No longer does the hill mock me, I have conquered both of its vulcanic tops. The other day, as millions of people before me, I climbed Arthur's Seat. I still think it is rather amazing to have what is basically a mountain in the very middle of the city. They seem to even graze sheep there from time to time - the grass is cropped short, and there is other, hard evidence as well.
In spite of the weather not being perfect there were a lot of people around, and in fact the further we went the more I found myself worrying about the obvious erosion of the hills. The short, weak grass is no match for thousands of hard-soled trekking boots, and people keep making their own paths, so that from above it seems there is more bare ground than vegetation. On the very top, even the hard bazalt is made shiny and smooth with the steps of countless tourists. And so, moved by pity, I shall not climb the hill any more - a good excuse, mm? Well, maybe just once more, but that's it.
On the way back I went to explore a building I spotted the other day from the train - well, spotted is not exactly the right words, as this is an immense structure, as big as any palace, and, standing on a hill, with its tall spires, it's visible from all around. Still, its purpose proved mysterious - Google Maps do not label it, and Google Earth has four (!!!) photographs. Four. A corner shop in an Icelandic fishing village has more coverage than that place. And, all the photographs available are taken from the outside, from behind bars. I was very curious.
It turns out this amazing building is a private school called Fettes College Prime, and the internet informs me that it was the romping groung of the fictional James Bond, and sadly the painfully real Tony Blair. The school does not have a website accessible through ordinary search engines, and very little is written about it at all, which I find mightily suspicious in this era of freedom of information. It is an all-boys school, of course, which makes me snigger as I am quite fluent in the private lives of the sweaty pubescent pupils of all-male private schools thanks to the insightful books of Stephen Fry (think Daisy Chain). It is a good idea in a way - lock them in with their stinking armpits, awkward movements and greasy hair until they metamorphose.... sadly, for the most part, into posh egomaniacs.
I spent a few weeks in the buildings of a private school once, many years ago. I wnt on an English language course/adventure holidays, and it was one of the most bizzare experiences of my life. I was fascinated by the architecture, very similar to the one of the building I was looking at, massive, tall, gothic and dream-like. Just as the pupils during term time, we were confined to the school grounds, which were immense, the school itself in the middle of nowehere - to this day I have no idea where it was actually located, it was beyond geography. I spent hours wondering the empty dormitories - the whole school was left open for access, probably because no-one realised any kid would be interested in exploring it. Little did they know! It was dehumanising, the scale of it, the high ceilings, the lack of privacy - we, and so also the pupils, slept in plywood cubicles with no doors, constantly assaulted by the sound of one another's activities. I searched for signs of individuality, and found few - some stickers above a bed, a notebook left behind in a drawer... What a horrible, unnatural place to grow up in.
The gate was ajar, although held together with a loose chain. I resisted the temptation to go in and investigate; there was something eery about the large, empty lawn, and also the signs on the fence suggested CCTV, imminent arrest followed by painful interrogation or possibly being shot in the knee. All I will say is that all the cashiers at the nearby Waitrose had very posh accents, as did the kiddies playing football on the pitch. I shruddered as I thought that I was looking at the next generation of CEOs, ministers and corporate lawyers.
Fortunately there were things to take my mind off the sad realities of the democratic world, and I spent a happy half hour annoying swans. Annoying, as I would come to the very edge of the water, they would speed in my direction all puffed up and pretty, and than I would fail to meet my end of the bargain (no bread). I stood the snarling and took pictures instead.
YES! Way to annoy the swans. To hell with these tyrannical beggars.
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