[*This post is part of a series unloading travel memories accumulated while traveling the summer of 2022. Stories will be posted by random draw or dream intuition of what needs to be shared. Dialogue is fictionalized with the intention of capturing the accuracy of the emotion for these stories are told from memory and written notes from time of event. For more information, email the author at jordanrezzie@gmail.com*]
(Queen Anne's Garden at Stirling Castle. Photographed by Jordan Resnick)
August 9th, 2022. Edinburgh, Scotland
While staying at High Street Hostel nestled in Edinburgh’s hills, I befriended a Scottish traveler eager to gift his sage wisdom. With the voice of Shrek and the name of a sitcom classic, Kramer* recommended I get out of the city to see the local gems.
“I’ve been traveling long enough to know a few things,” Kramer spun. “Why go to Venice when you can get the same experience at Chioggia, without the tourists?”
I nod along, trying my best not to stare at the welt on his bald head.
“You can either be swamped at Edinburgh Castle, or you can take a quick train to Stirling?”
Sitting at the picnic table tucked in the back corner of the smoker’s patio, I evaluate my level of Fringe Fest Fatigue and decide a day trip to a remote castle sounds rejuvenating.
The following morning, the Scottish hills give way to lax farmland and back again rolling up into the highland. I’m mesmerized by the smooth rocking of the carriage and colorful fields blooming under the warm sun, wishing I’d stayed in bed today, feeling a headache coming on. Gazing out the window, I hope this trip will be quick.
(Old Town Cemetery, Stirling. Photographed by Jordan Resnick)
Stirling Castle sits at the very top of town on a hill frowning down on anyone who dares try to threaten her majesty. Groaning inwardly, I see that the quick 20 minute walk is entirely uphill. Meandering through cobblestone streets, my New York rhythm quickly depletes and I relax into a slower pace along a scenic route around the west side of town. Blazing past a sleepy college village, I find myself on track overlooking rolling green hills with a single speedway bisecting fields. Stopping for a spell, I imagine the landscape without roads, people, or cars honking in the distance of what an oasis this land used to be.
(Stirling. Photographed by Jordan Resnick)
Rounding up the hill, I detour into a graveyard dating back to the 1700s. Neat trimmed rows of leaning graves and crosses fences in pathways of family tours. Climbing a rock formation, I gaze down at the graves, not for the first time feeling Europe’s immense history. On closer inspection, I find myself in front of an enclosed gazebo featuring three limestone angels carved in heavenly aspirations. The name tag beneath glimmered in the heat, the dead alive in memory.
(Old Town Cemetery. Photographed by Jordan Resnick)
I feel a bit more energized by the time I reach the castle up the final hill in search of espresso. The castle’s cafe was a little too bougie for my budget and I decided to take a solo expedition of the grounds. My pride quickly succumbs upon finding a free walking tour about to begin. Peppy and fluffy, the guide bubbles with enthusiasm on another day I’d be able to match. I wish I’d gotten that espresso.
Gathering on the stone bridge, the tour guide invites us to take a gander at the castle. Grey stone blocks mounted atop a hill, Stirling Castle is the highest formation in the area. Given the nature of the remoteness, I’m impressed at the size of the castle, wrapping long arms around the hill’s precipice. Looking back over the castle wall, outside of the small town there’s not much in terms of development for miles to come. Distantly, a river where materials were delivered.
My headache pounds in the burning sun. I slap on sunscreen as the tour guide jests, “My pale skin is not used to the yellow burny thingy in the sky.” Sliding the tube back in my bag, I want this day to be over already.
He guides us down further to a flat stretch of grass ringed with rose bushes.
“Behold,” he announces. “Queen Anne’s Garden.”
Reds, blues, purples, and yellow foliage dazzles in the sun beneath a limestone tower with tourists climbing across the parapet. A large weeping willow sways to my left, a tempting spot for a nap. I knock myself out of my reprieve and marvel at the simple beauty of Renaissance architecture. High, flat walls mock would-be intruders flourished with simple brickwork flourishes dimpling the upper rim.
“The castle used to be bigger,” the tour guide pulls focus. I try my best to absorb his words, but my head is swimming from the heat and weeks of sleep deprivation. He says something along the lines of British troops and an invasion and a need to store more soldiers, causing the outer walls to be dismantled to make room to build barracks. I nod along, wanting to sleep. We snake back through the inner gates and he gestures to a high scenic overlook.
“This here,” he points to a castle wall. “Used to house the Castle’s alchemist.” My eyes snap out the back of my skull. “In King James IV day, legend has it an alchemist lived here for 14 years trying to turn lead into gold. The funding dwindled and the King’s temper rose, until one day the Alchemist claimed he had invented human flight. Building a winged contraption, the Alchemist stood right there on that edge and announced he would fly from here to Paris! The whole castle gathered in anticipation, gasping as the Alchemist took off! Well, as you can imagine, he did not get very far. The castle howled with laughter to the Alchemist’s embarrassment of having survived by landing in animal excrement.” Our group chuckled lightly, picturing the Alchemist shaking off dung beginning the long, solitary climb back to the top to face his defeat.
“The Alchemist quietly switched to more domestic pursuits and that was the last of his kind at Stirling.” The guide smiled, skipping across cobblestones back up to the main courtyard.
(Stirling. Photographed by Jordan Resnick)
“This yard hosted the castle’s hustle and bustle. If you look along that wall, you will see some familiar faces.”
Zeus, Apollo, and the maiden Artemis’s slate statues regaled down onto us mere mortals. To the very left, a Renaissance-era man I couldn’t place.
“If you look closely,” the guide spoke softly, “you will see the man who commissioned these statues placed himself next to Artemis: King Charles V; humble guy.”
“This building behind me may look out of place,” he continued, pulling us towards the eyesore bleeding in the middle of the courtyard. A blotchy yellow stone hall fronted by food stands smelling of roasted nuts wafted towards us up the small incline. “This is because Charles V had limestone specially deposited to build this great hall. Limestone is a porous rock, and in rainy Scotland that kind of material would not hold. Builders painted the rock layer after layer of waterproof seal, turning the walls yellow. People began calling the hall “King’s gold,” affectionately.”
We follow him inside. 200 yards of open space with minor decor giving the impression of what once was. A lion and unicorn banner crested the far wall behind the king and queen’s thrones atop one of the few fireplaces in the room. Scuffing further into the hall, I closed my eyes and imagined how the room looked hosting dignitaries from around Europe. Balls being thrown for various festivities, skirts swirling and heels clicking to the drums as the flute sung high. Fireworks crackled in the distance as children screamed in delight at the new magic before their eyes. Feeling a draft, I felt the desire to be closest to the fireplace come winter.
“Queen Anne, not one for court life, spent most of her time at Stirling.” The tour guide summarized in the chapel. Empty of all furniture save the altar and a few metal chairs, my head nodded needing a place to lie down. The tour ended on a whimper, and I asked the guide for restaurant recommendations. He gives me the name of a pub and sends me off on an expedition down the hill. On the way down, I sit on a quiet street feeling the breeze bring life back into my exhausted body. I’m again taken aback by the sheer beauty of the landscape and the ivy spilling down every available surface, finding myself picking up handfuls of cigarette butts in disgust of how people treat our environment. I wind my way back down through town, getting guided by locals engaged about my destination–
“You meeting someone there?”
“No?”
“Weird.”
–and find myself at the Quilted Kangaroo, an Aussie themed pub. Outside of a few locals and the Tuesday day drinkers, it’s a peaceful refrain in the shade of artificial rainforests and a kick of 90s nostalgia. I sip my beer and wonder if every culture has an off-beat appropriation in some foreign country claiming an “authentic experience” while getting a burger and fries. I dash back through town to catch my train back to town.
Finding Kramer that evening, I give him my report and he prizes me his version of a smile.
*Names changed for privacy.
(Stirling Castle. Photographed by Jordan Resnick)
(Stirling Castle. Photographed by Jordan Resnick)
(Stirling. Photographed by Jordan Resnick)
(Author drinking a brew at the Quilted Kangaroo. Photographed by Jordan Resnick)
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