I hated Edinburgh Castle

Let the record forever show: I hated Edinburgh Castle so much.

I hate feeling like a mere corpuscle in a larger tourist body, coralled into a small area, plugged into a money extraction machine, and then dazzled with ticky tacky and glimglam. Does my hating it mean other people should hate it too? No.

But does the fact that other people have a special connection to this place mean that I have to feel special too? No.

I didn't feel special here. I felt absolutely unspecial. And after walking the block after block of the Royal Mile, and seeing the same ethnic themed shops (Fudge, Cashmere Tartan, Whiskey, Keyrings, Fudge Cashmere Tartan, Whiskey, Keyrings, Fudge, Cashmere Tartan, Whiskey, Keyrings, etc) I felt bludgeoned by the time I got to the seething shoal of tourists at the gates of Edinburgh Castle. Ugh. I hated it SO much.

And I've noticed something happening with the way Scottishness intersects with Australianness. Many white Australians feel that Scottish ancestry somehow exonerates them from the white supremacy of Australia. They feel that Scottishness marks them as colonised people. As a result, the Scottish aesthetic has become deeply alluring to whites. Did Edinburgh Castle and the Royal Mile interrupt or challenge that nexus between whiteness and Scottishness? Not in the slightest. In fact the crowd was as replete with bigots as it was with progressives, and we were all equally enchanted.

What is it about stone that promises authenticity? I would say that Edinburgh Castle is proof that stone can be synthetic too. I hated it. And I refuse to dismiss my insights as the curmudgeonly condescension of some spoiled narcissist; the tourist industry can be a complete shit sometimes.

So let's draw a perimeter around that locus of capitalist infestation and mythopoetic bigotry and let me share with you some of the joys of an Edinburgh day. Because when Stuart and I were out of the river of tourist desperation, we both found the place properly enchanting, and not in a McDisneyland way, but because of its intelligence, its style, its coherence, its manners, its pace, its beauty.

Our day started at a laundrette where Leith local Alison took two giant bags of washing from us and told us she would have them washed, dried, and folded by midday for twenty five pounds. She was all smiles and reassurance. A coffee and pain-au-chocolat underneath Penhaligon's Perfumery and we were ready to walk to the Royal Mile.

Our journey took us straight to the Scottish National Gallery. We have a queer connection to this place: the best exhibition we have ever seen at the Art Gallery of New South Wales was "Treasures of the Scottish Galleries," when great paintings (Like John Singer Sargent's "Lady Agnew") came to Australia. It was astonishing how much we enjoyed that exhibition, so we had a fair idea that we would like Lady Agnew's home base.

And the Scottish National Gallery is perfectly sized, perfectly staffed, perfectly curated. I don't see how the experience could have been improved upon. Stuart and I restricted ourselves to the early moderns - a passion for us both - and saw some Titian, some Raphael, and some lesser known artists. I was excited to see work by Hubert Robert ("Robert des Ruines") with one of his rococo ruin paintings after reading Susan Stewart's "The Ruins Lesson." Another coffee on the Royal Mile before...

[this account of Edinburgh Castle has been redacted for obscenity]

...by which time we were exhausted. We picked up our washing and went back to the flat, ready to cry or collapse. My feet were killing me.

Stuart and I made peace with each other and the unhappy visit to Edinburgh Castle, and went to buy some Eau de Parfum from Aesop - it smells so sexy on Stuart. This happens in same-sex couples a lot, you know, you try to buy a perfume for yourself and it turns out to work brilliantly on your partner's skin chemistry. This happened with Versace Pour Homme, too.

We sat at Caffe Nero next to two Trans women, a man who looked like Santiago Cabrera, and a dog breed ending in -doodle, and I wiped down the table the Wet Wipes I carry everywhere, then stole some sugar and came home. We had a Waitrose Quiche for dindins and then watched an episode of Sandman on my mobile phone because our landlord didn't provide a television.

I finished the night making art, taking paracetamol, and wondering if I had been too hard on Edinburgh Castle.

I hadn't. It sucked.Read more