Experience Edinburgh's Balmoral Hotel

Published Sep 19, 2006

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By James Mitchell

You're in the foyer of Edinburgh's Balmoral Hotel. You hear the great turret clock - a landmark in Scotland's capital - strike 12 from 58m above your head. And you're supposed to be catching the midday First ScotRail train to Glasgow.

Moenie worry nie.

Just step into Prince's Street, turn left, left again and head down into the station. You'll make it. You see, that clock's been running two-and-a-half minutes fast for the past century or so, for just that reason.

Dropped your passport in a hotel corridor... as happened to my wife? They didn't wait for her to come asking: there was a note slipped under the door. She must have looked pretty fraught, hurtling across the lobby, because there came a reassuring pat on the hand from a concierge before even she opened her mouth, plus a warm greeting: he knew her name and had the precious document ready.

It's that sort of place. The Balmoral, a member of the Rocco Forte Hotels collection, not only prides itself on its "remarkable five-star staff" but openly claims to have the best concierge team in Edinburgh. I believe them. Those concierges are incredibly knowledgeable, always helpful, ever ready to do even better.

Arriving at the hotel a little early, we were sat down to a complimentary glass of champagne from the Bollinger Bar at the Palm Court and offered a bite to eat as staff finished preparing our room.

We had been primed to expect something pretty special. Having dropped our Enterprise hire car at the port of Leith, we were offered a ride into the city. The chatty young woman from the rental company complimented us on our choice of a place to doss down, saying: "I'm only a driver, and they always treat me so well, just as if I was a paying customer."

Perhaps "doss down" isn't the right phrase. Our top-floor corner suite had views westwards down Princes Street, over the Scott Monument and to the classically styled National Gallery of Scotland and Royal Scottish Academy. To the left of the galleries were the patchwork houses of Ramsay Garden, while beyond them the great, iconic castle loomed high above.

Through an oval window - set in a wall so thick that one young friend (there to direct at the Festival) decided to curl up in it - drifted the strains of a piper playing in the Princes Street Gardens, which slope down to the rail tracks leading out of Waverley Station. Meanwhile from the south-side windows we looked across North Bridge towards the Royal Mile, with Holyroodhouse Palace at its foot and Arthur's Seat beyond that.

The cow parade had just hit Edinburgh in a big way (most will have moooved on by the time this is printed, though). Suspended between two Doric pillars of the National Gallery was one emblazoned in the South African flag; the next pair of pillars held another, decorated in all the glitter and beads of a Zulu festive outfit.

A pawky sense of humour was evident in the forecourt, where lolled The Three Grazers, by "Antonio Coonova", in horned, wreath-bedecked and fibreglass-white bovine glory. (It's an in-joke: the gallery is home to Antonio Canova's famed marble sculpture of The Three Graces.)

Across the way and along the Royal Mile, the Mercat Cross - whence royal proclamations and other important announcements are traditionally made - had its platform enlivened by the presence of yet another cow, Brave Moo, be-kilted in Clan McCoo tartan, face smeared blue and white like a patriotic "fitba" supporter, and armed with broadsword and shield.

Next day, and in need of an early wake-up stroll, we turned right out of the Balmoral and puffed up Calton Hill, with its rather bizarre collection of monumental architecture.

More dedicated exercise came from a near-day-long progress down along the Royal Mile, starting high at the castle end and finishing at Holyroodhouse Palace. A total of five linked streets - Castlehill, Lawnmarket, High Street, Canongate and Abbey Strand - the Royal Mile (plus a bonus 100m or so) is full of shops and taverns, churches and chapels, famous homes (John Knox's among them), and museums large and small. At the top end we watched tartan cloth being woven in the factory; towards the bottom end my wife bought a "21st century kilt"... in a camo pattern, nogal!

But there's far more to what is effectively Scotland's high street than mere thistle kitsch.

As you walk along, eyes are constantly drawn to narrow, arched passages that lead into the many wynds, courts and closes leading off the main drag... 76 in all. Some are dark, dingy and redolent of historical mystery, such as Toddrick's Wynd which, more than 400 years ago, dimly saw Mary Queen of Scots and her retinue making their way up just as the Earl of Bothwell and his accomplices were coming down the alley, laden with gunpowder to blow the queen's lover, Darnley, sky-high.

Other passages open into invitingly warm, whitewashed and tree-lined miniature courtyards that provide a refuge from the commercial and tourist bustle of the High Street.

There was no time to stop and peer down every lane: we needed to get to the end of the Royal Mile - not for the self-consciously modern Scottish Parliament building, nor even for historic Holyroodhouse Palace, but for the new Queen's Gallery there.

In an exhibition running until early next January, the largest group of Canaletto's drawings ever shown in public was on display, together with 14 of his great paintings of Venice's Grand Canal.

Edinburgh alone - and sticking to foot or bus - has enough to keep the most determined holiday-maker occupied. And don't forget the festival season. From the last week in July until the end of August, there's the Jazz and Blues Festival, the world-famed Edinburgh Military Tattoo, the Festival Fringe, the International Book Festival, the International Festival proper, and the International Film Festival.

Even so, if you'd prefer to use the city as a base, Leith, on the Firth of Forth, is just minutes away to the north when you use public transport (tourist buses also leave from Waverley Bridge, above the station), and the little port is worth visiting if only to walk through the decommissioned Royal Yacht Britannia, moored at the Ocean Terminal.

Go southwards, on the other hand, to a site much visited by conspiracy theorists and those on the grail trail of the Da Vinci Code. There the mysterious Roslyn Chapel conceals its masonic and other secrets... we gave it a miss as it was enshrouded by scaffolding at the time. Instead we drove further south, into the Border region, to Abbotsford, the home of the great novelist Sir Walter Scott. His obsession with the country's heritage was nowhere better displayed than in the collection of ancient artefacts and weaponry, including Rob Roy's dirk.

A day drive westwards led us to Linlithgow and Stirling. At the first, lochside ruins of the 15th century royal palace surround a courtyard in which stands a magnificent carved fountain. The setting is spectacular, as befits the birthplace of Mary and home to all the Stewart kings.

But why, oh why, did a benighted local authority erect, or allow to be erected, an apparent "council housing" bunker block with tiny windows in the prime position beside the swan-thronged loch and its idyllic park? It's the sort of socialist in-your-face spitefulness that, sadly, sometimes shows another side to the Scottish character.

At Stirling, castle looms above town and it's easy to see why historians describe this as the strategic military key to the old kingdom of Scotland.

The recently redecorated Chapel Royal and the Great Hall are almost vivid in their decoration, causing some traditionalists to object before finally accepting that there was nothing subtle about colour schemes in the early 16th century. Modern tapestries reinterpret ancient themes, while exteriors are washed with "royal gold" - a light, bright yellow - which shouts the pride of the Stewart monarchs in their fortified home.

Sadly, even the best of holidays must come to an end. Flying out of Edinburgh's Turnhouse airport, we're given boarding passes marked "Gate 1A". My suspicious nature makes me check the screens, not that there's one near the Gate 1A waiting area.

These show our flight boards from Gate 3, at the other end of the terminal. We trek there. Some time later, the screens change to Gate 4. Back we go. But at boarding time, the walkway leads to nowhere. We retrace our steps (unaided, no signage or staff in sight), and discover a way down the "fire exit" onto the tarmac and our plane.

Perhaps the Balmoral Hotel could give Edinburgh airport a few tips on efficiency?

More about the Balmoral at Rocco Forte Hotels. Stroll down Edinburgh's Royal Mile via the online photo galleries of Edinburgh Royal Mile

- This article was originally published on page 6 of The Sunday Independent on September 17, 2006

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