Edinburgh and its Historical Ghosts

I could go on about Edinburgh. And the scotch. The architecture. The pubs. Oh, and the meat pies. The warm beer that actually tastes alright. The scotch... did I already say that? 

I heard about these wonderful things for years about the city, which propelled to the top of my Cities-To-Visit-Before-I-Have-Kids-and-Become-Too-Poor-and-Tired-to-Travel List.

Today, I'm telling you about something else: Edinburgh loves its historical ghosts. The city bleeds history – and has a lot of history about bleeding – and embraces it. All of it.

Here, they build monuments to poets and writers, not politicians and war heroes. There too many Robbie Burns statues to count, and there's beautifully Gothic, and monumental, the Walter Scott Monument.

The Walter Scott Monument.
Writers so rarely get this type of recognition.

It's not only the monuments that give you a sense of this city's strange love of its own history, warts and all – it's the stories they tell.

History in Edinburgh, and perhaps the rest of Scotland, is taught and told in yarns over pints in a pub or through ghost stories well after dark – all with that typically wry, ironical Scottish self-deprecation. 

If you are to believe the tour guides' theatrics, this city is filled with ghosts. The medieval city, most of which still eerily stands, was so crowded the dead were simply buried under the sidewalks. You're literally walking on the dead when you window shop along the Royal Mile.

There's the legend of Bloody MacKenzie, whose mausoleum is said to be cursed and – because you must include the young 'uns – is a stone's throw away from a school. 

There's the pub in the Grass Market named after a woman who was hanged and then miraculously came back to life. There's the death and suffering Edinburgh's vault, which housed the city's poorest, most desperate during the Industrial Revolution, not a great time to be poor.

The other pub named for Deacon Brodie, the cabinet-maker who robbed the homes he built cabinets for and was hanged on the gallows he built. If the Scots are known anything it's their gallows humour.

These stories and many more about battles and betrayals and the barbarism, ages ago and in the recent past, show this city embraces the ghosts of its past – and the mysterious rolling fog and the darkly romantic Gothic architecture just fits naturally with it.

Edinburgh's Castle.

Just in case a duel breaks out,
there's lots of weapons on the wall.

The gloomy view from Edinburgh Castle.

Strolling the streets

The best way to discover a city is walking it. Strolling down streets and into distant districts, and in Edinburgh's case, up a hill and cliffs – Arthur's Seat and the Salisbury Crags – overlooking the city. On foot, we visited the Botanical Gardens and the nearby Stockbridge neighbourhood, with its cute storefronts and Georgian houses. With a hot coffee in hand, we also discovered Leith, the city's old port and working class area.

Some might prefer seeing a city from station to station on the underground subway or getting the summary on a Hop-On-Hop-Off tour bus, but all we need is two feet and heartbeat.

Discovery Walks stop for nothing!
Even the rain!

The Salisbury Crags

Deep thoughts after the walk.

Ghost Sighting

We booked a tour in Edinburgh. Usually we avoid the tourist-y things, but we compelled to do it in such a spooky, superstitious city.

We heard ghost stories in the Greyfriars graveyard and visited vaults built into the South Bridge that were built for storing merchants' wares but eventually stored people in horrendous conditions. At one point we heard footsteps running past the door of the vault we were in, even though no one else was in the tunnel.

After the eerie tour, we walked through the Old Town and snapped a few photos of the dark, quiet, deserted street on our way to a pub for a night cap. I turned around and snapped a random photo behind us.

Look closely, crossing the street in front of the church.

Upon closer examination, you can see what could be an odd reflection of light, or a ghost, crossing a street. 

Here's it looks like in the un-enhanced close-up.

Is it a ghost? Kata thinks not, but I think so – this is a city that embraces its history and the ghosts that come along with it.

Autumn's Beautiful Awkwardness

Something happened in the Dorf while we were away in Scotland: Autumn.

It's too easy to hate on autumn. Yes, it's the season before winter, but that isn't autumn's fault.


It is just the most awkward season. Is it the end of the summer or the beginning of winter? Should I enjoy fall colours or rage at the coming winter. When it's cold enough for sweaters in the morning and hot enough for shorts in the afternoon, everyone walks about with shorts and a sweater in the often vain hope it gets warm enough to ditch the sweater.

Some hate autumn. I like it. 

Maybe it's because my hometown is a city filled with trees, so every October you're treated a dizzying display of reds, yellows, and browns. Or maybe I welcome the colder weather to thin out the casual patio goers, so it's easier to get a table. Leaving only kindred spirits defiantly sipping their pints in the chilly weather!

My Carolinan Forest upbringing (look it up) makes me accustomed to a September that's pretty much another month of summer and an autumn prettiness that lasts into November. 

In the Rhineland, the summer lurches into autumn earlier than my Southern Ontario homeland and the pretty part is over quickly. Then a dank, dark, Dagobagh-esque dreariness rolls into the region and refuses to relent until April.

Despite its short-lived stay, autumn is great in Germany. Canada fights its annual culture war over putting pumpkin spice into everything, while Germans add seasonal mushrooms to everything. Pfifferling to be exact, not the magic kind. 

They put Pfifferling in the sauces, the soups, the pizza, on burgers. But unlike pumpkin spice in Canada, Germany has a social contract about not putting it into everything: Pfifferling has its place in German society and that place is not a latte or a cupcake.

This is also the season of Oktoberfest – admittedly, like lederhosen, this is a Bavarian thing, rather than a German thing – but Dorfers are still happy to gather around the standing drinking tables at their nearby bars for a frothy alt beer. 

My social feeds might fill up with Canadian angst about pumpkin spice or the coming winter or the crappy weather, but I like to remember this is the season for hockey, cosy sweaters, afternoon hikes through the woods, and, yes, even seasonal mushrooms.

Sure, autumn is darker and awkward and makes people wear shorts with sweaters to catch that sliver of warm sun before the darkness sets in – but that's exactly the attitude you want from a drinking buddy an outdoor drinking table. Cheers to the ten to twelve days of autumn before winter comes.

Autumn looks alright at the bars on the Rhein Promenade...

But it looks great outdoors.

Throwing Out People's Stuff

Packing light is easy for a weekender trip; it's difficult when you're settling for a year or two or less.

Take my old shared flat. 

A few guys took out the original lease, then transferred the lease – and furniture – to others when they moved on. Then those guys passed on their lease, and on it went until I came along.

At least eleven tenants – including, who I know of, a Canadian (me), a Brit, a Portuguese, an Argentinian, a Venezuelan, a Brazilian, a couple of French – have lived in my old shared apartment. 

When it was time for me to move on, the landlord company decided they had enough of changing people's name on the lease – and keeping the rent at the same price. It was time to move out, not just move on.

I spent the better part of August clearing it out those tenants' accumulated possessions they left behind. There was a kitchen full of stuff, a bedroom that served as a storage room, and actual storage room in the basement. All filled with stuff from people who came to the Dorf and then moved on elsewhere. 

There were beds, tables, and wardrobes to be sold or given away. Deep in the basement storage room, I discovered another desk, a bed, and two coffee tables among boxes and bags of odds and ends that belonged to tenants long moved out. It was like roommate archeology. 

The furniture could have been sold, but I figured it was was better to give it away to the million refugees in Germany. It seemed like the proper, and admittedly easier, thing to do. 

No charity would pick up furniture, despite being on the ground floor. One simply told its facebook friends about it. Another told me I must bring my furniture to them. All that was picked up was some kitchen stuff, a table, and some wardrobes.

I had helped a few refugees, but as many as I had hoped, and I faced the prospect of putting perfectly fine furniture to the curb. 

You cannot just put your stuff out on garbage day. There are specific days and, if you can't wait for those specific days, you have to fill out a form (because it's Germany) for Sperrmüll, or the bulk garbage pick-up.

It's still not that easy. You can only put out maximum five items, otherwise you must pay. I had a flat of items, well over the five limit.

I booked the free pick-up anyway and I put out over a dozen items a few days before. I hoped thrifty Germans would whittle the pile down before the garbage guys would come.

As I painted – remember, it's a ground floor apartment – I could see passers-by poking through the boxes, flipping through the romance novels, eyeing the kitchen bric-a-brac, appraising the coffee tables. The thrifty Germans came through, and stuff disappeared.

Our very own spring cleaning...
in the late summer. 

Purging Stuff in Budapest

On the right day, take a walk in a Budapest district and witness a sight: Furniture, old newspapers, books, lamps, electronics, punching bags, knick knacks and schnick schnack all piled on the sidewalks and curbs. 

You will see people hovering over their prizes, claiming them before their ride comes to pick it up, glaring at passers-by who linger to long over their claimed pile.

This is Lomtalanítás, Budapest's bulk garbage day that makes it rounds district by district through Budapest.

Kata and I had only a few days while we were visiting a few weeks ago to clear out her apartment for a renovation, so there would be no Lomtalanítás for us. There was also no time to put things on the internet and wait for someone to come along and buy them. Kata's stuff had to go fast.

Once again it was archeology. Everything was dug out, sorted, and its fate was decided as quickly as possible. There were eight years of habitation to go through. The stuff that was to be kept – books, art, mementos – went into boxes and was set aside. The stuff that was nice – more clothes, some books, kitchen stuff – but for keeping were bagged or boxed and walked down the street around the corner to a second-hand store, where these items were happily received by the proprietor.

The rest was bagged or boxed or simply set just outside the apartment and was picked up by a junk man, who undoubtedly sold the stuff worth selling later. It was like our own little Lomtalanítás for this one guy.

Me and My Stuff

You might have noticed all this stuff belonged to others. I am also guilty of some mild hoarding.

I came over to Europe four years ago with a backpack, a rolly-wheely duffle, and a hockey bag. I have added another bag, but got rid of the hockey bag due to airline size restrictions, while still trying to limit my possessions to what I can fit into my bags. I failed.

Over time, despite my minimalist tendencies, I have still managed to accumulate stuff over the years, clothes, mementos, books, have all been picked up and kept. And that's just here in Europe. I have furniture and kitchen stuff spread across a couple of basements in London, Ontario that await a verdict on their fate.

Despite the urge to limit my possession, there seems to still be a tendency to put down roots, spread out my stuff, and get comfortable.