What Arthur Saw From His Seat
A hundred metres or so up the hill, Crispian gasped, “Ok, let’s take a break.” He sat down on the rocks without waiting for me to reply.
It was our third break or so while climbing Arthur’s Seat, the craggy hill crowning the majestically-placed Holywood Park in Edinburgh. The view of the city from the top was reputedly magnificent, which was why the two of us were now crawling our way along its slope.
The fact was that I too really needed a rest, so we sat down together on the rocks like stranded immigrants and listened to the sound of our ragged breathing. We were by a rocky trail worn into the hillside, ringed by smaller hills. Some had their faces shaved off into cliffs revealing gleaming black, coal-like basalt - legacy of an ancient glacier that had swept eastwards through here ages ago. The grass was a brilliant emerald green in the late summer morning sunshine; heather and thistle grew wild around us. The only sign that we were mere minutes from the centre of downtown Edinburgh was the distant rumble of traffic, and the occasional squawk of PA equipment from down the hill, where preparations were being made for the annual duothalon that afternoon. Within a few hours, the park would be thronged with lithe athletes in spandex, whizzing about on bikes.
Meanwhile, further up the hill two slightly less fit guys are sitting in the dust like mendicant friars. We had been doing this Vesak day routine the whole morning - a few steps followed by a few minutes prostrate on the ground. Wikipedia had described Arthur's Seat as a "relatively easy climb". Meanwhile, a middle-aged couple was climbing up the trail towards us. They were moving at an abnormally vigorous pace, like a DVD on fast-forward. The woman looked Japanese; neat and diminutive. She gave us a small smile as she whizzed by. Her small head passed in front of the sun, the brilliance flashing like multicoloured pixels; it was time to be on our way.
How did we come to be here? Hours ago it had seemed such a good idea. Last night, at dinner, the waiter had made it literally sound like a walk in the park.
“It’s really easy, just fifteen minutes down the Royal Mile,” he said, referring to the avenue that stretches from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace, “and it’s a half-hour climb to the top. Piece of cake.” Uh huh. I should have known when it took us a full forty-five minutes just to get to Holyrood itself. It’s these little things in life that remind you that you’re no longer 24. Or a lithe athlete in cycling spandex. Or, for that matter, a diminutive middle-aged Japanese woman.
To be fair, the trek might have taken a half-hour had we not stopped to take photos at every opportunity. When we finally reached the exposed basalt summit, the remains of an ancient volcano plug, the view was breathtaking. To the west, the old town of Edinburgh stretched out before us, punctuated by the bulk of Edinburgh Castle thrust up above the city on another ancient block of basalt. All around this squat acropolis was the new town, a remarkably consistent nineteenth-century city of broad avenues, neo-gothic buildings in shades of beer-coloured sandstone and green parks. Further north, wreathed in blue, lay the Forth of Firth, the great estuary opening out to the North Sea that traditionally marked the boundary of that ancient, recalcitrant and beautiful realm, the Kingdom of Scotland.
The decisions that led to the two of us standing, slightly breathless, atop Edinburgh was made in less-lofty circumstances, on another green, rain-drenched island under conditions that now seemed rather remote. Bear with me; take a deep breath, and make a big leap off Arthur’s Seat that takes us all the way across the world, and go back with me to the beginning.
It was late 2009. My maternal grandmother would turn 94 in August. Back then, she demonstrated her good health by doing a series of cabaret-style high kicks. Given her current progress, she might also outlive western democracy. LKY and her should become pen-pals.
How this energetic little old Macanese lady who spoke no English (“cuppa tea, cuppa tea” was all she could say) came to live in the UK was often a subject of merriment. Grandma emigrated from her native Hongkong emigrated in the nineties to Northampton, less than two hour drive north of London, with my late grandfather to live with her daughter, my Aunty May, and her husband, Paul, an Englishman.
A three-way web of discussion by email had started up between the various members of the family on the occasion of her impending birthday celebrations in August. In sunnier climes, my parents & sister on the island of Borneo, and myself in Singapore. Over there, Aunty May, communicated ventriloquently through Uncle Paul.
For a number of years now we had made it an annual ritual to visit England, more so since grandpa’s passing at the age of 90, and perchance to take grandma on a driving holiday. The issue this midwinter was that of grandma’s health. After her demonstration with the high kicks, the old lady had suffered a number of health setbacks. The discussion rotated back and forth about whether she was keen to take on the strenuousness of a driving holiday. Everyone took turns predicting her state of mind. It was like the proverbial three blind men trying to describe an elephant by touch.
To complicate things, we would be joined by my Canadian-born cousins Gabriel and Catherine, who in turn was bringing her husband Sheldon and two infant children.
Aunty May, who on her retirement had become grandma’s main caretaker, was concerned. “She needs to go to toilet every hour,” she said, “it’ll be like traveling with a leaking bucket. And she can’t eat dairy products, or eggs, or anything acidic, she’ll have digestive problems again. She won’t go.”
Uncle Paul was less convinced of the old girl’s fragility. He proposed a 3-day jaunt to North Wales for everyone, a return to Northampton to deliver grandma home, and then a shorter foray into South Wales for anyone who wanted to continue.
My dad thought of visiting his old friend Kieran in Ireland, taking the ferry from North Wales instead. Kieran, keen for us to visit him, was less than complimentary about the attractions of Wales. “You see one Welsh hill, you’ve seen them all,” was his retort.
And so forth the discussion went, bouncing from the sweltering tropics to frozen midwinter England. When spring came to Northampton, we finally decided. North Wales with everyone it was, and if grandma could take it, South Wales after.
The idea quickly took on a life of its own. Crispian decided to join me after I parted with my family and we would take a short trot up into Scotland. Back in London, Douglas would join me and we would take a trip to Paris. And when it was all done, God saw that it was good. And there was spring, then summer, and soon it was time to depart for our epic family holiday.
Flash forward and back to the fabulous view from the top of Arthur’s Seat.
It’s anyone’s guess as to how the peak above Edinburgh came to be thus called. Places connected with Britain’s most prominent mythical king proliferate like mushrooms in every moist, rocky corner of this island. We came across whispers of it throughout Wales, old stories from Cornwall, and now here in the dark, brooding north. Looking across the Firth of Forth, across the waters vanishing into the distant, smoky blue and towards the mysterious highlands, it was a beguiling idea.
Whether or not this view was what Arthur saw, if he existed, is open to debate. Did he also stand on this hill of rocks gleaming black as the cold North Sea out of which it had risen, millennia ago? This land had been subject to titanic, ancient seismic forces; great prehistoric volcanos had once erupted here, only to be choked by solidifying plugs of lava. Glaciers then marched over the land like giants, shearing away the softer rock until only the basalt plugs remained; now it was an ant hill - colonised by humans and carpeted with an urban grid of stone, cars and concrete.
Today other seismic forces are now at work across the British isles and across Europe. If Arthur presided over the dawn of a nascent and transformative Europe, some commentators are saying we are now witnessing its decline. The recession has bitten deep here, and governments all over Europe are slashing budgets. Over the next few weeks, we would encounter strikes from London to Paris protesting these various austerity measures. For old Europe, with its multilayered, storied tapestry of cultures, is changing. Like the great glaciers that created Edinburgh’s dramatic landscape swept eastwards, so is the great fulcrum of economic power shifting perceptibly towards China and India.
King Arthur may or may not have stood on this hill named in his honour, but one thing was certain: this was going to be a trip to remember.
It was our third break or so while climbing Arthur’s Seat, the craggy hill crowning the majestically-placed Holywood Park in Edinburgh. The view of the city from the top was reputedly magnificent, which was why the two of us were now crawling our way along its slope.
The fact was that I too really needed a rest, so we sat down together on the rocks like stranded immigrants and listened to the sound of our ragged breathing. We were by a rocky trail worn into the hillside, ringed by smaller hills. Some had their faces shaved off into cliffs revealing gleaming black, coal-like basalt - legacy of an ancient glacier that had swept eastwards through here ages ago. The grass was a brilliant emerald green in the late summer morning sunshine; heather and thistle grew wild around us. The only sign that we were mere minutes from the centre of downtown Edinburgh was the distant rumble of traffic, and the occasional squawk of PA equipment from down the hill, where preparations were being made for the annual duothalon that afternoon. Within a few hours, the park would be thronged with lithe athletes in spandex, whizzing about on bikes.
Meanwhile, further up the hill two slightly less fit guys are sitting in the dust like mendicant friars. We had been doing this Vesak day routine the whole morning - a few steps followed by a few minutes prostrate on the ground. Wikipedia had described Arthur's Seat as a "relatively easy climb". Meanwhile, a middle-aged couple was climbing up the trail towards us. They were moving at an abnormally vigorous pace, like a DVD on fast-forward. The woman looked Japanese; neat and diminutive. She gave us a small smile as she whizzed by. Her small head passed in front of the sun, the brilliance flashing like multicoloured pixels; it was time to be on our way.
How did we come to be here? Hours ago it had seemed such a good idea. Last night, at dinner, the waiter had made it literally sound like a walk in the park.
“It’s really easy, just fifteen minutes down the Royal Mile,” he said, referring to the avenue that stretches from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace, “and it’s a half-hour climb to the top. Piece of cake.” Uh huh. I should have known when it took us a full forty-five minutes just to get to Holyrood itself. It’s these little things in life that remind you that you’re no longer 24. Or a lithe athlete in cycling spandex. Or, for that matter, a diminutive middle-aged Japanese woman.
To be fair, the trek might have taken a half-hour had we not stopped to take photos at every opportunity. When we finally reached the exposed basalt summit, the remains of an ancient volcano plug, the view was breathtaking. To the west, the old town of Edinburgh stretched out before us, punctuated by the bulk of Edinburgh Castle thrust up above the city on another ancient block of basalt. All around this squat acropolis was the new town, a remarkably consistent nineteenth-century city of broad avenues, neo-gothic buildings in shades of beer-coloured sandstone and green parks. Further north, wreathed in blue, lay the Forth of Firth, the great estuary opening out to the North Sea that traditionally marked the boundary of that ancient, recalcitrant and beautiful realm, the Kingdom of Scotland.
The decisions that led to the two of us standing, slightly breathless, atop Edinburgh was made in less-lofty circumstances, on another green, rain-drenched island under conditions that now seemed rather remote. Bear with me; take a deep breath, and make a big leap off Arthur’s Seat that takes us all the way across the world, and go back with me to the beginning.
It was late 2009. My maternal grandmother would turn 94 in August. Back then, she demonstrated her good health by doing a series of cabaret-style high kicks. Given her current progress, she might also outlive western democracy. LKY and her should become pen-pals.
How this energetic little old Macanese lady who spoke no English (“cuppa tea, cuppa tea” was all she could say) came to live in the UK was often a subject of merriment. Grandma emigrated from her native Hongkong emigrated in the nineties to Northampton, less than two hour drive north of London, with my late grandfather to live with her daughter, my Aunty May, and her husband, Paul, an Englishman.
A three-way web of discussion by email had started up between the various members of the family on the occasion of her impending birthday celebrations in August. In sunnier climes, my parents & sister on the island of Borneo, and myself in Singapore. Over there, Aunty May, communicated ventriloquently through Uncle Paul.
For a number of years now we had made it an annual ritual to visit England, more so since grandpa’s passing at the age of 90, and perchance to take grandma on a driving holiday. The issue this midwinter was that of grandma’s health. After her demonstration with the high kicks, the old lady had suffered a number of health setbacks. The discussion rotated back and forth about whether she was keen to take on the strenuousness of a driving holiday. Everyone took turns predicting her state of mind. It was like the proverbial three blind men trying to describe an elephant by touch.
To complicate things, we would be joined by my Canadian-born cousins Gabriel and Catherine, who in turn was bringing her husband Sheldon and two infant children.
Aunty May, who on her retirement had become grandma’s main caretaker, was concerned. “She needs to go to toilet every hour,” she said, “it’ll be like traveling with a leaking bucket. And she can’t eat dairy products, or eggs, or anything acidic, she’ll have digestive problems again. She won’t go.”
Uncle Paul was less convinced of the old girl’s fragility. He proposed a 3-day jaunt to North Wales for everyone, a return to Northampton to deliver grandma home, and then a shorter foray into South Wales for anyone who wanted to continue.
My dad thought of visiting his old friend Kieran in Ireland, taking the ferry from North Wales instead. Kieran, keen for us to visit him, was less than complimentary about the attractions of Wales. “You see one Welsh hill, you’ve seen them all,” was his retort.
And so forth the discussion went, bouncing from the sweltering tropics to frozen midwinter England. When spring came to Northampton, we finally decided. North Wales with everyone it was, and if grandma could take it, South Wales after.
The idea quickly took on a life of its own. Crispian decided to join me after I parted with my family and we would take a short trot up into Scotland. Back in London, Douglas would join me and we would take a trip to Paris. And when it was all done, God saw that it was good. And there was spring, then summer, and soon it was time to depart for our epic family holiday.
Flash forward and back to the fabulous view from the top of Arthur’s Seat.
It’s anyone’s guess as to how the peak above Edinburgh came to be thus called. Places connected with Britain’s most prominent mythical king proliferate like mushrooms in every moist, rocky corner of this island. We came across whispers of it throughout Wales, old stories from Cornwall, and now here in the dark, brooding north. Looking across the Firth of Forth, across the waters vanishing into the distant, smoky blue and towards the mysterious highlands, it was a beguiling idea.
Whether or not this view was what Arthur saw, if he existed, is open to debate. Did he also stand on this hill of rocks gleaming black as the cold North Sea out of which it had risen, millennia ago? This land had been subject to titanic, ancient seismic forces; great prehistoric volcanos had once erupted here, only to be choked by solidifying plugs of lava. Glaciers then marched over the land like giants, shearing away the softer rock until only the basalt plugs remained; now it was an ant hill - colonised by humans and carpeted with an urban grid of stone, cars and concrete.
Today other seismic forces are now at work across the British isles and across Europe. If Arthur presided over the dawn of a nascent and transformative Europe, some commentators are saying we are now witnessing its decline. The recession has bitten deep here, and governments all over Europe are slashing budgets. Over the next few weeks, we would encounter strikes from London to Paris protesting these various austerity measures. For old Europe, with its multilayered, storied tapestry of cultures, is changing. Like the great glaciers that created Edinburgh’s dramatic landscape swept eastwards, so is the great fulcrum of economic power shifting perceptibly towards China and India.
King Arthur may or may not have stood on this hill named in his honour, but one thing was certain: this was going to be a trip to remember.