My week in Edinburgh

Now that was a holiday in which all went much as planned and I spent the entire week doing bugger all in a British context. Really, the big win is simply not being in America, so anything on top of that is jam.

My flat was lovely, 15 minutes from town and in a great area with plenty of cafes, restaurants and (heaven!) a take-away baked potato shop. Wine shop and Coop around the corner so there was limited danger of running out of  booze or Jaffa Cakes. I rediscovered tea and drank cup after cup. (What is it with the tea in America? It’s as though the entire country has a mortal fear of boiling water so no kettle actually heats up enough. Or maybe it’s the water? I’m back now and currently drinking a crap cup of tea and I don’t understand why it’s so bad.)

Anyway, quick summary of the week before my flight gets called:

Chips, wine and Strictly Come Dancing. This was exactly what I wanted to be doing, having an ordinary Saturday night in. I think Tankgirl Dave was a bit astonished that I leapt on the idea with such enthusiasm.

Shopping the 80s trends. How have I managed to come home without something feathered, sequinned, lace or metallic, or indeed a combination of all fabrics? I resisted this skirt and these boots, so admire my restraint. (Although, I could get the boots from TopShop NY and AllSaints does ship internationally so the idea isn’t dead and buried.) Whereas US stores are taking their clothes oh so seriously, the UK high street fashion stores are having some fun with it all and there was much hilarious trying on of wildly unsuitable clothing. Short, black satin dress with variety of chains at the scooped neckline? Why yes, I believe I will scurry to the changing room with it, giggling like a teenager.

Dinner at The Witchery, about the most beautiful restaurant I have ever seen with the best food I have eaten in years. Celeriac and truffle oil soup; ricotta and pumpkin tart; a cheese plate for dessert. Dave got about half a pint of madeira and was nearly undone by the cab ride home over cobbled streets.

Best massage and facial ever. Usually, it takes two weeks of holiday to achieve that level of relaxation. Wondering how I can get a job in Edinburgh that pays well enough to support a weekly spa trip. Wondering how soon I can organise Dave and Mrs C up there for a return visit. I’m thinking 2010, ladies?

Walking, walking, walking. I’d set off with a destination in mind, and then somewhere along the way a Georgian crescent or narrow, stepped alley would lure me from my path and set me wandering again. Since I wasn’t in a hurry and didn’t have to be anywhere, the detour just became the new route to wherever I ended up. Eventually there would be that ‘A-ha!’ moment as another piece of Edinburgh’s street map fell into place. I’m hoping that all those steep hills and steps have been enough to counter the almond croissants and chips. To my mind, this was one of the best things and so it was good that I was on my own.

Blackwells, where I had reserved a copy of Wolf Hall because it was sold out in NY. Of course, every bookshop over there was knee deep in copies. Oh well, better safe than gnashing one’s teeth in frustration at one’s own lack of forethought. And since I was there it seemed rude not to:

• Ashenden – W Somerset Maugham. Stories based on Maugham’s experience doing intelligence work during WWI, all the usual hallmarks of Maugham’s writing. Sometimes, I wish his narrators would have  a bit more heart to them.
• The Complaints – Ian Rankin. Which I read in a sort of disjointed way and so missed the flow of it and also kept waiting for Rebus to appear. But Malcolm Fox is certainly a new character and I’d read more about him.
• The Brontes Went to Woolworths – Rachel Ferguson. None of the reviews I’ve seen have mentioned how downright weird this is. Good, but strange. About Sheil, Deirdre, Katerine and their mother, who bring into their lives imaginary friends and enjoy a rich and detailed friendship with them. Until one day, Deirdre meets the real life versions of one of the couples and the family has to fit fantasy and reality together.
• Henrietta’s War – Joyce Dennis. A joy, reminded me of ‘Diary of a Provincial Lady’.
• The Gates – John Connolly. TBR.

A quick skip through the National Gallery, a wander up to the Castle, much meandering through Grassmarket, the Royal Mile, Lawnmarket. Mugs bought for me and Zoesmom that say ‘Queen of Fucking Everything’. We will rule jointly and with great benevolence.

Mary Kings’s Close – part of the underground city, where the poor lived in the usual squalid, packed, unhealthy conditions, being murdered and dying of the plague.

The Oxford Bar – my DIY Rebus tour, which also took in Fettes and Kingstables Road, although the last only because I was lost again but then it all made sense. Oh, and Leith, because a lot of action in The Complaints happens there. Anyway, ‘the Ox’ was tiny and bare, with a wine list of ‘red or white’ and a menu of crisps or nuts. The back room containts half a dozen rickety wooden tables and chairs. No music, no TV, no frills or furbelows, it’s a proper drinker’s pub.

So now I’m back and hoping not to slump into a post-holiday depression. Probably, I should go to a diner. But I have learned that going on holiday on one’s own is a marvellous thing to do, and shall suffer nary a qualm next time.

P.S Read Wolf Hall on the plane and it was excellent. Hilary Mantel is the un-Philippa Gregory.