John Lewis department store to pick up a sweater with sheep on it for Snowdrop. You'll see it when the cold days of autumn and winter roll forward.
And of course, I stop for tea. On my funky Broughton Street of "Bohemian" cafes and eateries.
At my b&b I settle my accounts and chat with a visitor -- a friend of my hosts here. She has a most unusual profession -- she ships your pets abroad. I find her working on a transfer of a a couple of dogs to Iceland, a cat to Miami and a horse to L.A..
By boat? I ask. I can't imagine there being a horse on one of my flights across the Atlantic.
Oh, no -- plane.
You put them to sleep?
Not at all. We don't even drug them.
And they survive unscathed?
Haven't lost one yet!
You might wonder what it would cost you to ship that favorite horse you've spotted perhaps at the Royal Highland Show: 10,000 pounds. A steal, no?
And speaking of luxury and excess, I break down and do something I never ever do: I reserve a cab to the airport. It's three times the price of a bus ride, but the thought of scaling all those hills toward the distant bus stop with my whisky bottles, blankets and Snowdrop gifts in the middle of the night (my flight leaves at the unfortunate hour of 6 a.m.) leaves me cold. There was a time where I would have done the walk (for example, carrying Turkish carpets and bottles of wine up and down the steps of the Paris metro), but I feel that after you reach the age of maturity (which in the UK is set at 60), you deserve an occasional break.
Dinner? I go back to a place Ed and I ate in. Twice in fact. It's called Fishers and it has... fish. With one pause for Andrew's spicy meatballs, it's been nearly two weeks of fish. I order a mixed Scottish fish appetizer...
... and a fish main course and as I plunge into my meal (it's so excellent!), I listen to the conversations around me. A party of twelve to my left, a party of three to my right. The threesome are complaining amongst themselves about the bread. They want "czarnyj." Black, in Russian. The woman has gold everything dangling everywhere. She looks very dazzling in a severe sort of way, but there is no laughter in her face or voice. Perhaps she is happy, just not on on this night. I listen more closely, wanting to get comfortable with a language I rarely hear these days. I must brush up. I'll be traveling to Russia later this summer.
The waiter is solicitous. Maybe he thinks I'm lonely. He asks me why I am in Scotland. I tell him I'm becoming a frequent visitor. He's delighted. When he finds out I'll likely return next year, he throws out some places I really must see. He's missed his calling -- he knew very little about the food he served me (it's true that I often ask ridiculous questions of the poor wait staff). But he surely knows his beloved Scotland!
As I get up to leave -- oh! in six hours I'll be leaving my room already! -- I thank him for his suggestions. He smiles broadly and says -- I like to think I've changed people's directions!
And so it ends. From Robert Burns:
Hey, new readers! If you want a quick summary of how it is that I came to blog, read this:
It is the year 2004. My two daughters are away at college (younger one) and law school (older one). Wow. Suddenly I have time to write! Not big stuff. Little stuff. Bloggy stuff. And so on January 2, I start to post on Ocean. I test styles, I add photos. Things evolve.
Over the years, I tell you just a little about my past life. You’ll have found out that I was born in Poland, but due to my dad’s diplomatic career, I spent some childhood years in New York. Eventually, as a young adult, I moved back to the United States. I married, had kids, went to law school. And after a short stint at a law firm, I came back to the University of Wisconsin Law School, this time as a faculty member.
I taught law for twenty-five years and then took early retirement so that I could hatch new ideas and immerse myself in other projects. In the meantime, my marriage ends, my daughters graduate from law schools (both of them!), life moves forward.
I meet Ed. On line, then in person. Ed is his own guy. Ed is Ed. One date and we are together.
I’m done with suburbs: I live downtown. First in an apartment loft, then a condo. Ed is indifferent to the apartment and hostile to the condo. Ed likes life in his sheep shed. He travels to see me daily, but never tires of calling my brilliantly clever living arrangement ...a dump. (Ed: if I wanted to live in buildings like this, I would have stayed in New York.)
Five years after meeting Ed, I pack up my dwindling belongings and move to a farmhouse on his land (just south of Madison). We renovate it. Ohhhh, the farmhouse needs it! A hundred years of issues. But, Ed has skills and he has time. With the help of a small construction team, the place is patched, mended, finished and (in April of 2011) I move in.
Alright. That’s the chronology. Here’s what else you might want to know: I love our farmette (it's not really a farm anymore), but I am very often on the road. Away. Ed used to tag along. I have been known to call him my occasional travel companion. These days, he prefers to stay home and look after the chickens.
Anything else? My younger daughter lives with her husband and their little ones (Primrose and Juniper) in Chicago, my older one teaches right here at UW in Madison. She and her husband have a little girl (Snowdrop) and two little boys (Sparrow and Sandpiper). This makes me a grandma!
That’s it. Anything else you’ll have to pick up by reading along. Curious about my childhood in postwar Poland? Pick up my book, Like A Swallow!
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