Scotland: Edinburgh's Dark Side 
By Sherri McLain

I step out of my car onto George Street, in the heart of downtown Edinburgh. The street is cobble-stoned and surprisingly wide. It is flanked on both sides by ornate, stone buildings that used to make up Edinburgh’s financial district; now it’s home to trendy restaurants, wine bars and hotels. A flash of green pulls my attention away from the steady stream of patrons moving in and out of doorways; the Starbucks Coffee sign looks tawdry against the beautifully carved masonry.

I decide to do a little shopping before the scheduled purpose of my visit. After a moment’s hesitation, I continue toward Princes Street, the busiest of Edinburgh’s shopping districts. No sooner have I turned the corner when agoraphobia sets in; I’m a petite, American female struggling to part a flood of Scots – mums with bairns bundled in prams, university students on cell phones, couples chatting about their imminent purchases while oblivious to my distress at being very nearly bowled over by them. The sound of bagpipes permeates the chilly air. I locate the source: it’s a recording that’s being piped into the street from a shop selling kilts. Sometimes you stumble across a live performance – a solitary man of varying age and ethnicity, but always dressed in full, Scottish bagpipers’ regalia.    

Across the street, the 200-foot tall Scott Monument rises out of Princes Street Gardens in all its gothic splendor. The blackened structure, which reminds me of a medieval rocket, makes the statue of Sir Walter Scott at its base seem tiny and insignificant. Behind it on a grass-covered ridge, Edinburgh Castle dominates the overcast skyline.

A pack of women in neon-colored wigs and matching outfits are walking toward me with an air of celebration. I glance at my watch, knowing the appearance of a hen party (read: bachelorette party) means evening is drawing near. Thirty minutes later, I find myself on the Royal Mile leading to the castle. The mélange of towering, 16th  to 18th century buildings are sandwiched together along both sides of the narrow street without apparent rhyme or reason. As I continue toward my destination, I hear snatches of ancient conversations, then my eyes play tricks on me as well and, a block away, I catch sight of a man and a woman dressed like Thanksgiving pilgrims. No, I’m not seeing things – they probably work at one of the Royal Mile restaurants or pubs.

Just before the entrance to the Castle courts, Royal Mile becomes High Street. I pass a well-preserved, gothic church and head for a small group of people who are hovering in front of an eight-sided monument called Mercat Cross. I make my presence known to a man looking official in a black, three-piece suit and long, black coat, then move to stand on the periphery of the crowd.

Three Scottish bulldog-types burst out of a chip shop down the street. Pulling a generous piece of battered fish out of a greasy newspaper, one looks in our direction and says, “What’re all those soddin’ tourists standing around for?” They chuckle amongst themselves as they strut past our meeting place.

“Can I have your attention, please?” shouts Robert, our guide. “If everyone will gather round, we can get started on our underground tour of the South Bridge Vaults.”

There are many, so-called “haunted tours” offered by a handful of companies that take place throughout the year. Several months ago, I went on a “haunted cemeteries” tour and enjoyed it so much that I decided to try another one at my next opportunity. A tour of the vaults seems like the perfect way to examine some of the more unsavory aspects of Edinburgh’s past – with or without potential meet-ups with the supernatural.

Twenty-five of us converge to form a tight, semi-circle around our guide.

             

Page 1 of 2  Next Page

All contents copyright ©2006 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.