This morning after breakfast--for which I again chose haggis, served at that hour without the whisky--we drove to the hamlet of Talisker, to walk to and on the black-sand beach there. The famous single-malt whisky called Talisker is not actually distilled there in Talisker but rather in nearby Carbost, on the opposite side of one of the island's many peninsulas.
On our drive here to Inverness we passed alongside Loch Ness for miles, but unfortunately we did not get to see the famous monster. I suppose Nessie must just have been lying low today.
Yesterday morning, amid suitably atmospheric fog of varying density, we visited the battlefield at Drumossie Moor, near Culloden, site of the 1746 battle in which Bonnie Prince Charlie finally blew the last hope of the Jacobite cause, and in the process doomed to extinction the traditional Highland culture (a culture as unknown to him as to anyone in England). The moor has been restored from standard historic battlefield grass lawn to something more like its natural mid-eighteenth-century state, with white and purple heather and divers other plants. At the center of the photo a red flag (bearing, on closer inspection, the white cockade) marks the center of the Jacobite side's battle line.
Yesterday after laundry we visited Edinburgh Castle. We parked rather far off, and walked along Prince's Street, crossed Prince's Street Gardens (seen from the ramparts above in the photo on right), and thus approached the castle from where its height is most commanding. When we arrived we availed ourselves of one of the regular guided tours, led by Dave Riley, who was well practiced at both the jocose raconteur persona and at the sergeant-major voice projection that the job requires. He related tales of decapitation and the like with great relish.
Perhaps it is partly because of the itinerary we ourselves have chosen that we have been struck by Scotland's seeming love and fascination for all things military--but not entirely so, I think. The city seems thick with war memorials, commemorating all the Scots who, according to the transparently delusive cliché of the inscriptions, "gave their lives for their country" in the Boer War and various other exercises in Sassenach imperialism.
After touring the castle we walked down the Royal Mile to Holyrood Palace. The place is thick with street performers, including this busker who set up his station before a larger-than-life bronze of David Hume, reclining in Roman deshabille. Given the evidence of our senses, we can only speculate on any causal relation between his intermittent blowing into the instrument and the continuous sound of the all too standardized repertoire coming out of it. Trevor has taken it into his head that he too wants to be a kilted piper. I must say I thoroughly enjoy hearing the pipes while we are here, and even the way the sound seems to linger in the brain, so as to maintain a sort of ghost presence in the sound of the car while we were driving away from Eilean Donan Castle, for instance; but I cannot help thinking that in comparison even the tuba has a large and varied repertoire.
After we reached Holyrood at the bottom end of the Royal Mile, we tried a new and nearby natural history museum called "The Dynamic Earth." Trevor had been much taken with the brochure for the place, but had been admirably restrained about urging it despite his eagerness, so we thought this would reward him. It was, however, thoroughly unrewarding for all. The overall presentation had a very cocksure tone to it and thus and otherwise seemed much closer to corporate propaganda than to real science; and the price was exorbitant for what amounted to very little more than some reading material and a lot of TV, without the option of either sitting down or reducing the dreadfully excessive volume of the soundtrack--which amounted to an unremitting assault, with totally gratuitous noise superadded to the narration.
After that thoroughly unpleasant experience we returned to the Royal Mile to seek out a little refreshment. We had seen numerous tea rooms, but when we returned at five o'clock they were all putting out "closed" signs. We tried one pub, but as we walked in I was encountered by a person who apologetically informed me that the place did not have a "children's license." Momentarily I had visions of being clapped into one of the four jails in the castle up the street, for not having one myself. Finally we happened on a sign for a tea room still open, pointing off down a little covered side alley not more than five feet wide. We followed it to Forsyth's, and there found our oasis of restorative calm. We had the place to ourselves, except for the grandmotherly proprietress, who wore an old-fashioned muslin dress and had a Scots accent as rich and sweet as the shortbread, and who crocheted a doilie and made conversation with the children, quite serene amid the expanse of empty tables.