I enjoyed walking around the village and felt totally comfortable there on my own. Most people I met on the way were walking their dog.
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11:50 I’m sitting on a rock overlooking a bizarre landscape, listening to Philip Glass’s double concerto. Brimham Rocks is England’s answer to Joshua Tree. yes, it’s less spectacular but it’s on a scale that is manageable. It was less than 15 minutes’ drive from Judith’s house in Birstwith. Arriving at 10 a.m. (Judith was on a work-party for the National Trust) there were only a few cars in the parking lot. An hour later – when the shop and the ice cream kiosk opened there was a long line of cars waiting to get in. It’s 
mostly families with young children but I’ve seen several people in wheelchairs too. neither category is present at Joshua Tree – or the Alabama Hills on 395 either, they’re just too remote. Dads were guiding children up onto the weathered rocks whilst moms stood by. Maybe the moms do more of the hands on child rearing in the privacy of their own homes. It was the dads too who were instructing the youngsters on how these weird and wonderful rocks came on to take their present shapes – Dancing Bears and Druid’s Writing Desks, Anvils and Camels. From this hill top you can see York Minster 34 miles away. 
There’s no sun today, just muggy clouds which means that my photos will have little contrasts. I think I’ll experiment with some black and white shots. This particular spot close to the kiosk is very busy with people holding dripping 99s, but not too far from the beaten path I found solitude and found myself thinking about Picnic at Hanging Rock.
While I was idly wandering around Judith’s work-party had been doing two hours of physical labor on repairing a footpath and she was hot and hungry. So after a quick brunch at her house and last minute packing we set out for Melbourne Road, Hebden Bridge, my new abode. We passed through Ilkley (b’owt ‘at), Keighley which I don’t remember going to before apart from the Worth Valley railway, and the outskirts of Haworth. We drove through Heptonstall but only so that i could take a photo of the Slack Bottom sign for my collection of interesting sign photos. We pressed on to Hebden Bridge where we stopped 
for refreshment in the square before trying to find my new home. I knew that there was no road access and that the house was approached by a flight of steps and i was already anxious that my two bags were too heavy for this escapade. however, pleading a fragile back I was able to commandeer the help of both Judith and my new host, Patricia, who, together hauled the bags up the 40 difficult steps and then up to my room at the top of the house. How on earth will I managed when I move out? A little voice reminds me that I am currently moving in, not out, and I should relax. My room is lovely. Not only does it have a fantastic view into the valley with lots of open sky above but it has a window . . .and it opens!
I spent an hour and a half getting settled and writing my blog, and then, unable to sit still any longer, with brolly unfurled I set out for the canal. It took me 6 minutes to reach my previous mill and then I wandered along, in the rain, past Stubbing Wharf. Coming back I called in for a drink, the 4th time I’ve been there on this trip, simply because the location is great.
Coming back to the house I found that it doesn’t have a microwave-just a fan oven so I’ll have to rethink my cooking plans while I’m here.
Judith was working at Coldcotes B and B in the morning so I went walkabout along the River Nidd, just following my nose – at least until I came to this sign:
So why can I just ‘go’ here and see where paths lead me rather than having to follow precise directions when I take walks in the US? I suppose it’s because here I’m bound to find fellow travellers on the trails or find a welcoming farmhouse whereas in the US you can get seriously lost, even in the mountains around Santa Cruz.
After lunch we headed out for a garden party held as an end of year thank you for people who volunteer at the food bank in Harrogate. The company assembled in a wonderful garden and elegantly consumed delicious cakes, tea, strawberries with ice cream and made polite conversation. When I overheard the owner saying he was born in Bolton I chipped in ‘Whereabouts?’ ‘In a maternity hospital, I presume,’came the response. Was this for real? In the end we had an interesting conversation about accents. Everyone in England seems to think I’m Canadian. That would surprise my American friends I think. We talked about how public schools like mine tried to get rid of students’ regional accents. in his view they now ‘tolerate’ them. He put forward the theory (whether if was his own I’m not sure) that what accounts for the Lancashire accent being so different from the Yorkshire was the intense clatter of the cotton mill machinery where workers had to mouth words silently and listeners became excellent lip readers. Therefore they used more round mouths. Auzzies keep their mouths closed to avoid eating flies!
A quick turnaround saw us heading our for Grassington (the Saturday afternoon run out) but there were no available parking spaces so we visited the Wilson Arms Hotel, a place where I spent a summer as a chamber maid and Colin washed the dishes in the kitchen. It was there that we met our friend Stefaan from Belgium, a language student honing his skills. The up-market hotel is now a nursing home. We drove on to the lovely little village
of Kettlewell with Mastiles Lane rising above it, passing Kilnsey Crag where we watched some climbers. We found the post office cum Youth Hotel and campground where Colin and I had camped and then stopped for some libation at The Racehorses. That pub and the Blubell across the street were doing a roaring trade, with a lot of cyclers and hikers as well as the driving crowd.
Back at Judith’s I watched the last half of a very interesting TV program about Roald Dahl. Apparently he was quite a celebrity, appearing on the Michael Parkinson show. I don’t remember knowing anything about him until my daughters began to read, and devour, his books.
This B stands for Charlotte Brontë’s 200th anniversary this year (Valley Gardens, Harrogate)
Judith was working today so after lunch I took the bus into Harrogate again (it’s 7 pounds 90p for a return – a bargain!). The previous day I’d seen that a masterclass by Sir Willard White was taking place in the Wesleyan Chapel in the center of the town so that’s where I was heading. I’d booked a ticket online anxious that it would be already sold out. As it transpired about 30 people attended, but before that I explored one of Harrogate’s main attractions – Valley Gardens, in July at the peak of its bedding plant splendour. In one bed celebrating the anniversaries of British authors the initials of Beatrix Potter, Charlotte Brontë, Roald Dahl and William Shakespeare were ‘painted’ in flowers – quite beautiful, but difficult to photograph since I didn’t have my stilts with me! It was yet another very hot day and I made a bee-line (get it?) to the tea shop and asked, with some trepidation, if they could make an iced coffee. ‘Of course,’ came the reply, ‘Do you want sugar in that?’ When it arrived it was made with half water and half milk and nowhere, I mean nowhere, was there any ice involved. I’ve had some strange iced coffees before but none that didn’t involve ice:-)
The iceless iced coffee
I arrived at the Chapel just before it opened. I’d purchased an open seat in the balcony and wanted to be sure I got a good view. As it was there were just two of us in the balcony! One thing I hadn’t thought about was that heat rises, and this was a very hot day – no fans, all the windows closed, no air. I chatted to my partner in crime who had recently moved to Harrogate and had just come to this event on the spur of the moment. It seemed odd to me that two world renowned artists , the author Val McDermid yesterday and bass Willard White are playing to a ridiculously small number of people during the day for free or very little, while in the evenings they play to sold out audiences in big venues as part of the Harrogate Festivals.
The masterclass was wonderful and reminded me of the play I recently saw in Santa Cruz called Masterclass which is based on masterclasses given by Maria Callas to emerging singers. It wasn’t until I was looking up more about him that I found out that Willard White was one of the up and coming singers who performed in a masterclass with Ms Callas. “Insecurity is the instigator of creativity,” was one of his quotes that I came away with. With the soprano he concentrated on her dramatic interpretation and with the baritone he focused on continuous sound production.
Sir Willard White
The masterclass was over in an hour and I thought about wandering back to the gardens but a big storm cloud was hovering over the town and I decided to get back to Birstwith. Judith had popped home for tea before she went off to usher at one of the festival events – Unthanks, a duo from the North East. She didn’t enjoy the show. I settled in for an evening of embroidery, watching on TV the Strictly Proms event I’d listened to on the radio the previous evening. Since this particular prom had a dance element to it that’s not so ridiculous as it appears. I chatted to Anna and Sarah via Facebook. Sarah was in the middle of helping Anthony’s family remove his stuff from my house. After his terrible road accident coming back from Tahoe on July 5th in which his two friends had died, he needs 24 hour care and is moving back in with his parents.
Wesleyan chapel was the venue for the masterclass
1:45 I’m sitting in Wetherspoon’s in the Old Winter Garden in the center of Harrogate. I rather like the Wetherspoon concept for buying historic buildings and turning them into bars/eateries while endeavouring to keep as much as their former glory as possible. I’m currently enjoying a pint of Ruddles and waiting for my Tandoori chicken wrap. I was a bit taken aback when they asked me if I wanted chips with it but . . .there you are.
Lunch in Wetherspoons
This is the first time I’ve taken the bus from Birstwith for the 20 minute ride to Harrogate. I couldn’t believe it when it cost 5 pounds 50p. Yikes! Twice on the country lanes the bus had to stop to let lorries negotiate the inches between us and them. There was only one lady at the bus stop and I struck up a conversation with her, initially as to whether I was on the correct side of the road for the bus to Harrogate. It turned out that she used to live in . . .Truckee, and was quite familiar with the Donner party story. It’s a pity I didn’t have my Donner party hike hat on! She lived for 23 years in the US, including Las Vegas and returned to the Harrogate area seven years ago.She prefers village life to the hustle and bustle (where?) of the big (?) town. Like me she’s been ancestry hunting for the last seven years. Initially she believed she was the first member of her family to go to the US, but no. Aren’t these coincidences weird? It reminded me of Keith who said that the first time he ever visited Bath he felt as if he was going home – but he’d never visited it before his Jane Austen trip. The ‘Truckee lady’ exchanged a ‘Have a nice day’ as we got off the bus and I set of to wander the streets of Harrogate. The stores are predominantly upscale women’s clothing stores, chic tea rooms and coffee shops. There’s even a Jamie Oliver restaurant. High fashion is here – summer frocks abound and I’ve seen more high heels and maxi dresses in the last 2 hours than I have on the rest of the trip combined.
Elegance in Harrogate
The Tandoori chicken (rather dry) and salad (rather sad) were adequate but my table just by the open door to the garden area was lovely. “Are you a secret shopper?” came from over my shoulder. It took me a minute to understand the question but someone on the adjacent table thought I was writing a review of Wetherspoons. She commented that sometimes the food took an hour to arrive! I must admit that when I ordered and they told me that the food would be at least 20 minutes I was somewhat taken aback. But I wasn’t in a hurry and the 30 minute wait gave me time to write up my journal.
Wire in the Blood author, Val McDermid
Next stop was the Oxfam book shop where Val McDermid was to hold a question and answer session at 3 p.m. I’d helped Judith write a brief press release for the event and the author’s name seemed familiar but when I saw the display I realized that she was the author of Wire in the Blood – that wonderful psychological profile series with Robson Green. About a dozen people showed up and I don’t know how many of those were the book shop staff! Currently Harrogate is hosting an international music festival and a crime writers festival. I’d though about getting a day pass for the writers festival for tomorrow but the 97 pound price tag made the cost prohibitive (!). Here I was getting a very up close and personal chat with the author for free . . . and she was happy to sign a used copy (the only ones Oxfam carry) of that very book for me. It was great to hear sentences like,’When I was chatting to Coin Dexter he told me he’d never set foot inside a police station until he’d completed the first five Morse books.” and she related how J. K Rowling came to review her rewrite of Northanger Abbey, bringing it into the 21st century.
Judith had joined me for the book talk but she needed to return to work – this time her job doing some bookkeeping at a vet’s in town, so I settled myself in an upper room at the surgery for an hour or so while she completed her work. We had dinner at The Old Spring Well in Killinghall on the way home since she’d had a particularly taxing day.
Last year when I stayed at Judith’s in the tiny estate village of Birstwith I had commented on the large building on a hill overlooking the village. Originally the entire village belonged to the Greenwood family and all the buildings were constructed for the people who worked at the cotton mill. Swarcliffe had turrets and towers and looked very
Swarcliffe today
imposing. Judith told me that it once belonged to the mill owner but was now a private school. It was only when I got back home and read about it that I discovered that Charlotte Brontë had resided in this house for the summer of 1839 when the Sedgwick family for whom she was a governess to the two small children moved here for the summer. The home belonged to Mrs Sedgwick’s parents. So on my visit this year I wanted to see if I could get a closer look at the building. As luck would have it Judith knows a teacher there and so we arranged to meet, first in the teacher’s home (next to the post office) which was once the mill manager’s home and then she would give us a short tour of Swarcliffe. In her elegant home she provided me with a copy of a letter that Charlotte wrote to her friend Ellen Nussey, describing how dreadfully unhappy she was at Swarcliffe. Charlotte just
The school library
wasn’t a ‘people person’ and with the entertaining of guests and the care of the youngsters (she was not fond of children either) she felt very lonely. “As it is I can only ask you to imagine the miseries of a reserved wretch like me thrown at once into the midst of a large family – proud as peacocks and wealthy as Jews – at a time when they were particularly gay, when the house was full of company – all strange people whose faces I had never seen before – in this state of things having the charge given me of a set of pampered, spoiled and turbulent children, whom I expected constantly to amuse as well as instruct.”
It was a steep climb up to the school, passing the church, but one that Eleanor Bird does each day on her walk to work, where she teaches English. Once a boys’ boarding school it is now an expensive day school for children from nursery school age to eleven years old. Fees are 10,000 pounds per year. Little of the original building that Charlotte knew remains. In fact, probably only the original stable block (which is now a classroom)
The stable block that Charlotte would recognize
remains, which may account for the place having no’ blue plaque’ but for me to simply take in the views that she would have looked out on was simply magical. Again it was a very warm day – 80F – and the scenery and extensive grounds looked idyllic, but as Eleanor pointed out, in poor weather (i.e most of the time!) chaparoning the students from one building to another between classes is an arduous duty for the staff. I noticed a noticeboard with the names and successes of about 20 students in the ABRSM music exams. I think I could teach here! I suspect that most of the students go on to ritzy boarding schools and there were some fliers on hand for places like Seburgh and Uppingham, though Eleanor said that some go to local schools too.
The interior has been kept up to look as much like a stately home as possible, though the children won’t see how unusual a school it is until they leave – or become adults. The ornate ceiling and large mirror in particular caught my eye, as well as the amazing views. Eleanor said that she could sometimes see Middlesborough, 70 miles away, on a very clear day. The maid’s bells were mounted and labeled in a corridor and one was the school room. 
In the afternoon we took a stroll along the river Nidd passing Mr Greenwood’s old mill, now a fertilizer factory, which make a very intrusive noise, and then we drove about 5
Strolling along the River Nidd from Judith’s house
minutes to Cold Cotes, the Bed and Breakfast where Judith took up a job last month helping to serve breakfast. The extensive gardens were open to the public as part of a fund raiser for the Royal Gardens. I met the owners, who moved there quite recently. The
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- Judith at Cold Cotes garden
property was listed for one million pounds. There are eight rooms for BnB, beautifully landscaped gardens and lovely views in all directions. What a difference from Hebden Bridge where the population is all squished together on the steep hillsides. Here we were greeted a lady from the Royal Gardens with a plum in her mouth, and the visitors were showing up in their BMWs and Mercedes convertibles. I sipped a glass of wine and took in the scene.
In the ‘Secret Garden.’
For our evening’s entertainment we watched Brassed Off, one of my family’s favourite movies, and I was surprised to see places that I now recognize – the Piece Hall in Halifax, and I’m sure I caught a glimpse of Studely pike in the distance.
We set off at 9 o’clock for a grand day out in Whitby. If we’d have driven direct it would have taken us about 2 hours but we stopped to look at The Finest View in England, according to James Herriot who wrote All Creatures Great and Small. In Helmsley we had morning tea and a cake. It was a lovely little market town, busy with elderly couples enjoying the dozens of tea shops. There were lots of lovely flowers in hanging baskets too.
Giant hollyhocks in Helmsby
We reached Whitby at noon and I could hardly believe the number of holiday makers on the beach, wandering around the narrow streets, and queuing up, 20 deep in some places, for fish and chips, which now come in a blue and white box – rather than newspaper as
Whitby Beach
they did when I was a child. We were on the headland overlooking the beach (complete with donkey rides) across from the abbey. I barely recognized the place. I’d visited as a child with my parents and was fascinated by the jet for sale in the shops. Then I’d hiked there with Colin along the coastal footpath from Saltburn to Scarborough, a punishing
Looking across to Whitby Abbey
hike over several days, and we’d stayed at Whitby Youth Hostel which was situated at the top of 199 steps up the cliff – this after a 23 mile hike! Here was the stereotypical British tourist, ladies in skimpy sundresses and men in all their shirtless splendour – not!
Queuing for fish and chips
We had lunch in a small cafe but it was so hot that it was difficult to eat anything. After lunch I headed for the Captain Cook museum while Judith wandered around the town some more. of course it was no cooler in the museum but it was fascinating to see original documents that he had signed. It was in this building that James Cook served his three year apprenticeship. A special exhibition told the story of the wives and sweethearts the sailors left behind – and how they coped. The exhibition focused on the wives of Cpt Bligh and Cpt Cook.
Cpt James Cook lived here
We decided to drive up to the other headland across the river where the abbey is situated. A wall just above head height surrounds the abbey and the only way in is through the new
IThe Abbey. I stood in awe of the people who built this place on this exposed headland.
Visitors’ center. It was too late in the day, and still too hot, to go inside so instead I went in search of the Youth Hostel. It’s now located in a spiffy new building behind the visitors’ center – very smart – but then I spotted the building we’d stayed in. It’s now Abbey Cottage – a private dwelling. I wanted to see the 199 steps that we’d climbed at the end of a
(Melting) Ice cream at the Abbey
very grueling day but before I found them I found a very, very steep cobbled street that runs adjacent to the steps. I didn’t remember that as being an option.
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- Colin walking up steps to youth hostel in Whitby
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- Heather running up same steps 34 years later
We stopped to collect some groceries and arrived home at 7:15, just in time to talk to Sarah over Facebook. It was still ridiculously hot as I tucked into my cottage pie an hour later.
A very hot Heather in the heather
Judith left for work and I stayed home. In fact, it took me all day to sort through my photos and write up my blog, sort out my luggage and take a walk to the one corner shop in the village, which also doubles as a post office. She came back around 5 and then immediately set to work trying to recoup the extra money that we’d had to spend on my train ticket to/from Edinburgh because Virgin hadn’t sent me a confirmation email with a ticket number on it. I suggested we walk up the street to the Station Inn for a drink around 9:30. It had been very hot all day – a complete contrast to the days in the Outer Hebrides. It was around 80F when we went out and it was impossible to sit outside in the beer garden because of all the flies. 
Lizzie left early to go on a 5 K color fun run so I had the house to myself – well.almost. Daisy came and made herself quite comfortable on my lap while I had my morning cuppa. Still tired but excited for the morning’s adventure to try and find where my great, great grandfather Robert Dean lived in the six years when he moved from Patricroft near Manchester to live in Scotland, before returning to Barton-upon-Irwell and dying there soon after. Several of his 6 children were born in Portobello.He himself was one of 10 children.
His address on the 1861 Scottish census is 30/2 Tower Street which implies the second floor, therefore probably a tenement block. I had been in contact with the Leith historical society and someone had told me that in the 1960’s Portobello underwent some street name changes and Tower Street is now Figgate Street. I’d selected Lizzie’s place hoping I could walk there. (As I write this Faure’s Pavane has just come on the radio, part of the London Proms. I recently performed this with Sarah and the Cabrillo Symphonic winds.) It 
took me 35 minutes. It was grey outside again. That’s the color I most associate with Edinburgh: steely grey sky, sea, and grey foreboding stone houses. Yet the human life in the city is colorful, distinctly cosmopolitan and vibrant. Getting lost in an underpass at the first roundabout on my walk got me a bit dispirited and I contemplated taking a bus instead but I really wanted to walk there. After asking for directions from obvious locals and getting three completely different responses I finally figured it out. I’ve learnt that it’s only by walking places can i sense the spirit and flavour of a place.
The ‘Welcome to Portobello’ sign, ‘Edinburgh’s Seaside’ was adjacent to the railway bridge after which the main street retains its original cobbles. It’s this railway that brought Robert to Portobello where he held the position of Railway Goods Superintendent, presumably a significant promotion from his previous job as station master at Patricroft. As I stood on his street now I wondered whether he went to Portobello for health reasons too. He died, aged 39, from tuberculosis. It was thought at that time that sea air was beneficial for that condition, and Anne Brontë died at Scarborough, on the coast where she had gone for the help the bracing sea air could give her poorly lungs. I knew that Portobello is on the coast but I didn’t realize that Tower Street actually connects Portobello High Street to the sea front. The tower which gives the street its name is still there, newly refurbished but all the older buildings on the street have long gone. It’s now the site of an amusement arcade. But parallel to it are little alleyways, walls and doorways, all that remains of older dwellings. A couple of older tenement blocks are also close by, but most buildings which had date stones post date 1861.
Tenement blocks in Portobello
I caught a bus back to 41 Corbiewynd feeling proud of myself for getting off at the correct stop. There’s a big difference in people’s attitude here. I told the bus driver where I wanted to go. “One pound 60.”I gave him 2 one pound coins. “No change given on this bus.” I deposited the two pound coins in the box and then he pointed at something. I’d no idea what he was pointing at – and then i glimpsed a ticket peeking out from a machine. I gave it a tug and behold – it was mine! No-one here thanks the driver when they get off. In Hebden Bridge everyone said Thanks, and the driver would reply, ‘See ya’ luv.’ It’s little things like that that make me warm to a community.
AirBnB#2
Lizzie was driving to the center of Edinburgh to take Daisy for a walk so she dropped me off at the station. I was 2 hours early for my train but I’d planned on having some lunch there. But the station was in chaos. There’s been a fatality on the line south of the city where a person had been hit by a train and so all the trains south were either cancelled or severely delayed. The reservation system had been abandoned and everyone was allowed to board any south-bound train they could get on. After dragging my luggage up and down the lifts to several different platforms because of all the last minute platform changes I eventually found a train to Kings Cross stopping at York. Everyone else in the coach were students from China who all promptly fell asleep after consuming vast amounts of snacks. This train, too, had to run very slowly and only reached York in time for me to catch t my intended train to harrogate where I arrived at
Victorian decorations at York railway station
7:50 and Judith was waiting to drive me back to her village of Birstwith, 8 miles from town.
We were all checked out and on the road by 9 a.m. The weather for our hour’s drive to Tarbert was much clearer than yesterday. The steepness of the winding roads through the mountains and past the lochs was quite delightful. We passed a few hardy souls on road bikes – and they were mostly women! Our bus get in line for the ferry to Uig on Skye and then we had an hour to explore Tarbert – again. When everyone else made a beeline for the same coffee shop as the previous day I headed on up the main street to get views of the 
harbour. Many of the cottages do a good trade in B and B. There were a few houses with flowers in the garden but very few, so when I spotted a couple they drew my attention. The community center behind the coffee shop had a craft fair and I would have been tempted to buy some souvenirs but they didn’t take credit cards. Then I wandered over to the new 
distillery, the first one to open in Harris, where a peat fire was very welcoming. There wasn’t time for a tour but I remembered Sarah going to one in Ireland, early one morning, so I had a coffee in honour of Sarah! I intended emailing it to her immediately but on asking the waitress for the internet password I was tole, ‘I can’t give it to you because we want to encourage you to socialize.’ So I socialized with my cup of coffee until it was time to board the ferry ‘Over the sea to Skye.’ The rain was coming down hard. It felt like sleet, and a couple of motorcyclists said they’d seen snow on the road on the higher ground.
It was a crossing of one and three quarter hours to Uig on Skye and we’d been told that we must have lunch on the ferry, so that we could get on with getting back to Edinburgh. It turned out that although Brightwater has been doing this itinerary for a number of years they recently placed things in a new order and we were only the second tour with the new order which accounted for Ali’s concern with timing.
Soon after we went through Kyle of Lochalsh we came upon a bad road traffic accident and for a while cars and tour buses turned around, backed up a very narrow lane and promptly got stuck. We ‘d no idea of the length of time we’d be stuck there. I was surprised to realise that the driver had no GPS or smart phone. Ali told of one time when the road had been closed for 8 hours in a similar situation. There are no back or side roads here! Eventually we got going again after an hour or more but we had to pass the remains of the vehicles involved which rather upset me.
As we traveled across Skye I kept seeing road signs which recalled my one and only visit to the island with my parents in 1971. I didn’t know I still knew the names of the places! We passed the commando monument that I have a photo of me, my friend Susan there.It was a 4 hour drive to Spean Bridge where we stopped for 30 minutes – just enough time to guzzle down a salad at the only place to eat there. I recalled a stop there with my mom at the woolen mill, and I’m pretty sure I bought some yarn to make a hat with!
We arrived in Perth at 8.55 but then had to wait for a different driver to be sent out because Ali had exhausted his driving time for the day because of the accident. It was a 35 minute wait for the new driver to show up. Ali didn’t have the new driver’s cell phone and the driver didn’t have Ali’s. A group member asked for a toilet while we waited (we’d just driven 2 1/2 hours) but Ali said the council toilets were closed for the night. I suggested we found a pub. ‘You can do that?’ everyone asked.There seemed an amazing reticence at doing that. outside the first pub I found was a bridal party.
We transferred buses and arrived at our departure hotel at 10:20. While all the others on our group checked in to the Marriott I got the concierge to call me a taxi to my Airbnb in Portobello. “It’ll cost a packet,” he remarked. I thought about saying, “Yes, but it’ll be cheaper than staying here,” but I kept that too myself but I was so tired that I almost inquired about the cost of a room. But I knew my new host, Lizzie, was excited for me to stay there because I was to be her first Airbnb guest. The ride cost 25 pounds.
The road to Portobello took me along Princess Street, Edinburgh’s downtown area and I saw the castle lit up high above the city. Even at this time – 11 p.m. crowds of people packed the streets.Lizzie, and her little dog, Daisy, welcomed me with a cup of tea and within 15 minutes I was all tucked up in a really comfy bed. I dreamt about the Queen and Lionel Ritchie . . . .er . . . .not together – but still . . .
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