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It had been 62 years since I first visited Edinburgh. The Scottish capital
had gotten younger, with more spiked hair, face jewelry and tight jeans on
the streets than we would see at a Britney Spears concert—if we were silly
enough to attend one.
We walked the Royal Mile from Edinburgh’s fortress castle, majestic on its
promontory, all the way down to Holyroodhouse palace that sits below the
grass and rocky hills known as The Crags. Along the way we tried to sponge
up 20 centuries of Scottish history and culture. Connie, a painter and sculptress, was delighted with the collection of old masters in the National Gallery and the special exhibition in the Queens’ Gallery that adjoins Holyroodhouse. Great works “From Breughel to Rubens” had been assembled from major castles and palaces in the United Kingdom. On one hop on/hop off adventure, we stopped at Ocean Terminal mall on the Firth of Forth bay. The decommissioned royal yacht Britannia at dockside is a major tourist attraction and colorful demonstration of the privileges of rank. Connie went shopping in the huge mall, while I bounded up and down the ship’s decks. When it still sailed to South Africa or Australia or Hong Kong, it carried a separate launch aboard and a Rolls Royce sedan, just in case locals couldn’t provide suitable transportation. The separate bedrooms of the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh were spacious and a far cry from cramped quarters of the 250-man crew the ship used to have. Each deck contained descriptions of special events and photographs of the royal family and their various guests.
We did not get to the Highlands to look for those other old folks. The best
we could do was admire exquisite landscapes in the Scottish section of the
National Gallery. Three energetic days in Edinburgh (pronounced Ed’nburra)
made us happy to be back each night at the Dunedin B&B, instead of lifting
pints in the pub with younger generations.
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