"a hill for magnitude, a mountain in virtue of its bold design."
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| Just to give you a wee view from the top of the Seat |
Somehow I hadn't seen a photograph of Arthur's Seat, and when I arrived in Edinburgh (or rather, when I felt well enough to look higher than my toes the next morning) I was instantly impressed. The rock was enticingly broken, the land green and sloped perfectly. I found it surprisingly difficult to capture in a photograph what it looks like from a distance, possibly because despite its impression on the skyline it needs more of the space of sky and land than a camera can hold. Others would say, It's just a big rock. Goddamnit. Do we really have to climb it? I only bought my going-out shoes, and I'm hungry.
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| Broken chapel: ineffectual |
Sunday was cloudy, so cloudy that when I chanced to look directly at the sun (as I so oft do) I could see the perfect sphere of it behind the clouds, no brighter than a full moon. A park has been presented to the Seat in offering, and the weather gave its valleys and rises a gloomy glow as I stepped up over the first tiny little rise into Holy Rood Park. I wished that I could have a small secret cottage built into the rocks, or hidden in the soil of the hillside.
On that day we decided not to walk to the top, as time was limited and my legs were still weak; rather, we picked our way across the short tough grass and various trails, gently rose, more softly still descended, and came to the ruined wall of St Anthony's Chapel. There was something ineffectual about it.
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| One view from the final ascent |
It is on Arthur's Seat that the Bronze Age signs of habitation can be found, somewhat around the bend and up from this broken monument to Christianity (one could hardly expect a chapel to last on such a pagan hill). There are the remains of two forts defenses visible near the main climb of the Seat, possibly once inhabited by the subjects of a poem written around 600AD, Y Gododdin (the poet was a notorious stutterererer). An 'Arthur' is referenced in this poem, which some people like to link to the Once and Future King and throw about to reinforce the potential link between Him and the region. It has also been proposed that its name may simply be a charming corruption of the Gaelic "Ard-na-Said," Height of Arrows. There is something enjoyable about the uncertainty of the name's meaning to me, and perhaps the mystery of history itself becomes the meaning.
For Arthur's Seat is indeed very old. It has a similar past to the city castle's place of occupancy, a volcano from the times when the British Isles had such things. It's what gives the rocks their sheer quality on the edges, what gives the soil higher up a purple tinge, as though the twilight had been trapped in it. When I inevitably returned the following day, and wandered around the park and climbed at last to the top, I was impressed particularly by the rocks. They shone in the sun, polished by the years and the feet of many camera-toting pilgrims. I, however, was not content with merely reaching the top, and instead wandered around the top of the cliff faces and then back beneath them, just to have walked there.
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| The tippity top |
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| The broken open ground |
The castle I alluded to in the title of this post is not, perhaps, the one you would have assumed. I didn't even look at the cost of Edinburgh Castle's entry. I'm not so interested in whole castles with their fancy-schmancy airs (having been in so many already). I like the unoccupied ruined ones. Craigmillar Castle was a brilliant chance to see such a structure, not only because it gave me the opportunity to explore more of Arthur's Seat but because, being a little out of the way, it doesn't seem to be a major tourist spot.
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| See that loch? That's Duddingston Loch. |
For someone who enjoys walking, I do recommend taking a route on foot along the edge of Queen's Drive that runs up through Holyrood Park. It reveals an incredible view over some of the general area beyond the city, and particularly wee Duddingston Loch (and Bird Sanctuary), which you get a close look at when you head down the hill to walk on to Craigmillar. On a sunny day, like I was mostly given, it's quite delightful. So long as you don't walk too near the Canadian geese with your muslie bar.
The Castle is in varying states of disrepair, a well-maintained ruin that's gone through many alterations, additions and subtractions throughout its history. Most famous of its residents would be Mary Queen of Scots, and perhaps most plentiful are the pigeons who currently live there. Their sweet melodic voices bubble and tut and bustle and, on occasion, coo through the labyrinth of doorways and windows and spiral staircases and toilet holes and sudden spaces. There was one place, however, that they couldn't occupy - an impressive feast room and adjoining bed chamber, wisely boarded off by doors as it was intact. The rest was open to the elements. It was all rather confusing to find one's way around, but that was a great part of its charm - discovery.
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| Residents |
One of the really notable things about this castle, particularly in comparison to something like Scarborough, is that it feels like you could almost live there. You might not really want to, unless it was considerably more furnished and had been de-pigeoned, but it is easy to imagine real people living there and doing everyday things. It didn't even feel as draughty as I had envisioned a castle to, and it wasn't as dark, though it could probably do with some central heating and a nice lighting system. Even the two impressive trees that sat in the courtyard behind the front entrance doorway seem to want, quietly, someone to live there. They stand either side of that door waiting. They long to be climbed.
I should like to end by returning to Mr Stevenson (who, as a side note, travelled to New Zealand on one of his many overseas journeys), or perhaps more to the museum in Edinburgh that is one-third dedicated to him. The Writer's Museum is tucked off the main, but with my GPS I managed to find it. It contains the artifacts of three Scottish greats - our man Robert Louis, best known for the pirates and high seas of Treasure Island; Sir Walter Scott, oft-credited inventor of the historical novel; and Robbie Burns, whose love is (or, perhaps, by now, was) akin to a rose of the red variety. Each poet has his own small level which can be accessed by means of a thin winding concrete staircase, a little like those I scaled in Craigmillar. It was one of the last things I visited in Edinburgh. It made me want to grow a big mustache.
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| Arthur's Seat from Craigmillar Castle |
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