Postcard from Edinburgh - Views and Tattoos

The delight of the festival has been the book festival. The pop-up book shop is fantastic (to clarify, a pop-up book shop is a large marquee housing a temporary book shop, not a book shop that exclusively sells pop-up books, although wouldn't it be great if you had a pop-up pop-up book shop?). I could really have done some damage in here but thankfully had to consider the weight limit on luggage for the flight home and so confined myself to purchasing a paperback, and a hardback roughly the size and weight of a house brick about the history of the British Post Office (how could anyone resist a book that reproduces notice that gives instructions to postmen about keeping their firearms clean and ready at all times?). What was pleasing was that as well as the best sellers, thee was a whole aisle devoted to Scottish authors and Scottish publishers. Here was a wealth of Scottish literature, not all of it about smack.

From one cultural event to another with a trip to Hollyrood Palace to visit the Queen's Gallery, showing a small selection of the Queen's Collection. It's rather hard, looking at the collection, to gauge the tastes of the present Queen, as her acquisitions are based on complementing the pieces acquired by her predecessors.



Hence, there is a lot of stuff from the Victorian era, when even the most modest candle holder from Balmoral had to look at home in a room with tartan on the floor and stags' heads on the walls, so was six foot tall and marble.

There was a lot of stuff from India, where 'gift of' sounds so much better than 'looted by', and where the decorative taste appears to be: cover everything in precious stones, even the swords, although, in fairness, just the pommels, the blades were originally Persian and looked as though they had just been given a perfunctory wipe after last being extracted from somebody.

There was also, and let's be fair - some tat. Royal tat, but tat none the less in the form of Faberge eggs. One in particular was a platinum frame encrusted with diamonds held there only by their perfect cut. Inside was a broach. It must have cost a fortune, looked tacky as hell and was a long way from a 'Kinder'. The royal family have the largest collection of Faberge in the world, most of it acquired from the Bolsheviks after it was in turn pillaged from the murdered Russian royal family. No doubt acquired because it was too good to remain in the hands of murderers. Fair enough.

One stand out piece was a painting by Canaletto of the grand canal in Venice. Light seemed to flood from the painting and barges bobbed on the water. The whole thing was awash not just with canal water but with symbolism and hidden meaning. Like a Dan Brown book. But good.


Perhaps the most striking piece there was a crown. From Ecuador and about 1,000 years old it was a broad band of gold with a fan like the rising sun at the back. Simple and primal, there was no doubt that whoever wore this was top dog. Presented to Queen Victoria just because it was wise to keep a mighty monarch on side.


Out in the fresh air, just time for a scone roughly the size of a small car and then to the Plesance to see Tim Vine. Tim good, venue shite. It's one thing to crowd people into a small room with total disregard for dignity or fire safety laws, quite another to sell more tickets than you actually have unobstructed view.

No such problems that evening at the Tattoo, which was exceptional. The bloke in front was getting a bit over-excited and sprang up and down from his seat to photograph the action. I can sort of understand, as if you have not seen the Tattoo before, you must be thinking 'the folks at home will never believe this!'. The Tattoo is so good that it remains the only show in town that you don't have to be a little bit drunk to get maximum enjoyment out of. Pipes, drums, huge aggressive men in kilts. This is Scotland, especially when they project the St Andrew's cross onto Edinburgh Castle.


By the time the fireworks go off the crowd are in such a state that they are not sure if the pyrotechnics mark the end of the show or the opening salvo in the battle for independence but if the latter, they are for Scotland, and freedom!

An early night tonight - home before midnight, meaning time enough for a trip to the bar and a scotch to aid restful sleep.

Postcard from Edinburgh – the Castle

What’s more festival than seeing a show…having one cancelled. With time to spare we visited the castle.

Bloody. Hell.

OK. First off, the battlements. Huge cannons look over the city, ready to blow the hell out of anyone trying to open a Starbucks. They could now be manned by the many tourists who have their pictures taken next to them. But if ancient cannons aren’t your thing…they have the real deal, a functioning artillery piece that’s described as the ‘one o’ clock gun’ but is, when you think about it, a major artillery piece on the highest point in the centre of the city.

Next up, the stairs and ramps. If you managed to fight your way to the top of the castle, you bloody deserve to run the country. And that’s without an opposed attack.

Have to say though, like many castles, the weak point is attack through the gift shop.

The castle also holds the crown jewels, the ‘treasures of Scotland’. There was a little bit of debate about whether they were actually the real things. But, looking at the two huge safe doors that marked the only entrances to the room where they were kept and based on the idea that they are kept in the centre of a room in a castle, with eight foot thick walls, I can think of no better place to keep them.

Want to rip them off? Bring a siege tower. And an army.

Also, it has an audio tour. I bloody love an audio tour. You know what the sign of a good audio tour is? Mood music and sound effects. The section on the one o’clock gun starts with a huge ‘boom!’. Even as I shrieked like a girl, I loved it.

The Scottish national war memorial.


I am not sentimental, alright. It’s just that, like many of the other chaps who were visiting the spotless, dust-free war memorial that day, I have an allergy, that makes my eyes red and my nose runny. Must be allergic to marble.

The war memorial itself is astonishing. A casket containing the battle honours of the regiments sits atop a marble plinth, which is in turn mounted on the bare rock that rises out of a polished marble floor like a rock rising from a still ocean at night. This is the rock of the castle, the living rock of Scotland, the very roots of the country and the memories of the glorious dead, forever remembered, are directly connected to it.

For the record…just about held it together reading the inscription about the war dead being beyond hurt. Lip tremble time when I read the inscription about even the nameless being forever honoured, for their names are written in the book of God.

As I said, allergic to marble.