2 March

For a change this year the weather over the last few days has been reasonably settled, cold frosty nights giving way to bright sunny days. And the sun at this time of year is beginning to get some warmth to it, a warmth that is stirring the spring flowers into growth. Wednesday morning kept to the pattern though there was a haze to the air, a haze that would last all day restricting the views to a few miles, but at least it was dry and sunny and we could relish the spring-like morning. In the fire-warmth of The Anchorage last week it was decided that, no matter what the weather did, this outing would go ahead as planned. That’s why three cars containing eleven Ooters drew to a halt in the car park by St. Margaret’s Loch in Holyrood Park, Edinburgh.
St Margaret’s Loch car park is a convenient jumping off point for any of our visits to the capital for our usual first port of call is the summit of Arthur’s Seat. Today was no exception and, after the weak-bladdered had visited the shrubbery, we set off round the loch to find our usual path. (Who says we are creatures of habit?) The last time we were here (3/02/2010) the loch was all but frozen over and the birds had only a narrow channel of open water on which to feed. Today, despite the overnight frost, no ice lay on the water and the birds – mute swan, tufted duck, mallard, greylag geese and coot – were scattered over its surface. The birders made a note to have a more careful look on the way back for now we were for the summit.
The path, broad and well-graded, lifted us quickly above the rooftops of the city. We were soon up into a wee glen flanked on either side by stands of whin just showing the first of its bright yellow flowers. From here in last year’s clear air, we could look northward over the city, over Easter Road Stadium to the Firth of Forth and the Kingdom of Fife. Today we could look over Easter Road to the Forth but Fife hid itself in the haze. This was to be the pattern for the day.
We walked on in an irregular ‘crocodile’, Rex and Davie setting the pace at the front and Allan and Malcolm bringing up the rear some distance behind. Eventually we left the wee glen and came out onto a sort of plateau on the lion’s shoulder. Now we could look east though the low haze restricted the viewing to the distance of Musselburgh. Below us, Duddingston was bathed in hazy March sunshine. For a few minutes we took in what view we had then, with breath recovered, we pushed on for the summit.
Evidence of path repair and new construction lay around us. Bags of red whin grit lay to the side and new boulder steps had been constructed waiting for the whin. And the newly repaired path took us up the grassy slope to the rocky summit of the ‘lion’s head’, the peak of Arthur’s Seat. The grass gave way some twenty metres from the top and we completed the climb on the bald, black basalt rock, rock that had been smoothed and polished by many, many generations of tramping feet. A little over forty minutes from leaving St Margaret’s Loch car park, we joined the present generation on the summit.
And on the top were many generations of the ‘present generation’, ranging from us auld f-f-fellows to the very young. It was Robert who supported the wee lassie on top of the trig point while daddy took the record photo. And, while we sat for coffee, Allan was busy taking our record shots across the city and Jimmy was photographing a big black bird (Nah, unfortunately no’ Naomi Campbell) posing on a rock. Each to his own thing, eh!
A cool westerly breeze stirred at this height. Despite the winter-warmer from Johnny’s hip flask, this breeze began to chill and we set off down the hill again. We didn’t take our usual route off the hill – how adventurous are we? – but set a southerly course for what Paul called ‘the main path up from the university’. The plastic warning tape stretched across it should have told us that this path was shut, but being as we are aged, half blind and couldn’t care less, we ignored the tape and dropped down with the path to be met by some severe stares from the workers who were repairing the path using the enormous boulders scattered round the slope. While we thought we were perfectly pleasant to them, their replies were somewhat less than friendly – must be an east coast thing. But we ignored them and walked on. The path steepened and dropped us quickly under the crag of the lion’s head to the flat of Hunter's Bog, between it and the Salisbury Crags. And, near the flat we met a group of young folks, foreigners by the sound of it, who had ignored the tape at the bottom of the path and were making their way up toward the workers. We kept an ear open for the explosion of unfriendly language from the path builders.

We have never, as a group, been on the top of Salisbury Crags. Now was our opperchancity. We left the broad constructed path that crossed Hunter's Bog and headed towards St Margaret’s Loch, and took to the well-trodden pad that rose to the crest of the crags. Some took the pad that slanted up the slope behind the cliffs while others took one that rose directly to the edge of the precipice. But no matter which pad was taken, we all came together on the highest point of the Crags. The view of the city, particularly the old city, from this point was superb despite the haze, and cameras were in use again. That’s when Jimmy’s batteries ran out; well, not exactly Jimmy’s batteries, his camera batteries. Again! It seems that whenever Jimmy wants another prize-winning picture, his camera runs out of battery. After having Rex edge his way to the top of the crag in order to get a picture of Hollyrood Palace, his batteries ran out. Decency forbids the scribbler to repeat Jimmy’s words; suffice to say that he wasn’t at all happy with his technology.
And with Jimmy still cursing technology, we left the Salisbury Crags and dropped down the grassy slope to Queens Drive and back to St. Margaret’s Loch car park and the cars.

Lunch time but where to dine? We had promised ourselves a pub lunch but where? Ian had read in The Telegraph of a place on the West Bow. Jimmy fancied a visit to The Grassmarket. The rest didn’t care so long as they were fed. So it seems it was The Grassmarket area for us now. On to the Royal Mile then, past the White Horse Close with its connection with Ballochmyle, up past where Robert Fergusson strides out of Canongate Church, up past John Knox House and up to the South Bridge. Then for reasons known only to Jimmy, Paul and Rex, we turned off the Royal Mile and came down Blackfriars Street to the Cowgate..
What a depressing back street this is; windowless grey concrete buildings – nightclubs and the like – and multi-storey cark parks. The only bright point among the grey was the back end of a cow disappearing into the wall of one of these clubs and the front end appearing from another wall. It caused us some amusement anyway. But Cowgate took us on a direct line to The Grassmarket. Here we sought a place to eat.
The Grassmarket was once a place for down-and-outs and ne’er-do-wells, society’s dregs, but now it is yuppiefied and touristy. Pubs and eating places abound. So which one for us? Menus were examined and prices compared. After the third or fourth pub with the same menu and similar prices, we opted for the first, Biddy Mulligan’s for we could be sure of Guinness there. So we turned quickly and came back to Biddy’s. We were seated and preparing to eat when Allan’s phone rang. It was Ian. He had been slightly separated from the rest of us when the quick decision was made. When we walked back, he had been left behind and didn’t know where we went. We knew that the company was quieter but couldn’t quite figure out why until Allan’s phone rang. Ian was back with us before the food order was placed.

Jimmy fancied a visit to Greyfriars after lunch. The quickest way would be by Candlemaker Row but we turned up the West Bow. We went in search of Ian’s pub. It was found easily enough and much to our disappointment, the food seemed to be cheaper than in Biddy’s. But, shouldering this disappointment, we strolled on up the West Bow to George IV Bridge. Here we turned right, came past the National Library to the top of Candlemaker Row and the statue of Greyfriars Bobby. The entrance to Greyfriars Churchyard was ten metres further on.
Greyfriars is the final resting place of many of Scotland’s famous deid. Among the graves we found were those of Greyfriars Bobby, Alan Ramsey, John Adam and Galloway’s most famous son, Alexander Murray. We visited the Covenanter’s Prison and noted that there were also white slaves in the Caribbean. But looking at all these graves was depressing for some and we were, too soon for others, ready for the off again.
At Robert’s suggestion, we crossed the road and came into The Museum of Scotland. Forty minutes wasn’t nearly long enough to do this museum justice but forty minutes was all we had. Perhaps next time we visit the capital, this should be or second port of call and we could have a longer visit for this is a place that has something for everybody. Perhaps.
The walk back to the cars from the Museum of Scotland was brisk, the drivers being aware of the approach of the rush hour. We didn’t quite make it and got caught up in the start of it. It took an hour and a bit to clear the city.
However, this was another great visit to Edinburgh. We must do this more often.