Stirling part 2 - Landmarks and Monuments, The Haggis and Dinner:

And yes. I went into the Gift Shop first. I bought a few mementos for my daughters, a pin for the Chucks, and a Castle entry ticket and audio guide reservation for the tour. I was told I should go meet Ken in the main receiving area and I could get my guide from Mary, at the booth. All righty then! I was in business. The Castle outer entryway is impressive, and I had already gotten a sense of the weight of the place from walking around the perimeter and hillsides all morning, so I was ready to see the insides, the guts, where the magic happens. Ken greeted me warmly, and he pushed a 'free' ticket for a later tour to Argyll's Lodging on me.

Now, I have heard stories about the Scots (mostly from the English), and I was very wary of the word 'free'. But I grinned and accepted it, especially after he explained the ulterior motive: employment. Apparently Historic Scotland (as opposed to the Royal Scottish Historical Society, politics - sheesh!) is trying to press HM Government for more funding based on the vast multitudes of tourists they have to accommodate with their limited funding and staff. Ken and his comrades' goodnaturedly pushy modus operandi had achieved their body count quota and then some for Argyll's for the quarter, but they wanted to show off that they could overachieve! I'm in for that - stick it to the Man (or the Woman, in this case, I suppose)!

I stopped off in the Unicorn Cafe, off the Outer Close, for a couple of (berry) scones, coffee, and sausages. Very good, and subtly flavored. Well worth the price. The proprietoress prided herself on getting local baked goods and her staff's home cooking recipes. To the castle!

The tour was exciting, the architecture amazing. Scottish humour pervaded the audio tour. The background dialogue of reenactment of Castle life was rife with overexaggerated Scot brogue (I'm sorry if it's a different word) and little insinuations about how James Stewart (VII and II) 'left' the Scots. It was highly intelligent, engaging, and sometimes hilarious. The story of Mary, Queen of Scots's baptismal banquet for James in the Great Hall had me chuckling out loud. It was the best audio programme of any of the sites I had been to to date. We were introduced to James, James, Mary, James, Charles, and the whole lot of royalty through the lasting architecture (dubbed the National Art of Scotland) they left at Stirling. I saw the French and Renaissance influences in the buildings. The detail and warmth belied any relation of these folks to their tight, cold neighbors to the South. It was almost a Latin feeling of family and squabbling and childishness and outdoing your rivals/forebears. Very comfortable.

As far as the feelings the buildings gave me, what pervaded it was the 'oh my gosh, they carried all this up here? They carved into WHAT? They rebuilt how many times? They went through how much sorrows and still rebuilt? THIS became a garrison?' Arching ceilings and images of Unicorns, Lions, everyday and mythological beasts, cold stone transformed to tell the stories of the generations, as each left its mark on the Castle. After the tour of the four main buildings, off the Inner Close, I walked around the outbuildings and parapets of the Castle. Along the back walls, there is an almost-sheer 100-foot drop to the base of the hill. I went through the kitchens, the barracks (converted by the English to officers' quarters, while the Great Hall was converted to a mass barracks), the smithy, and assorted other Castle functional buildings. What a difference from Cardiff (the only other example I have of a war-castle)!

I checked my watch and noted that it was almost time for my 'free' tour! I hustled to the receiving area and queued up with the rest of the group. Our guide for the walk down to Argyll's was Allan, another extremely good-humoured Scot who said he'd walk us through the graveyard adjacent to the castle, as it would be more exciting than the road from the car park down (the way I had walked earlier). We all filed down a side stair from the Castle to the graveyard. It was a bright day, clearing as we got closer to noon, but I swear chill winds found us just on the occasion of stepping onto that mossy walk through the headstones. It also started to cloud up a bit. Undeterred, Allan walked us through the graves, and he told us the story of Drummond, an uptight Church of Scotland (Presbyterian to us in the US) supporter, made his fortune publishing religious pamphlets, who didn't like the idea of people picknicking and generally having a Scot good time along the embankment next to the Castle. There had evidently been a swath of unused land between the old cemetery and the hillside. Naturally, this guy bought up the land from the town (at an exorbitant fee) and extended the graveyard to cover it. He paid to have bodies and memorials relocated there and built an enormous pyramidal crypt (the Star Pyramid) with two great bronze eagles guarding it. It was built to honor people defending religious freedom in Scotland. Kind of a nice gesture, but I bet the living people missed their park too.

We eventually meandered our way to the street (Castle Street) and faced Argyll's. Now this place had some history. It had been through four or five owners of three different families, ranging from 1600ish to the mid-1800s! The original owner, when the residence was a smaller but fashonable L-shaped two-story, went with King James to London, if I recall correctly. The second owner, Sir Alexander, was involved with Nova Scotia and that failed attempt to allow Scots some colonization privileges. Then it passed to the Argylls, who successively expanded and extended and modernized it until the present day. It fell under government control in the 1800s and was used as a hospital. It was a hostel in the early 1900s, and now Historic Scotland has been restoring it so that we could see what life was like in the late 1600s in Stirling for the Earl of Argyll. It was a wonderful tour, and the H.S. people have done a remarkable job, getting furnishings and wall hangings and the like together. It was a very satisfying cross-section of upper-class colonial-era Scottish life.

By the time I got back to the Castle, I hunted up Ken, my gate-guard pal, and asked him where I could find some haggis for lunch. I told him I wanted as authentic a haggis I could get at a restaurant or pub. He tried to send me off to City Centre, but after having spun around THAT commercial district the previous night, I assured him that I didn't want American-spiced or English-blanded haggis, I wanted something he would go eat. Ken mumbled something about not eating haggis all that much, but if I were insistent, I could go to Whistlebinkie's just around the corner. Which I did. And I got The Haggis.

I walked around the corner, following Ken's instructions (I had actually passed Whistlebinkie's earlier that day), it's on St. Mary's Wynd or whatever road becomes St. Mary's Wynd along the face of Castle Hill. I walked into a front room with the standard pub layout, a couple of tables, bar, the difference from most of the English ones being the smell of cooking food that underlay the beer and sweat. I asked the barlady if I ordered food here, at the bar. She looked me up and down, and curtly jerked her thumb and pointed me to the back. 'The back' turned out to be a surprisingly well-lit dining area! I had sit-down service, and I confidently ordered The Haggis, please... The server (he) said very good, sir, would you like 'neeps and a wee bit of 'tatties with it? I asked quietly whether 'neeps meant turnips or parsnips. He winked and then whispered: "It's always turnips, sir". I said, ok, I'll get the 'neeps, but no potatoes, please. Very good! He brought me my coffee, fork and napkin, then returned with The Haggis about 10 minutes later. I had spent my time staring at the other diners. A couple were eating haggis, noone was dead or gagging. The soup seemed pretty popular, looked like chicken and rice. Most people were having tea, a couple of coffees, a few beers...

It was delightful. I think the server stared at me to see my reaction, especially after I took a picture of the plate. Sure, it had that livery flavor, and the consistency was slightly like chewy sand, but that is not a bad thing! When I went in for The Haggis, I wanted to leave myself open to the impressions that the Scots were trying to make with it, what culture there was to keep there. The Haggis is a big flying finger to other cultures, I think, all the while laughing at themselves for eating it, and everyone else for fearing it. Don't fear it, it's a lovely light-livery, peppery, oat stew. It's yummy, and more flavorful than anything I had traditionally English (with the exception of the extraordinary medium-rare ostrich with its brownish jus and roasted leeks and turnips I had at Storyteller in Cheltenham, but I think the chef snuck a French demi-glace on that one, and I'm not so sure that ostrich is traditionally English anyway). It's also a forkful-by-forkful helping of Scottish stubbornness and resourcefulness, as well as a reminder of hard times. It was very rich, however. I finished The Haggis and left the 'neeps.

Let's suffice to say that The Haggis stays with you for a while. I knew that I should have gotten a pint instead of the coffee, but... I also wanted to go to the Settle Inn. So I thanked the server and the barmaid on the way out (she was much happier to see me go, oddly), and made a left on St. Mary's down to the Settle Inn. I strode in. I walked up to the bar and asked the barmistress to recommend me a good local beer. She responded by asking me if I preferred a lager or a darker beer. I replied, the darker, the better! So she poured me Thripp-somethingorother ale, which was light for an ale, but very good, not too cold. I chatted with the regulars, a Bruce and a George, and a couple of local kids, a John and a James, had a pickled onion (whew!) and mentioned that I was from Dunedin, the sister city of Stirling in the states. I asked if I could take a few pictures, and they said certainly! So I got a few shots of the inside and hung around for about an hour/hour and a half. Pint drained, and getting on to 2:30 or so, I reluctantly left this cozy, charming pub for the cold outside world, determined to tick off at least one more sightseeing destination - The William Wallace Memorial Monument.

Now, James and John at the Settle warned me that it was the Mel Gibson monument. It looks so gothic, so imposing from the base and from across town... I figured it would have some gory history, maybe a burial chamber, arms and armor, bloody stories of war, ghosts... No. It had 237 steps, though, to the top, and a somewhat-sanitized audio history of Wallace and the Bruce and other Scot points of interest. It was definitely a worthwhile stop in that it gives an unrivaled view of Stirling and the highlands to the North. On a cloudy afternoon, near sunset, the river goes aflame with the right angle. Majestic, commanding, and COLD. I talked with a couple of American tourists being herded by their aunt who were amazed by the view also. They told me about L.A. and I told them about Dunedin. I think they won. On the way down the hill, I bumped into a couple of German tourists who were in my Argyll group, on their way up. They said they didn't want to climb all the way to the top, and I hesitated to tell them that there was really no other point in going. I'm sure they figured it out.

After climbing down the 237 steps and then half-sliding down the Memorial's hill, I was damn near frozen. Got in the car, revved the engine, and cranked the heat. I would have grabbed the exhaust pipe if it had been reachable. I spun off, and took the roundabout Northern route back to the hotel, catching some awe-inspiring views of the Highland foothills (again). I knew that I'd be coming back along this route the next day, to get to Dollar and Castle Gloom, and it was getting quite dim, so I decided to just get back to the hotel, rest my legs, and wrestle with the Internet.

I had decided that dinner would be at the well-lauded Clive Ramsay's in Bridge of Allan, the charming upscale shopper's delight to the north of Stirling. I got the Internet working, using a kludge or two, talked to the girls (Guess where I am! Oh...), lay down for a bit, then headed off. I had heard that Ramsay's tradition is 'fresh' produce and marvelous ways of using it, so I got the seasonal 'fresh' platter. Yeah. Some ham, cheese, and fruits. Not exactly reasonably priced. I mean, it was good stuff, but for a cold platter I could have probably thrown together in any deli from Long Island, I was less than impressed. I should have gotten some more haggis. Anyway, it was nice to get some fresh fruit after so long, I had been pretty much sticking to salads and roasted veg in England, and we can all guess that England and Scotland tend to be very meat-heavy. It was probably a wise choice after such a heavy lunch. Yeah.

Back to the hotel. I barely remember hitting the pillow, 'Castle Gloooooooom' running through my thoughts.

Album link: Facebook "Twinned City"

Album link: Facebook "Castle Stirling, Argyll's Lodging, and Braveheart"

[GJF: Written 26 January 2009]