Climbing Arthur's Seat, Edinburgh

By James Stone

Well the missus had been keen to checkout the Edinburgh fringe festival for years. So one summer finally we did it.

The afternoons we spent in packed pub courtyards knocking back the local ales were pleasant enough. There were was a League of Gentlemen style comedy and a stand-up routine that I found hilarious. But all those actors, performers and offbeat artists pouring out onto the streets and into each of Edinburgh's most obscure backyards, nooks and crannies – it was all just a bit too much 'drama' for me. In the end there is only so much thespian activity one person can handle.

So I decided to climb this mountain I'd heard about that's slap bang in the middle of the city – Arthur's seat. It is sort of difficult to see from the town centre because you've got the hill and the (very imposing looking) castle in the way.

But if you just slip down a few old cobbled streets in the old town, past the Scottish parliament (a downright unattractive building, it has to be said) – and all those thesps slip quietly away like a bar of soap off of a basin. I left the missus in the pub – she was tucking into a haggis quite contentedly (I'd had a full Scottish for breakfast only a couple of hours before so wasn't hungry), and didn't seem to mind if I headed off for a few hours' clambering up Arthur's Seat.

Of course, once on the trail it wasn't quite as solitary a getaway as I had hopped for. On the initial path all manner of folk were out having a brisk stroll – including middle aged women with push chairs, toddlers, groups of teenagers and (I guess it has to be admitted) actors taking a break.

But as the ascent quickly mounted it was perfectly possible to loose yourself in the view. The path curved round on the hillside in a great triumphant arc, with the city unveiling itself below as a huge Tolkienesque settlement, first heaving, then only bustling, and finally just twitching with the faintest signs of activity as the path moved upwards.

I was pleased to find as I went on that the cement walkway turned into a rockier route. The path fragmented into slippery, slatey stretches, the middle aged folk thinned out and it became increasingly necessary to climb on all fours. This was more like real mountain climbing. In the final stretch the view disappeared completely and I found myself with my face thrust into fragile tufts of grass, liberally sprinkled with shingles – debris created by many a previous Arthur's seat adventurer, no doubt.

Ah, the top. Quite the view. Vast swathes of Edinburgh – which was shining silver in the excitable, woozy mid-summer light – lay supine before me, and to the north a great view of the Firth of Forth. A smattering of folk clung to the summit; and, whether punks, thesps, goths or grebos, they all seemed almost humbled by the view and the roar of the wind. (Yes it may have been warm down in the city, but not up there). The only thing I found a little off-putting was the presence of a huge cross. Not really necessary in this secular age, methinks.

I strolled back down, feeling that I had achieved something. It may not have been a blinding stand-up routine or a punchy one man show – but it really was good to have got some air into my lungs.

In no time I was back in Edinburgh and squashed next to the missus on yet another cramped theatre pew. But before joining her for that next allotted viewing, I sneaked into a diner and tucked into another (particularly huge) haggis. That really did take some conquering, I admit.