Edinburgh: The First City of Literature

Haggis

I love haggis. I don't love it because it is gross, or different, or Scottish, I love it because it is delicious. (Delicious when fried as it turns out.)

"Haggis is typically served on Burns Night, January 25, when Scotland celebrates the birth of its greatest poet, Robert Burns, who was born in Ayrshire on that date in 1759. During the celebration, Burns poems are read, and the haggis is addressed by a member of the party, ceremonially, in the form of verses from Burns' poem, 'Address to a Haggis.' A typical meal for Burns Night would include Cock-a-Leekie, Haggis with Tatties-an'-Neeps, Roastit Beef, Tipsy Laird, and Dunlop Cheese."

http://www.smart.net/~tak/haggis.html

Robert Burns

And here is a little bit of what Robert Burns wrote in honour of the hagggis. This is only the first on nine stanzas:

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great Chieftan o' the Puddin-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

There are whole programs available for how one should run a Robbie Burns night, and I am sure that someone in Melbourne sells haggis. Part of me is a little bit tempted to try to make it. This year is a very special 250th anniversary of his birth so someone might want to start planning. Every man, woman and child in Edinburgh is ready for it.

City of Literature

When you stack up the writers of Edinburgh as the first City of Literature against the famous writers of Melbourne as the second City of Literature, we look a bit thin on the ground. I will have to offer my services as liaison for the two cities and fly back of forth exchanging ideas. Edinburgh is all Burns, Conan Doyle, Stevenson, Scott, great names huge and lyrical, then there is Ian Rankin who apparently can be spotted in the bars and cafes around. And of course there is the whole Harry Potter Industry, a wired blend of modern merchandising and the magic of the olde world which seems somehow to still exist when you look at Edinburgh Castle.

Is Scotland a country? It depends who you ask.

The only reason I did not get hit when I asked this question in Edinburgh is because I was excused on the basis of my idiot status, otherwise known as 'tourist'. Benny says no, Sandy says they don't have an army, I say they don't compete in the Olympic games in their own name; but just hold on a minute. They do have a parliament sort of, and the got back the 'stone of destiny' which apparently to the Scots means they are a country.

Darwin's birthday

The last museum in London for me was the Museum of Natural History where they have a special exhibition for Darwin's birthday. Of course, every natural history museum in the world is really his, but this exhibition was particularly well put together. The stories were lovely. He was only 22 when he set out on The Beagle and lots of the notes captured Darwin as a bit of a lad rather than the sage, bearded image that we tend to be presented with. He rode on the backs of the Galapagos tortoises but had trouble keeping his balance, pulled the tails of lots of animals and repeatedly threw iguanas back into the sea to try to work out why they kept returning to him so he could do it again.

They had lots of contemporary stuff, sadly enough still defending common sense against 'intelligent' design, a nice film of the path he walked for years while he was thinking it all through, and the two finches (hummingbirds as it turns out) that started him thinking. They were tagged and presented on a velvet cushion in pride of place. One highlight was the little scrap of paper where Darwin sketched out a tree and comes up with the model of branches for evolutionary science. This is the first codification of the idea of the tree of life.

Christine and I then went to Lynne's house and I made the shredded kale and potato soup that I had eaten in Portugal. It worked just fine. Finally I trudged off in the night to my train to Edinburgh where I found two empty seats. This mean a lay down on the train and a patchy but passable night's sleep. I finally looked out the window in Carlisle but could not workout why the train was going that way. The announcement was the we were diverted in the middle of the night because of flooding. I contented myself with staring at the white sheep with black faces (just like in the cartoons) and the wonderful green of everything until the train pulled in at the station in Scotland.

War Museum

The drive back from Birmingham to Oxford was late, the roads were slippery and the temperature was minus 4. I was okay because I was not behind the wheel. The motorways behaved themselves and I got home to Oxford with Superbock (Portugese beer) and octopus behind me.

So back to London to finish the museums. Today was the Imperial War Museum. A pretty impressive place but no mention of the current war, of course. There were many effective maps, photos interactive displays and quite shocking stuff. The weaponry was huge, but I don't know enough about it to really understand what I was looking at.

Dinner was a pizza place called la Porcheta. For minute I feared that it might be the Melbourne chain spreading out, but thankfully not. The food was just lovely and after dinner Christine and I sat up talking over old times. Tomorrow night I am off to Edinburgh. I will revert to my maiden name (Mckay) while there and see if it does me any good.

Port, Porto, Portugal

Porto is the second biggest city in Portugal and I went there. It is built on a very steep hill like the towns along the Amalfi coast or Taxco in Mexico (but now you will just think I am showing off.) It is a major port with a beautiful river running out to beaches and beyond, and it is where port comes from. The apartment provided a wonderful view across the river and the Gaia Bridge (for those who want to look it up). Occasionally a team of 8s would row past or a military band would drum up a procession for no reason that we could understand. These events puncutated the mournfully relaxing sight of a summertime holiday town in sleep mode for winter. Here are some highlights.

The city

Tall thin houses, with tiles on the outside, most often blue and white floral inspired patterns, but sometimes yellows, greens and reds stand on streets/laneways that are far too narrow for cars, but then you would occasionally and impossibly see a car winding along. Sandy kept pointing out the art deco features, I was stumped by the hieght/width ratio and the question of where the staircase might be.

The market
All was good, even if we got there when it was half closed. Butchers, line up to sell more meat than you can imagine a town needs. Lunch was crunchy fish from a cafe in the middle of the market. When we ordered the fish, a woman went out, bought it from a fish shop and cooked it for us. Life can be so simple.
Here I was stumped by another curiousity. They were selling a meat product that I could not identify. I had ticked off evey organ of every animal that I know, but still a dark red sticky mass (not liver) was before us. At one point we saw it in a bucket and it was steaming. Finally, Sandy pointed to the stuff for sale then her innards then gesticulated a question by raising her shoulders. The woman answered by miming the cutting of her wrists and we knew what we were looking at. Blood sausages don't come from nowhere.

Custard tarts
It is said that in London you are never more that five metres from a rat. I posited the idea that in Porto you are never more than five metres from a custard tart. Benny is not sure if that is true, but I am going to stand by this until someone proves me wrong. A pastisse de nata (that's Portugese for custard tart), with a little shaker of cinnamon and a coffee makes a treat that can be eaten at any time of the day or night.

Franchesena
The Franchesena is Portugal's answer to the French croque monsiuer. It literally means "The litttle French girl" and as you can see, the word "little" is sarcastic. It is a sandwich of bread, peppered ham, veal cutlet, sausage, ham, bread again, smothered in gooey cheese, all grilled in a creamy tomato and wine sauce.

The sculptures
Our focus on food was occasionally interupted by some cultural events. We saw a gallery of good stuff, but best of all were the sculptures and the busts. We tried and failed to hear some music, and we sat and sunned ourselves on various public seats, bars and cafes. We noticed that few people wear crusifixes, no one crosses themselves when they pass a church, the city is very slow, possibly even hibernating, the waiters are so bored that when you ask them where a bar might be, they take off their aprons and want to come with you. (Those of you who doubt me need to check the validity of this story with Sandy and Benny.)

The transport
Apart from the attempt to march to the beach past the fishermen cooking their sardines on a dockside grill, and the many calf building stair climbs, we road trains that become trams, buses, and best of all a finicular. Guess which part I liked best. The public transport was remarkably clean and available.

Snow Drift

A visit to the old Spitelfield market, Brick Lane and all the little markets around there was the order of the day. There were food stalls from all over the world, lots of guys selling CDs of funk music (apparently there is a revival), second hand clothes stall and heaps of I-made-it-myself stalls of interesting clothes made out of carpet or doilies or felt. I liked the doilies best.

I found a Hugo Boss overcoat of black cashmere but it was two sizes too big for me. Luckily, the Polish guy next to me found a navy blue knee length wool coat that was two sizes too small for him. We swapped, complimented each other and sautered off having parted with £10 each. The buses got the better of me and I ended up having a scenic tour of London trying to get back to Marble Arch then return to Oxford. I will return for a rematch.

This morning I spoke to Tony and told him how mild the weather had been before I opened the curtains. I got excited and almost raced in to wake up Sandy and Benny when I realised that they had probably seen snow before. It is drifting down and the path from the back door to the garden shed is white. It is picture perfect. So much so that I am glad we are off to Portugal today where it is 16 degrees.

Slow Day

Having mastered the Underground and even given myself the title 'Lord of the Underground' on the basis that I have given advice to not only American tourists, but real live English people on how to get from Point A to Point B, I now have emerged to conquer the buses. So far, the 254 and 253 have been dealt with, and pretty soon I will be able to travel above ground without anyone noticing who I really am. And, just so long as nobody holds a mirror up to my face and realises I have no reflection, they will never know.

Christine and I bussed and wandered down to Highgate Cemetry to visit Karl Marx. Surrounding him are those who have chosen to buried in good company. British communists and leftists, many of who lived in exile from their homeland (South Africa, Iran etc) and ended up seeing out their days in London. Also surrounding the grave were live communists and leftists from around the world who make their way to hold up the left fist in front for the monument and have a photograph taken.

Christine and Ganelle have no family in the UK and find it hard to get baby-sitters. They are out at the movies holding hands. So tonight I am bunkering down with their son Raphael, a spicy chicken from the Halal Algerian shop and some bagels. The bagels and the chicken seem to be getting on just fine, so are Rapheal and I. So that just goes to show you.

Thinking about it.

The British Museum is apparently the most visited tourist attraction in London; and lots of visitors come at Christmas time. That must be why the tour guides for the museum take that time off work: it is holiday season. Christine told me a story about a cafe in Poland where she went for lunch but the cafe was closed because all the waiters were having lunch. It makes sense when you think about it.

In The British Museum you can get a 'Free trade' coffee, or a 'Free trade' snack. It is great really because it sustains you as you look at all of the plunder of the world, not just the British colonies, but the whole world. They pinched everything from tiny jewels from the eyes to minature statues of Egypt, to whole buildings that they fancied in Mycaenae. Good on them. The won the wars, they stole the stuff fair and square. You can't revise history. I know Greece want their marble sculptures and columns back, but really if the Brits started giving stuff back to its rightful owner then what would be left in the British Museum? So it is really good that they try to balance things up in the modern world by offering 'Free trade' stuff for sale in the cafeteria. It makes sense, sort of, when you think about it.

I went the church. Big, fat, Anglican church; Westminster Abby no less. I wanted to see the inside, I wanted to pretend that I was Lady Diana becoming Princess Diana, and I wanted to hear some big church choral singing. But, being a total cheapskate, I did not want to pay. So I went to something called Evensong. It is a service that is mainly sung and while they make tourists pay £9 to get in, those who come to worship get in for free. So I went in to worship. We confessed and were absolved, prayed for the queen, Prince Philip and Prince Charles and all the other unnamed members of the royal family. We also prayed for the members of The Order of the Bath, but I don't even know who they are. The tomb to the unknown soldier on the other hand was quite moving and it made me pull up my socks. All was good until the very end when the organist came into his/her stride. They were really passionate and it sounded like a third rate horror movie. I managed to get away without anyone noticing that I was trying to repress a laugh as I imagined Bela Lugisi or one of those horror movie actor guys creeping around. It makes sense, I suppose, if you think about it.

In the evening, I met up with Georgina and we went to see August: Osage County, at the National Theatre. It had been reviewed as the play of the year. We both like it, but preferred the biting political commentary of Gesthemene, the play we had seen a couple of days earlier. I had seen All My Sons by Arthur Miller in Melbourne the year before and August: Osage Country seemed like a poor cousin. It made sense and you didn't even have to think about it.