DAY SIXTEEN: HOLYROOD PALACE

Today's post comes to you courtesy of the Scotland Ministry of History, also known as The Adventures of Jim and Mary.  As anyone worth his tartan knows, you can't swing a cat through Scottish history without bumping into Jim or Mary.  Lots of Jims but only one Mary.

Today is, in fact, the anniversary of the day Mary, Queen of Scots, was forced out of the throne in favor of her one-year-old son... (you guessed it) James.  This happened in 1567 but spend a week in Scotland and it'll feel like it just happened yesterday.  

For our last day in Edinburgh and, sadly, the last full day of Sandra Bullock, Sr.'s Scotland sojourn, we chose to make good on Magdalena's promise of Sunday, which was that although our Viator Skip the Line tickets for Holyrood Palace were for Sunday only and sort of void because we'd shown up at 4:34 (the last tour was 4:30, a fact sadly omitted by Viator), those same tickets would be honored whatever day we decided to show up and claim our rights to Holyrood Palace.  We had her word.  

One good view of Edinburgh before leaving.

"Write down her name," a suspicious Sandra Bullock Jr. said at the time.  She didn't trust Magdalena, who seemed to be giving us the brush-off when she told us "You really need two hours to fully experience the palace."  Did Magdalena just want us out of there so she could wrap things up and repair to any number of nearby (tourist-saturated) pubs?

Today we got our answer: no.

It was with trepidation that we, along with a crowd whose numbers approached the population of Luxembourg, approached the the Holyrood gates.  Making matters even more precarious, I only learned about Viator's "remove all evidence of your paid-for tour once its date passes" feature after approaching Jane, who was herding tourists toward the entrance, with our story of missed palace opportunities and regret.  "I can't find it, but Magdalena said it'd be okay," I stuttered.

"Hmm," said Jane, adjusting her kilt.  

After some fumbling, I managed to at least pull up a web page that showed I'd paid for a skip the line tour of Holyrood Castle.  That, and the iron clad word of Magdalena, was enough for Jane.  She disappeared (with my phone) into the crowd.  We tried to follow her but it was too chaotic.  We caught glimpses of kilt, then nothing.  "She's got my phone," I whined.  Finally, the most efficient member of our party spotted her:

"There she is!" Sandra Bullock shouted.

Jane was at the ticket counter, bent over, talking to a ticket seller.  He wasn't wearing a kilt, but he did have on tartan pants.  All of the guys had pants.  I saw him say "Yes," and nod.  Soon Jane returned with our tickets.  We were in.

Holyrood Palace, built in the 16th century by -- guess who? -- a guy named James, is where Scottish royalty has hung out for hundreds of years, before basically disappearing and being replaced by English royalty.  All kinds of royal stuff still happens there.  Once a year, in July (not this week, obviously), the Queen uses it as her own royal AirBnB during the non-enigmatically-named "Royal Week."  They have garden parties, meetings with dignitaries and line up the year's newly knighted and damed for their ceremonies.  If you take the audio tour you'll hear, among other voices, members of the royal family talk about how Holyrood has basically functioned as their lake house, which I eventually found a little offensive.  It's a huge palace with tapestries hanging all over the place.  It's got a throne room.  It's not "intimate," Edward.  It's just not.

My favorite part of Holyrood was the three or four rooms (honestly, there were a lot of rooms) that told the story of Mary's devious husband Lord Darnly, how he plotted to kill her personal secretary Dave right here in this room and finally did, getting a small group of guys to jump him and stab him 59 times, a total which is positively Mansonian.  What Dave was doing in Mary's private chambers is anyone's guess but the overall prognosis was the Darnly, who was Mary's cousin besides and eventually got his in 1567, when he was suspiciously blown up in a field after Mary had huddled with her advisors about the "Darnly problem."

Getty arty at the Abbey.

I also liked the gigantic room where George (II? III?) commissioned a painter to do portraits of all the Scottish rulers that had preceded him and then gave them all the same nose: his.  Nice work, George.  And the gardens were pretty cool, as was the ruins of the original Holyrood Abbey, built in the 12th century by, believe it or not, a king named David.  And not that king, fellow Jews.  A Scottish David.   And the throne room, with all of its portraits of guys named James, including one, James VI (later James I, try to figure it out), who looked quite a bit like Willem Dafoe and another, George II (I think), who braved whatever weather was going on at the time to sit for a portrait wearing velvet, ermine, silk and everything short of metal leather and sod, while carrying an orb and a scepter and looking like he had the world by the tail which, I suppose, he did. 

I also liked the portrait of Bonny Prince Charlie, because in it he looks like a sneering adolescent which, from what I can gather, he was. 

Apologies to Sandra Bullock, who was so enthralled by the temporary installation telling the story of the most recent royal wedding between Harry and Meghan, but that was part of the tour I could've skipped.  Once I had answered the only question I needed answered -- yes, Harry is already losing his hair -- I wandered around aimlessly, thinking about what I'm going to say the next time someone from England tells me the U.S. has a problem with ostentatious displays of wealth.  I kept it to myself wisely, though, for my wife does truly appreciate the glamour of the Royals.  You may have noted by now that I have no idea if royals should be capitalized.  I see it capped and I think of the baseball team in Kansas City, frankly. 

Short, dense, weird.

The other thing I liked about Holyrood was the stuffed corgis in the gift shop.  Three different sizes, some wearing a red coat.  Keychains.  Christmas ornaments.  Nice to see them get a little pub even as their royal reign seems to be coming to an end.  I would've have minded to see more representation in the myriad tourist shops on the Royal Mile, but their influence, it seems, is limited to the actual royal family.  For all I know, the Scots actually resent the corgis but are wisely keeping it to themselves or expressing their disgust through omission.  I'm just saying I wouldn't have minded seeing a corgi in a tam or something.  Not a kilt.  They can't pull that off with those legs.

How about some numbers?

7 -- confusing total of James's you get if you add up James VI / I's titles.

25 -- number of steps you'd have to climb to get from Lord Darnley's chambers to get to Mary's chambers if, say, you were interested in stabbing her personal secretary 59 times.

32,000,000 -- cost, in pounds (43 million US dollars) of the most recent royal wedding.  If I were a commoner, I'd be mad.

10,000 (EST) -- what Sandra Bullock and my wedding cost, in US dollars, in 1992.

30 -- total number of corgis kept by Queen Eilizabeth II since she got her first one in 1945.

2 -- number of travelers ahead of Sandra Bullock, Sr. on the upgrade list as of 5:44 PM BST.

1 -- Michelin stars awarded to Martin Wishart, the restaurant we'll be dining at later tonight.

That was it for today.  We'd planned on climbing Arthur's Seat but reneged, settling on the less taxing Carlton Hill after a (fill in the blank as long as it's not fish) and chips lunch at the

Adios, Stockbridge.

tourist-friendly World's End pub.  Insert Simon Pegg joke here.  Then, as we sifted through crowds toward home, all realized at once that, satisfied with our week in Edinburgh, we were all ready to move on -- Sandra Bullock, Sr. to her home in Lake Chelan, where "so much yardwork" awaits and the sparsely populated Highlands for Sandra Bullock, Jr. and I.  All that stands between us and our next steps is our long-awaited dinner at Martin Wishart; eight courses and my second opportunity (and last, because I'm shipping it, along with my dress pants, my puffy coat that I never wore and few other things home so my enormous Patagonia bag is at least sort of manageable for the rest of the trip) to wear my blue blazer.