Edinburgh magic
“ALBA beckons” were the cryptic words that Superintendent Roy Sheard, a Yorkshireman with a significant understanding of Gaelic, uttered as he ambled into The Black Horse Pub in Wakefield, UK, late on a summer evening in 1988, after the day’s work. He knew that he would find his favourite trainee duo in this watering hole for weekend pints of dark amber bitter or stout, the choice being dictated by how taxing the week had been, followed by wholesome steak and kidney pie. Meanwhile, our conservative and abstemious colleagues stayed at the Training College and watched TV before an unexceptional meal. Being on the inside track as Deputy Course Coordinator, he had gathered that our next outing would be to Scotland. The Lothian and Borders Police, headquartered in Edinburgh, had confirmed their ability to host our batch of 10 Police Command Course attendees over four days, despite pressure on accommodation due to a tourist season in full flush.
So, 10 days later, we were on board a train to Edinburgh. Darting through the unspoiled Yorkshire Moors, past the resplendent Northumberland National Park and briefly along the North Sea coastline, over a distance of about 200 miles, we were delivered at our destination within four hours. Late though it was, we were received by a portly caretaker at the well-appointed halls of residence of the Heriot Watt University, outside Edinburgh town. Nearly 150 years after its establishment, this premier science and engineering research institution had been shifted from within town to this large and verdant campus around a lake in the 1970s.
The territorial police were generous in using the first six hours of each working day for acquainting us with their preventive, detective and regulatory approaches, leaving us the rest of the day to explore this capital city of Scotland. One evening, they treated us to a spectacle that remains etched in our memories: the Military Tattoo. Staged in the esplanade of the 11th century Edinburgh Castle, sitting atop Castle Rock that dominates the city’s skyline, the Tattoo had over 40 years become a memorable part of the sequence of Edinburgh festivals. Massed pipes and drums preceded impressive band and drill displays by all three British defence services. Despite restricted performance space, manouevres by armoured cars, imaginative use of lighting and reports of gunfire and cannon fire served to enhance the experience. Notorious draughts that worked their way through seats, set cheek by jowl on sloping grandstands completely surrounding the esplanade, froze the spectators, and were an uncomfortable distraction. The Master of Ceremonies reminded us that only 15 minutes walk away lay Fountainbridge, where the famous Sean Connery was born.
Access to the Castle lies along The Royal Mile, a series of streets forming the main thoroughfare of the city almost a mile in length; characterised as royal since it links the Edinburgh Castle, abode of the British royalty for three centuries in the Middle Ages, to The Holyrood Palace, official residence of the monarch in Scotland off and on since the 16th century and more consistently since the 20th. Expectedly, given its centrality to the city, this stretch is lined by an eclectic mix of pubs, visitor attractions and shops, including those selling single malt whiskeys most of which are not heard of in our neck of the woods. We chose the proximate Waverley Centre to make modest purchases of spiritus frumenti after imbibing a variety of drams. Tour of the quadrangular palace took an hour; none of us came across the ghost of a woman who was tortured there for witchcraft hundreds of years back. The adjoining extinct volcano made for an easy climb; its top provided panoramic views of the city and beyond up to the Heriot Watt University 7 miles away. I did not find an explanation for its name “Arthur’s Seat”.
On another evening, our host, the Police Superintendent of ‘F’ Division, invited us to his office before the weekend began. Generous to a fault, he served a range of whiskeys, the finest from each of the five regions producing this golden liquid, and talked of the casks in which each had been matured. Later, we retired to the Police Club where we met his junior colleagues. It had been arranged that several of them would be in traditional Scottish gear — kilts, plaids, sporrans, and sgian-dubhs tucked into the kilt hoses.
The last day in Edinburgh having been declared a holiday, most of us were guided to Princes Street, the city’s major thoroughfare in the shadow of the castle hosting the premier shopping district considered ideal for the likes of us hunting for memorabilia. The architecture had been carefully preserved, and many stores had not changed their frontage for more than 150 years. Our search for kilts and plaids quickly ended — their prices were well beyond our reach. A few of us made bold and opted for moderately expensive tartan ties. With no preference, Lochcarron Ties became the choice and the Maple Leaf tartan tie that I acquired occupies a prominent spot in my wardrobe.
As we departed from the university, the warden expectedly broke into “Auld Lang Syne”, written by Scotland’s national bard Robert Burns 300 years earlier. Overall, this brief cultural exposure was sufficient to kindle the desire to return to see more of this land. And a few months later, I did with my wife.
