Scotland: Edinburgh's Dark Side (cont.)

In 1785, work began on the South Bridge, which runs from Cowgate Street to what is now the University. More than 30 feet underground, a series of small rooms were constructed between the 19 vaulted archways. The rooms were initially used as storage and workshops for the local merchants who leased the shops above. Then, in the 1820’s, thirty years worth of proper, Scottish rain began leaking into the rooms, which had not been waterproofed. The merchants moved all their goods out and the darker societal elements moved in – the small, windowless spaces were taken over by brothels, drinking dens and Irish immigrant families who had moved to Edinburgh for a better life and had instead found the squalid, South Bridge slums.

We walk several blocks until we reach a large, metal door.

“Over the past few years, we’ve had the privilege of escorting several famous mediums through the South Bridge Vaults. They’ve confirmed the presence of the spirits that you’re about to meet.”

He then leads us through the door and down three flights of uneven steps, where we pour into a low-ceiled hallway. Twenty feet in front of us stands the first of a succession of stone archways, illuminated by a series of dim lights and an occasional candle. I look around me with satisfaction, imagining what it must have been like to live with the unrelenting odors of fish oil lamps, garbage and used chamber pots. Robert leads us inside a large, cavernous room that was once a drinking and oyster-eating establishment. I envision a makeshift bar in one corner surrounded by crude tables and chairs. On the edge of hearing is a conversational murmur, pierced at odd moments by a prostitute’s cackle or breaking glass.   

Then he tells us about The Watcher, the ghost of an evil slumlord who has been known to shout, “Get out!” at some of the more spiritually perceptive visitors. A woman at the back calls out to him. In a shaky voice, she claims she’s suddenly feeling ill and asks to be escorted to the street. Robert tells us not to move from our spot as he makes his way back through the group.

I take this break in the program to examine my fellow tourists more closely. There is a couple from Chicago – a man and a woman whose appearance shouts Midwest. I’m an expert on this, having been born and raised in a small town in Michigan. The rest of the group is from various parts of the U.K. The women seem anxious, while the men look watchful and faintly amused. A young, ginger-haired woman on my right stares down at her clenched hands. She looks tense and frightened. I wonder why she would want to subject herself to something that upsets her so much.

Robert returns and leads us to another room that is little more than a cave. He tells us about the ghost of a cobbler who still toils away making shoes in what used to be his workshop. Another ghost is supposedly there as well – a woman covered in blood whose baby has died in childbirth. Again, my mind drifts to ancient smells – I imagine being engulfed in the acrid odor of boiling horse urine that was the favored tanning process in those days. And I feel sad for the women – low born and high born alike – whose children succumbed to the high infant mortality.

We move from room to room while Robert tells us about various ghost sightings through the years. It seems as though the resident spirits have gone on holiday during our tour, however. We eventually return to the street and I listen politely while our guide gives his farewell spiel.

On the way back to my car, I decide to duck into one of the many pubs lining the High Street.
The long, narrow room is filled with people. I wedge myself between an older man and a chain-smoking woman and order a rum and coke, then I find a seat at the end of the bar. I normally head for a table that’s as far away from the source of the smoke as possible, but the knowledge that a ban is going into effect in a few days makes me more tolerant.

I notice that all eyes are on the television screen above the doorway. I concentrate, first to figure out whether the men racing back and forth are playing rugby or soccer (rugby), and then to determine which teams are playing. A raucous cheer erupts behind me: Northern Ireland has just scored against England. In spite of being part of the U.K., the Scots – along with the Welsh and the Irish – still consider themselves Celts above all else. The bond goes back centuries and shows little sign of letting up. The City is like that as well; everywhere you look, its violent, vital past refuses to fully relinquish itself to the present.

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