Page 35 of The Tartan Thesis

“Y’all wouldn’t even be at these tourist attractions if it weren’t for me,” I say as I hand it to the attendant. “It’s the least I can do.”

We enter the grounds, and Torin tells us not to bother with the self-guided audio devices. “I’m providing a private tour.”

The palace is what every American hopes to see in an old castle. A grand-faced stone structure flanked by rounded towers, turrets and spires extending above them, a long row of tall windows reflecting the shifting clouds overhead. Much of Edinburgh is old, but this is different. Grandiose and elegant in equal measure. I’m standing there taking it all in when Torin nudges my arm.

“Keep up,” he says.

Once we’re inside Holyroodhouse, Maeve and Isla’s gossip session comes to an abrupt end. They fall into step beside us as they tune into Torin, who explains the castle’s origins as we move from room to room, pointing out details in the ceilings and walls, recounting events that took place in each chamber. Royal intrigues, murders, affairs. He rattles off facts like he’s reading them from a teleprompter. He even knows the square footage—87,120—and the number of rooms.

“Two hundred and eighty-nine,” he says proudly.

I find myself admiring his encyclopedic knowledge of all things Scottish almost as much as the history around us.

He walks us through the grassy interior courtyard, then back inside through long chains of interconnected rooms. We climb winding staircases that twist upward through stone before ducking through low doorways connecting the various wings of the palace. It’s all incredible, but it’s a truly surreal feeling to stand in the rooms where Mary, Queen of Scots stayed for a time.

When we finally step back outside, we wander over to the ruins of Holyrood Abbey, the first structure on the grounds, built in the twelfth century. Historians that we are, we take a minute to soak in everything that’s taken place between these crumbling walls. Even with the roof now gone, it’s easy to imagine the royal weddings, funerals, and coronations that took place here.

I close my eyes and revel in the history of this place, letting the weight of the centuries settle over me. When I open them again, I see smiles all around.

“Right,” Torin says. “You’ll be wanting to see the rest of the Mile then, aye?”

“Aye!” we all say in unison.

We leave the Holyrood grounds, which places us at the base of the Royal Mile. Ahead of us stretches the long slope of connecting cobblestone roads that link Holyrood Palace to Edinburgh Castle.

“Only a mile to the castle?” I ask.

“A Scots mile,” Isla corrects. “It’s longer than an English mile. To make it even more Scottish, it’s uphill the whole way.”

I squeeze a knee to my chest, then the other. “Well, I didn’t work out today, so let’s make the climb.”

“Let’s go!” Maeve grips me and Isla by the hands and starts to run forward, carrying us across the street. Isla twists just in time to snag Torin’s arm before we can be hauled off without him.

On the other side of the road, we fall back into pairs with me and Torin in the lead.

“That’s the new Parliament building,” he says. “Scottish Parliament was reestablished in 1999.” He explains as we walk, weaving bits of history into the climb.

For centuries, Scotland had no autonomy from British Parliament in London. Now they have some ability to govern themselves, similar to how states in the US have their own legislatures that make local laws separate from Congress in Washington, D.C.

“Hmmm,” I say and stroke my chin in faux thought. “Scottish Parliament was brought back just a few years after the movie Braveheart? What a coincidence!”

“You joke,” Torin says, giving me a pointed look I’ve come to adore, “but yes, that film did have quite the impact on Scots in the nineties.” His voice takes on that lecture rhythm again as we continue up the hill. “It was a galvanizing moment. People from all over the world watched William Wallace fighting for Scottish independence. He was one of the bravest and most loyal Scotsmen in history. He never wavered in his devotion to old Alba.” He glances back toward Parliament behind us. “It reminded us that we have a lot to be proud of.”

“Do you agree, Isla?” I call over my shoulder.

“Aye,” she says. “The movie came out before we were born, of course, but my parents have talked about it. Apparently it stirred up a fair bit of political propaganda at the time, but there have always been groups seeking independence and autonomy for Scotland. The film was an opportunity to create a rallying cry. However it happened, it’s been good for us to have some amount of control over our own country.”

As we make our way up the street, Torin points out the centuries-old tenements, some of them reaching ten stories. He points down little alleys through stone archways. “Those are wynds and closes,” he explains. “See the little courtyards, shops, and pubs tucked away in there?”

I slow slightly and peer down one of them. The passage drops sharply between the buildings, vanishing toward some hidden corner of the city.

As we weave our way higher through the modest crowd, the streets and alleyways on either side of the Mile fall away on ever-increasing slopes, giving quick glimpses of rooftops and church spires below.

Behind us, Maeve and Isla are whispering again. A moment later they both burst into giggles. I call over my shoulder, “Care to share with the class?”

“I was just saying I hope Torin doesn’t think Isla and I are dating just because we’re walking arm-in-arm,” Maeve says.

Torin’s head swivels to me. “You told her about me thinking you two were dating?”