It is a beautiful day in Edinburgh. Everybody is in the parks as though the first summer sun has slapped the city awake. And I can't get enough of the Scottish accents which roll about like fog off the firth. I came up by overnight bus, through the mist, to be spat out somewhere in the middle of town dishevelled and disoriented. So I caught a taxi to my hostel, a groovy little number in a converted church, where old junk is stacked on the balcony inside the stained glass window, and the crypt has been made into a bar. Then I spent the morning wandering with no travel guide, no map, and even less of a sense of direction. Meandered through cobbled streets, past grey houses with turrets, and eventually down the Royal Mile to
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