12. Chapter 12
Beau
Irn-Bru (iron-brew)
Translation: Sugary soda sold in Scotland
Usage: Originally sold as a nutritional supplement, it is now considered “Scotland’s Second Beverage” (after whisky); looks like orange soda, tastes like cream soda, but even sweeter
Arthur’s Seat is beautiful. A massive sweep of grass and volcanic rock rising above the city and dwarfing Holyrood Palace below.
Even from here at its base, the crags loom overhead, the green slopes climbing steeply toward the summit.
I visited Scotland once before I moved here and hiked to the top of the Seat with some friends.
The views of the city were incredible, Edinburgh spread out in gray stone and church spires all the way to the sea.
But I had forgotten how impressive the view of the hill is from ground level.
My awe is shattered by a loud boom.
The sound cracks through the air so suddenly that I jump and yelp, my shoulders jerking up toward my ears. A flock of birds bursts from a tree nearby, wheeling into the sky.
Around me, a few other people flinch or laugh nervously, looking around to figure out what just happened. Maeve is laughing as she walks toward me.
“Never heard the One o’Clock Gun before?” she asks, chuckling as she hugs me. I’d heard about the cannon fired at one p.m. from Edinburgh Castle every day except Sunday. I just wasn’t expecting it to be quite that loud.
“I’ve heard it from farther off,” I say, shaking my head, rubbing one ear. “Can’t imagine what it sounds like up at the castle. Their ears must be ringing.”
“I imagine that’s why Torin wanted to meet right now,” she says with a wicked grin, “to see how jumpy you are.”
“Did he jump?”
I turn and see Torin walking toward us with Isla as Maeve says, “Yup, big ol’ scaredy-cat, this one. It’s not even that loud from here.” She pokes me in the ribs, sending me squirming away.
Torin’s smile is smug. “Damn, I really wanted to see that. That’s what I get for being late, I guess.”
We all exchange hellos and hugs, and I turn back to the hills above us. “Alright, Torin. School me on Arthur’s Seat.”
He lights up instantly, slipping into what I’m already recognizing as his teacher voice, launching into an explanation of the hill’s geography, history, and probable origin of its name.
I smile at his excitement and listen intently.
Even the things he deems “touristy” still apparently merit a decent amount of space in his brain.
“So it might have been named after Arthur, the legendary king of England?” I ask, already knowing exactly how this will go.
“Aye… but also no,” Torin says, gearing up for a lecture.
“Arthur of legend first appeared in Y Gododdin, a Welsh poem, and if it was based on a real person, he would’ve been a Celt, not an Anglo-Saxon, and therefore not English.
The original texts describe his battles and victories over Anglo invaders, and all the mythology that’s come along since then has been propaganda to turn native stories into tools for the conquerors.
He’s often described as being blond-haired, blue-eyed, and Christian, but if Arthur existed at all, he was a ruddy-faced pagan.
And I doubt he upheld a code of chivalry. ”
“The blond-haired, blue-eyed version doesn’t seem so bad. Probably tall and muscular. Charming as all get out. You’d probably like him if you gave him a chance.” I grin at him.
“Are you taking the piss?” he asks with a smirk.
“Yeah, I actually took a course on Arthurian Legend in undergrad. It’s just fun to wind you up.”
Torin rolls his eyes. “Well, the best part about the English version was when the French took over the story and had Lancelot cuck the blond Arthur.”
“Didn’t know you were into that kind of thing, but good to know,” I say, my gaze locking with his.
His eyes go wide. “No, I didn’t—I wasn’t—”
He turns his reddening face to Maeve and Isla, clearly looking for a way out. Unfortunately for him, they’re both standing with their arms crossed, grinning like they’ve just stumbled onto the best entertainment of the day.
“Do you two need some privacy?” Isla asks.
Maeve snorts. “I mean, neither of us mind if you flirt in public, but if you need to get a room at some point, please let us know.”
Now I’m blushing, too. The idea of some alone time with Torin outside of the gym is… appealing. “That won’t be necessary. We’re just having a little fun.”
“Fine, then,” Maeve says, twining her arm around Isla’s and guiding her toward the palace gates. “Let’s go see Holyroodhouse. Plenty of bedrooms in there if you need one.”
I glance at Torin. He’s still blushing, but there’s something new in his expression. Curiosity mixed with something I can’t quite work out. I smile and nod toward our classmates. “Shall we?”
We follow behind Maeve and Isla across the gravel path. They’re leaning in close to each other, whispering and occasionally looking back at us. I pretend not to notice, but Torin asks, “What do you think they’re saying?”
“Oh, I’m sure they’re talking about us,” I say. “Didn’t you know? If two gay men meet each other, they’re contractually obligated to fall in love.”
“People who think that are almost as annoying as people who think Arthur was an Anglo-Saxon,” Torin says with a smirk.
At the ticket booth, I step forward and pull out my card before anyone else can reach their wallets.
“Y’all wouldn’t even be at these tourist attractions if it weren’t for me,” I say as I hand it to the attendant. “It’s the least I can do.”
We enter the grounds, and Torin tells us not to bother with the self-guided audio devices. “I’m providing a private tour.”
The palace is what every American hopes to see in an old castle.
A grand-faced stone structure flanked by rounded towers, turrets and spires extending above them, a long row of tall windows reflecting the shifting clouds overhead.
Much of Edinburgh is old, but this is different.
Grandiose and elegant in equal measure. I’m standing there taking it all in when Torin nudges my arm.
“Keep up,” he says.
Once we’re inside Holyroodhouse, Maeve and Isla’s gossip session comes to an abrupt end.
They fall into step beside us as they tune into Torin, who explains the castle’s origins as we move from room to room, pointing out details in the ceilings and walls, recounting events that took place in each chamber.
Royal intrigues, murders, affairs. He rattles off facts like he’s reading them from a teleprompter.
He even knows the square footage—87,120—and the number of rooms.
“Two hundred and eighty-nine,” he says proudly.
I find myself admiring his encyclopedic knowledge of all things Scottish almost as much as the history around us.
He walks us through the grassy interior courtyard, then back inside through long chains of interconnected rooms. We climb winding staircases that twist upward through stone before ducking through low doorways connecting the various wings of the palace.
It’s all incredible, but it’s a truly surreal feeling to stand in the rooms where Mary, Queen of Scots stayed for a time.
When we finally step back outside, we wander over to the ruins of Holyrood Abbey, the first structure on the grounds, built in the twelfth century.
Historians that we are, we take a minute to soak in everything that’s taken place between these crumbling walls.
Even with the roof now gone, it’s easy to imagine the royal weddings, funerals, and coronations that took place here.
I close my eyes and revel in the history of this place, letting the weight of the centuries settle over me. When I open them again, I see smiles all around.
“Right,” Torin says. “You’ll be wanting to see the rest of the Mile then, aye?”
“Aye!” we all say in unison.
We leave the Holyrood grounds, which places us at the base of the Royal Mile. Ahead of us stretches the long slope of connecting cobblestone roads that link Holyrood Palace to Edinburgh Castle.
“Only a mile to the castle?” I ask.
“A Scots mile,” Isla corrects. “It’s longer than an English mile. To make it even more Scottish, it’s uphill the whole way.”
I squeeze a knee to my chest, then the other. “Well, I didn’t work out today, so let’s make the climb.”
“Let’s go!” Maeve grips me and Isla by the hands and starts to run forward, carrying us across the street. Isla twists just in time to snag Torin’s arm before we can be hauled off without him.
On the other side of the road, we fall back into pairs with me and Torin in the lead.
“That’s the new Parliament building,” he says. “Scottish Parliament was reestablished in 1999.” He explains as we walk, weaving bits of history into the climb.
For centuries, Scotland had no autonomy from British Parliament in London. Now they have some ability to govern themselves, similar to how states in the US have their own legislatures that make local laws separate from Congress in Washington, D.C.
“Hmmm,” I say and stroke my chin in faux thought. “Scottish Parliament was brought back just a few years after the movie Braveheart? What a coincidence!”
“You joke,” Torin says, giving me a pointed look I’ve come to adore, “but yes, that film did have quite the impact on Scots in the nineties.” His voice takes on that lecture rhythm again as we continue up the hill.
“It was a galvanizing moment. People from all over the world watched William Wallace fighting for Scottish independence. He was one of the bravest and most loyal Scotsmen in history. He never wavered in his devotion to old Alba.” He glances back toward Parliament behind us.
“It reminded us that we have a lot to be proud of.”
“Do you agree, Isla?” I call over my shoulder.