Waterlogged Edinburgh

By mid-day I had already written to my friends that I had given up on spring; that as far as I could see we were stuck with eternal winter for good so it was time to start investing in skis, start buying provisions and prepare for when the polar bears come knocking. The snow was falling frantically, in a massed effort to fill every inch of available air, and to cover every square metre of surface. The temperature was too high, however, and all the weather managed to achieve was awful, ugly slush. Which kept melting. Little trickles of water turned into streams, running in the gutters, carrying leaves and trash, blocking the drains, overflowing on the streets, and finding their way to the river.

Waterlogged park.

I met with a friend in the afternoon; the sun had come out for the first time in a good few days, so we dumped our bags at my flat and went for a short walk, taking advantage of the weather's sudden change of heart. There was standing water everywhere. In the park, dogs and children paddled in belly-deep puddles, to the despair of their owners and parents. Daffodils rediscovered their watery origins as temporary ponds were created around them. The world was washed clean, but the mop and the bucket were still out, witnesses to the work recently done.

Fun in the park.

We walked along the river as well, or rather tried to – when we reached Dean Village it became impossible to follow the river-side path, as it was no longer there. It had disappeared under ten centimetres of roaring, clear water. I had never seen the river as full as it was this afternoon, happy, fulfilling its destiny, playing around with is power. Watching it, so strong and full and real, tugging at weeds, burrowing into the banks, felt liberating.

The peaceful Dean Village and the roaring river.

I did not have to leave for the airport until eleven, so for once I had the right amount of time to dedicate to the making of my mushroom risotto. We kept chatting as I continued to slowly add the broth, ladle-full by ladle-full, with an unusual amount of patience – normally if a meal takes more than half an hour to prepare I grow impatient and up eating half-cooked dishes. But chatting with Thirdtoes gave the afternoon a lovely, carefree rhythm and I was beyond being bothered by anything. Her third sector job manages to combine academic insights with real-life applications, and sounds fascinating. I really enjoy her cutting-through-the-bullshit approach, straightforwardness and acuteness, so refreshing after weeks of mild and tepid political correctness of the office!

After a long dinner the effort of getting off the couch and stepping outside was almost unbearable. Our eyes were as if smeared with honey, we could easily have curled up and fall asleep where we were sitting. Full of beer, rice, spinach and yoghurt, we made our way slowly (very slowly, as we both got stitches from overating) up Princes Street, to jump on respective buses. I was taking the swish and clean airport express to pick up my dad; I swear, the bus has a better décor and is more comfortable than more than one airline it has been my dubious pleasure to patronise! Now I join the crowd of pacers, nail-biters and mobile-phone-glancers as I wait for the plane with my Easter guests to arrive.

Bloody weather!

Ok, I underappreciated it. I admit, I've been spoilt, I've had no problems to speak of, it has been glorious for the best part. People have told me about the rain and the wind and I just didn't listen. Well, I have been shown!
There was no way of sleeping last night, with the rain battering against the windows with tiny icy fists, and the wind ramming itself against the walls in blows that made my soul suffer. With ears full of toilet paper I finally managed to drift off. I could hardly believe it was morning when the alarm clock went off, it was just as dark as before. The door to my tiny appartment opens on a quiet, narrow street; this narrow street has turned into a wind tunnel, my door was dripping wet, as was I minutes after I stepped outside. I was greateful to my landlor for having left behind a massive red umbrella - at least it was high visibility and protected me from being hit by a car while I was crossing the streets, shielding my entire body and not being able to look around at all. In fact, the lack of coffee and violent wind combination made me potentially lethal to other pedestrians as well, and many times I narrowly avoided collision with body-less, from my perspective, pairs of feet.

Coming back from work was even worse. I had one hand busy with a shopping bag, so the windy rain, or rainy wind, could pretty much do what it wanted with me. Desperately hanging on to my umbrella I zig zagged accross the pavement and pivoted on my heels. May I mention this was the first time since I was five I was wearing wellington boots, and they were bloody uncomfortable. I actually found myself oggling the waterproof gear of a fellow bus stop victim - her swanky red wellys with their warm red sock, the red waterproof sports jacket and, yes, a wooly hat against the icy wind which cuts to the bone, to the bone I tell you! She picked up a mobile phone, and guess what, she was Polish. I shouldn't be surprised really, because most of the Scots I have seen have simply given up on the idea of fighting hte weather, or even preparing for it, and act and dress as if they were not being blown to bits by the chilliest wind known to man. Yes, women in short jackets, boys in t-shirts, and it's close to 0, and windy. Hardy, hardy people.

In fact, I was close to giving up to - I was nearly home when a sudden gust finally got the better of my trusty red umbrella. It got yanked out of position, turned inside out like a confused jelly-fish, and flattened against a railing. It looked so helpless! I quickly restored it to its former shape, and we agreed never to speak of it again.

Yes, it's bloody snow, at the bloody start of April!

Perhaps I should give up on the idea of spring though. I have been fooling myself for too long. It is never going to happen. No more encouraging buds, no more enticing flowers, it is official, we are stuck in winter forever.

Soon to be Easter

For (nearly) naturally dyed dyed Easter eggs, take:

Eggs, obviously.

Onion skins.

Hot water, pot, transparent nail polish and a bit of time. Paint a design, put the eggs into the inion dye and leave for as long as you desire, depending on how strong a shade you want to obtain. My grandma taught me this one.

And the effect is, well, this:

Glamour of train travel

Nothing glamorous about train travel. I am already tired when I get on the train going North; I needed to change in Darlington, the train was late, the wind chilled me to the bone, there was no access to the coffee stand so I'm stuck with my tea getting colder in the massive cup, and with an unappealing chicken salad sandwich in plastic which I am having second thoughts about. I get on, the the dance of the seats begins. I have a window seat by a table, and it is occupied by a large package of some sort, wrapped in bubblewrap. I turn to the woman sitting next to it, who jerks her head up rapidly and looks at me with anger and contempt. It's not her package, she's in her own seat. The package belongs to the Asian girl in the seat opposite, who struggles to pick it up, and bumps into the man sitting next to her, on the isle side. Confusion; I wait with my bags uncfomfortably wedged into a single seat, trying to let other passengers go through. The woman 'sitting in her own seat' is plugged into a DVD player and does not take the earphones out, or stop the film, in spite of having gotten up. She continues to stand there, blocking the passage, waiting for me to get seated, looking annoyed. When she speaks it's with a loud voice of someone whose ears are blocked. The Asian girl squeezes past me, swearing under her breath as she tries to find a space for her package.

Finally we are all settled, and the train departs. I open my uninspiring sandwich with a squeak of tortured plastic, and the sound makes the woman next to me grimace. I eat guiltily as she exhales the air of contempt. The Asian girl in front of me settles down too, and focuses hard on the screen of her black Apple. She is working, she has deadlines, she is stressed. The small man next to her, with wispy blond hair, tanned, wrinkled face and a tight blue t-shirt, is plugged in as well. A silvery MP3 player hangs from a pink band around his neck. Looking down his thin nose, into space, he is silent. But occasionally he will emit a high hum, as he tries and fails to contain himself and starts singing to the music. They are less hums, in fact, and more like the sounds people make in their sleep, half-comprehensible, a-melodic, decontextualised. Suddenly he bursts into song for a second – 'Daddy's coming home', and than goes silent again, and sighs deeply. The Asian girl next to him does her best not to flinch.

Staring with large, blue eyes, completely round. It is nearly like listening to a Pythian prophecy, 'Slow down', he says suddenly, 'How are you..?' and you feel drawn to interpret these random words, random phrases, give them some sort of meaning. It's like Chinese water torture. After a while you start to relax, you manage to concentrate, and then a burst of song, or a low wail, or a single word, loud and clear, comes out of the man's mouth, and jerks you back into tension. By the end of the journey my muscles are so tired, as if I had been wrestling with him the whole time, but it's only from wrestling with myself as I fight to stop myself from strangling him.

It may be that I'm tired, or maybe it's a typical side-effect of reading D. H. Lawrence, but I find the whole set-up unbearable. The passengers faking disinterest in the proceedings of others, while in fact wallowing in nosiness. Overhearing other people's conversations, being forced to listen to their mobile phone exchanges. And in the row further don a tall, grey-haired man in khakis and a brown jacket, with an elegant, slightly crumples appearance, keeps looking over to our table, taking sudden interest with the spilling of yoghurt, a vulgar interest which contrasts so sharply with his intellectual appearance. His companion wears a bright pink shawl and a bright pink lipstick, and they exchange opinions in measured, calm tones, hardly looking at one another, detached and aloof, like people who know one another too well and can hardly contain indifference and contempt. The fact that I have to inhale coughed-up air makes me feel grimy. My God, would they stop coughing, I can smell what they've had for breakfast, and for dinner the night before, it's oppressive. I hold my breath in automatic dread and disgust. The pettiness of it all, as we strive to pretend we're alone while in fact we're surrounded and closed in a small, horrid space until the end of the journey. No escaping.

I feel a bit better when I catch a glance of the Angel of the North up on the bank, and then, after a while, is the sea. Not long now.

New camera and birds watching

Edinburgh is lovely, but no city smells the same way Sheffield does. The moment we get up onto the hill I can smell the moors, a clean, pure smell of good air from over the park, green and damp and refreshing.

When I get home, to Sheffield, this weekend, there is a delightful present waiting for me. Some weeks ago I bought a new camera on ebay, a used Olympus E510, with two lenses. And it's there, waiting for me, all ready to go. I can't wait to go outside and try it out, but first things first – for an hour I curl up with Skinnytoes and the instruction manual. Then we venture out, and snap, just to get a feeling of the camera. I immediately love the second zoom lens, which goes up to 150mm – all of the sudden great shots are much easier, and I spend a long time hunting small birds and squirrels. It's not until the day after the camera shows its real potential though. We go for a long and varied walk, starting off along the river, then climbing up through the forest towards the moors, across the moors into the forest again, and back at the river. There is a lot of bird activity, but spring is so late this year there is no foliage at all to obscure them from view. We catch a sight of a woodpecker, but he's too quick and too far away to be photographed. We get an unusual display of singing from three greyish-brown birds though, displaying and puffing up their chests in bramble bushes, unusually bold. They look sparrow-like, but sing prettily; later, after long consultations, we decide it was a dunnock.

Singing dunnock.

We're on the way back when we when the most exciting sighting occurs. We were criss-crossing fields on a steep slope and stop for a moment to look at a rabbits' den, when from the pine tree above us, noiselessly, a brown owl takes off and glides smoothly to the next group of trees below. I kneel down and start putting on the zoom lens when another one appears, and follows the same route. I look for them for a while but, slide down the slope and the noise I make falling scares them away, I see them slide glide even further down, and give up. We were already on the road when Skinnytoes spies one in the tree, a clump of brown+reddish feathers. I hold my breath and creep, but the owl sees me and looks down, straight at me, from its high perch. It's not bothered by my presence, though. What is, however, getting on its nerves is a group of small birds, perhaps blue tits, who are chirpig excitedly around it. It seems the owl is being mobbed. I watch it try to ignore them, half-closing its eyes like a lazy cat in the sun. But the birds are not giving up, and in the end the owl takes off in a proud, graceful way, and glides back up the slope and into the forest. At home we decide it must have been a tawny owl, and I am officially in love with my new camera.

Tawny owl looking regal.

Fear of heights and love of the sea

For my friend's sake, I did it again, or half-did it rather; I climbed (or half-climbed) Arthur's Seat. At least this time the visibility was very good, and, to make it more interesting, instead of following the well-trodden footpath we scrambled up a steep slope. I was not impressed with how much rubbish I came across on the way up; but rubbish is material for another entry. The point is, we succeeded in making our way up to the top of the smaller of the two peaks, the one that looks like an iceberg in volcanic rock. My heart fluttered as my friend insisted on having a smoke with her feet dangling over a two hundred metre drop. I bravely sat there with her for a few minutes, wind elbowing me towards the edge, and then I remembered a description of the fear of heights I read once – it's not about being afraid of falling, but about being afraid that you're going to jump. Which I was contemplating in a detached, 'I wonder if I could fly' kind of way. So I backed away from the edge, took a few photos, and we started coming down, and the strong wind was making our eyes water.

Arthur's Seat in its cloudy glory.

The view of Edinburgh from over the edge.

Even though it was quite late in the day by then, we boarded the 41 bus to go to Cramond. I've been wanting to go there since I found out there is an island there you can go to when the tide is low, and it is quite cute too, apparently. We chose a bad time, and the bus took ages, picking up uniformed school kids from public schools and then dropping them off at various suburban locations. We did make it finally though, and it was worth it. The smell of the sea was overpowering, and the tide was just coming in. There were lots of birds foraging in the seaweeds, calling and flying low over the water. The beach is a nice spot, and the walkway to the island looked very inviting. Unfortunately we had missed the low tide, so we contented ourselves with watching it eat up the walkway greedily. I've not seen a tide move in so fast before, bubbling like a stream between the rocks.

Sunset over Firth of Forth as seen from Cramond.

It was getting darker, so we called at the friendly-looking pub in the village. To our horror, it turned out to be a Sam Smith pub though, serving electrically pumped mediocre beer which tasted of nothing and left no impression whatsoever. I was not aware of the existence of those pubs, so Linguatoes explained it all to me. They are just like Whetherspoons, but more cunning as they do not advertise their corporate identity on the door and fool you into believing you're entering a nice, homely pub. They are cheap, too, and only carry the approved range of beers and spirits. Perhaps I've become spoilt in Edinburgh, but the beer was truly awful and I left my pint unfinished.

Pink Edinburgh

I have recently read a book which argued that nowadays girls are being bombarded with pinkness, and that choosing one dominant colour for everything from toys to clothes to furniture reinforces sexist stereotyping. I admit that her observations agree with my child-less view of the situation. Since I was little, I have been actively boycotting pink, aware of the connotations. Inspired by the book, I decided to hunt examples of pink-clad females of all ages to see if the author actually had a point.

Well, it's been fun, but it's been also much more difficult than I expected. It seems parents are much more immaginative than we give them credit for, and while pink did occur frequently as the colour of accessories, headbands, scooters etc., the actual clothing was varied and not dissimilar to the predominantly black and brown of an avarege Edinburghian. Arguably, I did not break into kindergardens or lurk around playgrounds; my hunting grounds were limited to the streets of the town centre. Arguably, when I did come accross children, they were probably born to middle class, stereotype-defying families. Nonetheless, I did really struggle to find examples of the full-blown pink princess type. I did, however, find some interesting pink adults. So, with no further ado, I bring to you - pink Edinburgh.

Chill-proof pink.

Pink on the go.

Daddy's girl pink.
'It's been a long day' pink.

'Please steal my ipod' pink.
Pink conference.

Spring pink.

Royal Botanical Gardens and other tourist adventures

The morning was glorious and sunny when we woke up, so it seemed like the right sort of day to wander around the botanical gardens with a camera. I have been meaning to do that for a while now, so the group split and I wondered off on my own. There was plenty of bird activity around, so I started stalking.

A chaffinch fresh out of a fight.

Spring-time robin.

By the time I got to the gardens, the weather was already turning. I was standing on the hill overlooking the city, watching a mass of black cloud come in from the the West like a dark wing; I could see it was raining. For a few minutes all was glistening with brilliant sunshine, with the backdrop of darkening sky, each building of the city panorama below me defined as if on a coloured glass panel. But then it went dark and gloomy, and a bitter wind started.

A first peek of the glasshouses.

Old and new glasshouses.

I took refuge in the glass houses. The first one you come into is the highest glass house in the UK, with palms towering high above your head.

The tallest glasshouse in the UK.

As you stepped through the glass-panelled door, leaving the windy and chilly weather behind, you were immediately struck by the strong smell of flowers. They were standing everywhere in pots, lilacs, begonias, and lots of other plants I could not recognise, all in full, fragrant bloom. From there, a network of glasshouses started. What I enjoyed the most was that each glasshouse had a different, individual smell. In each, different plants were flowering.

Into the habitats.

There was one more enchanting surprise apart from the flowers. When I was exploring one of the habitats, I saw something move in between the leaves with the corner of my eye. I stopped and spied, and discovered it to be a little red breasted chirpy robin. Must have gotten in through the open windows, and was clearly having a time of its life. In fact, I soon saw there were more than one, and they were filling the air with singing. They must have been in there for a while, as they were completely tame and unbothered by the presence of people. It was a one in a lifetime photo opportunity. I waited for one bird to sit itself comfortably, and started inching my way towards it, snapping pictures throughout, expecting it to take off at any moment.

May I help you?

Ready for the close-up.

Preening.

But it continued to ignore me, or rather – to look at me with curiosity in between preening sessions. I got within 20cm of it before it decided I was getting too friendly, but in the meantime I got some really unique shots. Later I met a few blackbirds who've had a similar idea and were singing happily amongst tropical vegetation.

In the afternoon my herd of cats converged again in the National Museum of Scotland. The museum is based in a modernist building on the south side of the Royal Mile, its bunker-like shape made acceptable thanks to the sandstone coating. Inside it is quite spectacular in a modern, 'I'm an architect's drawing come live' sort of way.

The National Museum of Scotland in sepia.

Inside the National Museum of Scotland.

I was pleased with the way the displays were organised, especially the ones on 'Early People' (silly name for the section though, I was nearly expecting there to be a 'Late People' one, full of Mediterraneans on display). The main point was, the captions were not didactic, but written in plain language, and honest about the gaps in knowledge, or insufficiency of current archaeological data. When I was a child, I remember museum narratives would present you with information, and claim their take on the facts to be the only true and possible interpretation. I find it refreshing that now kids are encouraged to doubt and enquire.

Pictish writing.

The day finished with a lovely, rustic meal at Cafe Marlenne on Thistle Street. This tiny restaurant serves good, honest French food, hearty and tasty, and for a very reasonable price. I'd been such a full weekend even now thinking about it makes me feel tired, but it was great to have all of my friends invade!

The old woman who lived in a shoe

And had so many children she honestly did not know where to put them. Well, I'd like to think that I've managed a bit better in arranging sleeping quarters for my five friends who came to visit me in Edinburgh, and in the minuscule flat. The evening scenes were reminiscent of the dwarfs from Disney's Snow White, although, in the end, no one slept in the cupboard.

-->

Layered jelly in all its splendour.

I celebrated their arrival by making layered jelly. Living alone brings out the Monica in me, seriously! Still, I've always wanted to make it. I remember it being one of the few desserts available when I was a child; even the most basic cafe always had tall glasses of layered jelly, or jelly cut up in cubes, standing in the refrigerated glass displays, gathering dust. It was served with an optional dollop of whipped cream. Which was not a great idea really, melting cream on warming up jelly is not terrible appealing. Still, it has sentimental value so as I was waiting for the guys and girls to arrive I played around with layers of green and yellow. You have to make a portion of jelly first, pour it into glasses, wait for it to cool, put it in the fridge, wait for it to set, and repeat. It takes a long time. Also, foolishly, I used all the glasses I had in the house in the process, so I had nothing to serve tea in when my long awaited guests finally made it there. Jelly requires sacrifices.

On the following day, childishness continued. First, we had a copious brunch in the National Gallery Cafe. Following a friend's suggestion I ordered a buttery, and very soon it turned out that one is not enough. Apparently from Aberdeen, the buttery is the ugly cousin of a croissant. It does actually look like a croissant that somebody sat on, but do not let the appearances fool you, for it is far superior to a croissant in taste. It is just more buttery I suppose! Highly recommended.

The Water of Leith.

From there we paid a brief visit to the Royal Mile and the castle, and then decided to walk along the river towards the sea. It was a lovely day, and the first time I have really felt the spring is on its way. I've never explored that section of the Water of Leith before, and now I'm looking forward to walking it again through small parks, along the water, and emerging into the quay.

Spring comes to Victoria Quay.

Somehow we were inspired to continue along the water (ok, it was my idea), which was not easy one you passed Victoria Quay. I was shocked to discover that the only way to get into the Britannia Royal Yacht is to pass through a commercial centre. You can't even see it from the embankment as the whole area around it is a closed car park with high fencing and scary signs. As much as I wanted to see it, I am now intent on boycotting it.

At the port.

Where the cormorans hang out.

We pushed on West along shopping malls, through roadworks, past massive siloses, and through new urban developments. Feeling teenagy and silly we snacked on goo eggs and kept walking in spite of everything until we reached Newhaven harbour. We were all tired and hungry by then, so the unexpected appearance of the lovely harbour was a delightful surprise. The sun was just beginning to descend, the bay was calm, and we could see clear across to the other side. It was irresistible. There was a pub, too. What was to be done? We got pints and sat on the cobbles by the water's edge to watch the tide lick the stones, and to admire the white lighthouse, and to spy on kayakers, and to let the view seep in.

Newhaven harbour.

Kayaking in the Firth.

It was excellent, nearly summery, with the low sun and the lazy sound of the waves, the sound of my Polish summers. The view was vast. We sat there and chatted until it got cool and moved on back to our communal burrow. Then we feasted on take away food, dragged out the mattresses, sprawled out and watched a weird Cohen brothers movie until late, sipping beer. When it finished, we all fell asleep in the same room in a big heap. It was practically a slumber party, a perfect end to a teenage day.

Dream-like vision of spider man and lighthouse at Newhaven.

Gastronomic evening with a fellow foodie

This is probably the most enjoyable part of being in Edinburgh - that so many people find it worthwhile to come and visit. Even if it's just for one evening, as in the case of Wondertoes. The lovely maniac came up just to have dinner with me! I dragged her all around town to build up her appetite. A Scottish restaurant was the only option really, so we put our minds and cellphones together and booked a table for two at the Stac Polly, opposite the Lyceum Theatre. My guidebook was very complimentary, and we were very, very hungry.

The restaurant had a simple, relaxing decor - save for the saluting Scotsman figureby the bar, which was just silly, frankly. Apart from that, the enterior was a simple white with the furnishings all upholstered in the same tartan material. The short menu promised many meaty delights - we uniquevocally boycotted the vegetarian option. This was no evening for lentils.

It is good to hesitate over the menu knowing that the other party is willing to share their portion - four tastings for the price of two! I settled on fishcakes as a starter, but, alas, the dish was greener on the other side. Wondertoes picked a marinated pear wrapped in prosciutto and with a sea-salt dressing. For a moment, there was only silence as my tongue went to heaven and I had to wait for it to find its way home.

The demolition of a fishcake.

The 2005 Valpolicella we ordered went much better with the main dish. There was no point in resisting, the Scottish beef stake was calling to me. It could have just as well stepped out of the kitchen and asked to be grilled, like in the Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy. And when it arrived, it was truly perfect.

Scottish beef at its best.

The dish had so many flavours, and each element had maintained its own structure. My camera steamed up and my eyes watered. I did not hesitate to try Wondertoes' duck with rasberry sauce either - it was fantastic for the first three bites, but then became too sweet. Which was just as well, as after all this I certainly had no space for dessert. I ate more meat in that one evening than I normally do in a month.

Having dinner with a fellow foodie and two cameras.

There was only one thing that could help us digest - the warm healing glow of whisky. Merrily we progressed to Jamaica street, and the Kay's Bar. It looked so inviting, and the cushion on the windowsill was free.

Kay's Bar glows amber.

The stuff dreams are made of.

I could really get used to it. The wonderful wax-whiskered bartender managed to comnprehend what it was I was after, and, yes, soon I was holding a wonderful, beautiful, aromatic glass of Sassicaia, whisky matured in wine barrels. Oh yum. That's the one on the left of the photo. The paler, floral one sadly I don't remember the name of, but I did end up drinking that one as well. Good times.

We had an amazing evening, very gluttonous and very chatty. The only way to finish this adventure was to have a nice, relaxed breakfast before Wondertoes had to catch her bus to the airport. Fortunately Cafe Centro on George Street opens at 8am, does very nice porridge and coffe and, depending on who is behind the counter, I can chat to them in Italian or in Polish, or both. And, the big windows offer a prime opportunity for observing suited and booted office workers on the way to their cells. Sadly, I had to join that stream, bid Wondertoes goodbye and hope we can repeat this some time soon!

Cafe Centro in the early morning.