This is a continuation of my last post, about our time in Scotland last November.

As Andrew and I rounded the corner onto Cockburn Street, we saw the line of people before we saw the Milkman shopfront itself. “Nooo,” I sang out. I was desperate for my morning coffee and did not want to wait in line.

We walked further down Cockburn, to the other Milkman location, just to see an even longer line pushing into the road. Evidently on a Saturday morning, one does not get to enjoy Milkman without a significant wait.

We remembered enjoying our lattes at Scran the previous morning and made our way back up the elevation of the cobbled street. I don’t think the staff is used to takeout coffee orders because we most certainly confused them by ordering to-go, but they were incredibly friendly and accommodating, and I was very grateful for my caffeine. We had wanted a small breakfast in the form of some delicious pastry, so we continued our zigzag of Cockburn and popped into Edinburgh Press. After ordering a croissant for A and a scone & jam for me, we made use of their window bar and people watched for a bit. It was a colder day, around 35-40 Fahrenheit instead of the 50s it had been, and more winter wear was making its debut. I wrote in my journal, “These are a stylish group of people, I’m telling you.”

Chuffed with the quality of our baked goods, we wondered why Edinburgh Press was relatively empty that morning and assumed everyone was waiting in line at the Milkman. Don’t get me wrong, as I’ve said in a previous post, Milkman lives up to the hype. But if you visit Edinburgh, don’t forget about all the other fabulous coffee shops and cafes, because there are a lot. In the US, there’s often this idea that folks in the UK only understand tea and not coffee (and the same goes for vice versa), but I have always been quite happy with what I’ve ordered in the UK and I will continue to stand by my statement that flat whites are far superior across the pond.

And now that we’re finished with that tangent, we’ll continue.

Andrew had been eyeing a sherpa cap, a bit of a statement piece, in Swish a couple of days before and the drop in temperature had him wanting to go back to take a look at it. I feel the need to pause for a moment to say that we had no idea at the time that Swish is a very popular chain store in the UK, so we kept thinking we were perusing a local shop, which now makes me giggle at our ignorance. Anyway, as A was paying for his new cap, the associate asked where we’re from and mentioned that her gran also lives in Connecticut. After giving her a few recommendations for her next visit to her gran’s, we left the shop, once again surprised by just how small the world can be.

We had popped out early for our coffee excursion, so when we made our way back to the flat, Kelsey and Timothy were ready plan #1—Grassmarket’s Saturday market. If we’d thought Friday was busy, Saturday was positively bananas. We wove through the crowds on the Royal Mile and Bow Street once again, me huffing in impatience every time I encountered someone blocking the way due to either inattention or ambivalence (I have no chill, y’all). It was only days after that I thought, You know what, good for those people. Some were probably taking in the incredible stone architecture, while I—always terrified of holding anyone up—was just barreling along.

Grassmarket was, unsurprisingly, busy as well, but in a way that adds to the overall vibe of a Saturday market and makes you happy for all the vendors. The four of us split up a bit and meandered around the 20-25 booths, which included handcrafted jewelry, fabulous-looking baked goods, Thai food, a paella truck, adorable pet accessories, local art, antique jewelry, vintage records, and lots more. We found ourselves looping through several times, taking it all in and making sure we’d seen everything. Andrew saw me looking at a simple, but beautiful locally-crafted ring with a small piece of copper as its stone and immediately bought it for me (Thanks, A). We also stopped at a traditional Scottish sausage roll booth, which would normally not be a stop for my vegetarian self, but they had mushroom rolls, so A & I were sold. We took turns taking bites from our shared roll and declared it delicious, while K & T did the same with their sausage roll.

We were all ready for more coffee, especially once we were weighed down with carbs, so we made our way back up the hill. I had repeatedly glanced at a pair of Harris Tweed hi-tops at the Islander location on W Bow and something had me feeling more okay with parting with my money in order to get them. Stepping back out of the small shop, I stuck a newly-bedecked foot out for K & T to ooh and aah at.

Some stroke of wild luck (maybe it was the new shoes and the god of tweed smiling upon me) had us walking up to Milkman when there was absolutely no line. I practically sprinted toward the register. K & T hadn’t gotten to try it yet, so I was chuffed they’d be able to. Unsurprisingly, more flat whites were ordered and—lo and behold—we spotted a free table to sit at. The magic of Lara’s new shoes had struck again.

Properly awake again, we walked the few storefronts to the Cockburn Street Armstrong’s location (yes, we had become obsessed), since K & T hadn’t been there yet. It was as busy as ever, but we immersed ourselves in the vintage-loving crowd and took our time perusing the sweater vests, midcentury dresses, wool trousers, and even funky suspenders.

After a few purchases, we took advantage of the antique shop next door being open for the weekend. Looking around the jam-packed shop took all of two minutes as there’s very charmingly only about 6 square feet to stand in.

The Witchery, the fabulous restaurant we’d lunched at the previous day, had recently opened a shop on the west end of the Royal Mile and I was eager to take a look because there was no doubt it would be stunningly-curated. It seemed the shop already wasn’t a stranger to lines, as there was a doorperson, but my new sneakers had us stepping in during a blessed lull, when we basically had the shop to ourselves. It was pricey, which I had 100% anticipated, but held nothing but truly beautiful and quality home goods. I was tempted by the tweed pillow covers, but reined myself in. Now, if my magic shoes had somehow made the covers half off, maybe we would have been talkin’.

From there, we very conveniently and scenically made our way down Castle Wynd into Grassmarket, still gawking at the castle every chance we got, and over to Candlemaker Row (I know, the name is so cute you’d think it was fake) and the gates of Greyfriar’s Kirkyard.

As mentioned in my last post, I’d been heavily anticipating seeing Greyfriar’s Kirkyard. I’m honestly surprised I didn’t beg the group to go first thing that morning. From the hundreds of photos I’d seen of it, I knew it was beautiful and unique, but it was clear from my first few feet into the gates that it is the most gorgeous, romantic cemetery I’ve ever stepped foot in. Each wall is lined with towering gravestones and the hundreds of them are their own form of breathtaking, elaborate architecture. Many even offer the person’s vocation, such as upholsterer or bookseller.

For a place that is justifiably listed in every Edinburgh travel guide, it was remarkably calm, with only a few other folks navigating the maze of sidewalks and headstones. After days of rainless overcast skies, it had begun to drizzle, which really added to the aesthetic, I’m telling you. It didn’t take long for the dark soil to get soggy (oh no, not my new magic shoes!), but it was worth any scrubbing that might’ve been needed later.

Being the Harry Potter nerd I’ve been since age eight, I spent what felt like ages looking for “Tom Riddle’s grave.” Google Maps was leading me to the wrong spot, so I reverted to the old-fashioned method of simply looking up which section it was in and going there (shocking, I know). When I spotted the tall headstone set into one of the walls, I looked around me in astonishment that no one else was there. From the erosion-prevention mat in front of it and the lack of grass anywhere near it, it was clear that normally there would be several people surrounding the headstone that inspired Rowling’s name choice for ol’ Voldemort.

Touristy photo acquired, A & I continued our circuit of the large cemetery, peeking into some of the “rooms” along the back side which hold family plots. From the outside, they look kind of like crypts, but they’re really more like walled gardens. The doors to most were chained and padlocked, though some were ajar, lending an easier look in. At one point, we mentioned aloud that we smelled weed coming from somewhere, only to peek into the next room and spot a gentleman rather relaxedly smoking a joint inside. Of course, we awkwardly made eye contact before A & I skipped along, chuckling.

Rivaling the popularity of Tom Riddle’s Grave is Greyfriar’s Bobby, which is now a statue dedicated to a very real nineteenth-century terrier who spent 14 years guarding the grave of his fur dad until he too passed away. Bobby is now rather infamous and even has a lovely pub named after him.

The sun was setting somewhere beyond the clouds as we exited the kirkyard, walked the rest of Candlemaker Row, and turned onto the George IV Bridge, which is yet another charming area. We had spent days admiring the French Renaissance architecture of the towering Central Library building and took a chance to step inside (and use the facilities, if I’m being honest). I found myself quite jealous of the people of Edinburgh for having the ability to frequent such a gorgeous building.

Back in the flat, we searched for dinner options that might have an opening on a very busy Saturday night. After finding most booked, we lucked out to find an opening at the Beehive Inn Pub in Grassmarket, and I’m so glad we did. We were given a window table (more people watching!) in a cozy, low-lit room. Kelsey and I immediately ordered G&Ts with our now-beloved Edinburgh Gin and watched as someone outside in a Trump mask passed out fliers for a comedy show. We were trying to escape American politics, so um, no, thanks.

Soon my creamy cauliflower chestnut soup was in front of me and I was vowing to regularly make it at home (Spoiler alert: I haven’t yet). For liquid dessert, K & I ordered rhubarb ginger G&Ts. We were told they ran out of the infused Edinburgh gin we’d asked for and subbed it for “the same thing,” but what we received tasted absolutely nothing like rhubarb or ginger and more like cinnamon and clove, but we rolled with it anyway.

The magic sneakers struck again and just as the comedy show we wanted no part of was set to begin, we were paying our bill and sprinting out the door. The cobblestones were still wet from the afternoon drizzle and reflected the warm yet moody glow of the streetlamps. Candles—both electric and real—flickered in windows all along Grassmarket. Andrew and I walked along arm in arm, happy from good food, gin, and the fortune of being on a trip we were still finding it hard to believe.

K & T were craving a jaunt to Greyfriar Bobby’s Bar, so we parted ways on the George IV Bridge and Andrew & I made our way back to Old Fishmarket Close, continuing to laugh at the statues with traffic cones atop their heads and keeping an eye out for any mysterious floating lights (none in sight, thankfully). We were lounging in our flat by 9 pm on a Saturday night and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I was filled with the exhaustion of having a full and wonderful day and took absolutely no time to plummet into sleep, earplugs abandoned.

Until Part V,

Lara