Wednesday, 18 May 1955
B. sounds reveille at 7:30. We’re all beat from a bad night’s sleep. The towels supplied in our alleged state room (saloon-class as it were) seem to be dirtier than rags that gas stations in the US use to check your oil. We lug our gear off the ferry and catch another well-turned-out taxi to Glasgow’s railroad station and the morning train to Edinburgh.
We arrive at 9:40 AM after a dreary ride through factory areas and urban blight. Check the bags at the station and go over to American Express for suggestions where we can find good bed-and-breakfast accommodations. We’re sent to a Mrs. W.but the clerk doesn’t make the address clear. After several unsuccessful attempts by various trams, we get there with the kind help of our fellow passengers. They are “vairy ‘elpful.” The Scots way of speaking English is delightful. We love the way they say, “rrrrrrright ye are,” and “doan ye noooit.”
Edinburgh reminds us a bit of Boston, has an air of gentility but not a whole lot of it.
It’s very gray and gingerbread-y with granite and brick and jig-sawed wood trim. It’s not small-town and Georgian as Dublin was, and the weather is cold and raw.
Mrs. W’s is a steep walk-up tomb near the university. It’s crummy and no bargain, but we take it. We rush back into town to buy some warm sweaters and socks. Shops on the whole appear pretty dumpy and the sales people kind but not too helpful.
We have lunch in a department store restaurant which is crowded and a good sign. Sit with a couple of Scots ladies who are very friendly. One suggests we take a trip to Oban, a charming fishing port in the Highlands. Then the biggest hailstones we’ve ever seen come crashing down as we leave for our digs.
Mrs. W. blames them on our A-bomb experiments.
We have dinner at the Brown Derby, recommended by a fellow guest. It’s also cold and clammy but the meals are adequate. Ruth got a look at the cook, says it’s a good thing that I didn’t. Apparently his apron was as dirty as a coal man’s overalls.
Uniforms are everywhere to be seen in Edinburgh. The drawing is that of a bank messenger. He is wearing a military cap with visor protected by what appeared to be a refrigerator bowl cover. He wore campaign ribbons from service in World War II and hash marks denoting years of service below a sergean's stripes. He wore white gloves and slung a shiny leather bag from one shoulder. His hob-nailed boots thundered along the sidewalk as he marched with arms flailing in a most military manner. The look was one of urgency and grim determination.
We got the hell out of his way.