Had some vague thought of hiring bikes today but when we woke up to ten degrees and rain, we gave up on that idea.
Struggling to think of any more iconic activities to do in Scotland, barring getting drunk, getting into a fight, doing heroin, or some combination of the three, we ended up deciding on a visit to the Royal Yacht Britannia. This was a very well reviewed activity, plus it’s down at the docks area and the Leith which I’d read somewhere was a really up and coming area. Actually Simon tells me he chose it because he was googling “bikes” and he saw Britannia just down the page, so he clicked on it.
Thus we found ourselves back on the trusty tram heading away from town towards the port. The yacht is parked next to a three story shopping mall which doesn’t seem to be thriving particularly, which is strange as there were a large number of tourists there visiting the yacht.
As with Holyrood Palace the day before, the tour came with an audio guide which was really indispensable. The yacht was built in the fifties for the late Queen and it took the Royal family around the world for next forty or so years before being decommissioned in 1997, covering on average a million miles a year. The crew was enormous, over 200. The tour was great, you got a real feel for what life was like for everyone on board.
After we were finished, we got lost trying to find where the up and coming area of the port was. After wandering around in circles for twenty minutes staring at Simon’s phone, a passerby finally asked us if we wanted directions. “Yes!” said I “No!” Said Simon at the same time. I got my way and we were guided towards the Shore, which seems to be a place for restaurants along a river bank. We found a nice place for lunch, and I had my third helping of haggis, neeps and tatties. Still delicious.
This was followed by a tram back into town, and a wee nap at the Royal Scots Club where we are staying. When consciousness returned, I set to a task I’d been putting off – claiming for compensation for our delayed arrival to Edinburgh the other night. Apparently there is some law whereby if your EU flight is delayed more than three hours, then the airline has to pay you €250. Most people don’t claim it because they don’t know about it. Our traveling companion David, who does a lot of flying, told us about this statute, called EU 261. A third party can do the legwork of claiming for you, or you can go to the airline directly, which is what I decided to do in the end. We shall see. Better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick, I suppose. The main inconvenience of course was the luggage’s very late arrival, but I’m thinking that will be an insurance issue. We’ve looked at the insurance fine print and it says a maximum of $1000 per person so I’m glad we didn’t go completely bonkers with our spending. I’m thinking wryly of all the agonizing I did about my packing before we left, thinking carefully about every little item I was going to bring. All that is out of the window now. I couldn’t have guessed it was going to get quite as cold as it has either, I suppose.
After the paperwork was filled out, we had a celebratory drink in the bar of the club. The place is very authentic as befits it’s name. This chap walked in while we were there. Not sure if this sort of thing happens all the time in Scotland?
We then took a terrifying Uber drive (Eastern European suicidal style driving) to a restaurant across town, in a quiet backwater behind Arthur’s Seat. The place is called the Sheep’s Heid Inn, and there has been a pub on the site since 1600 and something.
The ambiance was perfect, and the food was the best I’ve had in Scotland so far. I must confess I had haggis again, but this time it was a croquette, and that was followed by scallops. The dessert list looked very impressive too but we were full by then, so took another Uber home. this was a much more sedate drive. This man had a very broad Scottish accent, we had a nice chat on the way back, and it wasn’t until we were back inside the club that Simon confessed he hadn’t understood a word of what the man had been saying. I’d attribute this to my Scottish heritage but according to ancestry.com we both have the same amount of Scottish DNA, at around 40%. Maybe I just watched too much Taggart at an impressionable age?