The first thing I did on rising was to gloat over my clean clothes and organised room. I didn’t mind that the hostel was noisy and Spartan because I was well organised. I was very pleased to be staying in a real youth hostel, and after three showers (they were free) I was ready to face the youths, so travelled by elevator to the restaurant.
Actually it was more of a dining hall. Okay, it was a large room with a television in it, and a table with bread and stuff. It was a queue up affair, but that didn’t bother me. The toast was a bit thin, but that was okay, and the juice was sticky and sweet but I didn’t really mind. However, there was no coffee, and the tea was dodgy, and these things concern me. I took my tray and sat in a corner watching the people, who were of course doing the same, though some had books to read. A couple came in, and I watched with amazement as the female of the species collected food for her male. Then it happened again (different couple), but this time, happily, the male prepared the computer for the female so she could talk to her friends over breakfast. I was reminded of a Brazilian homestay student in our house who was found in the laundry holding clothes up to her laptop camera, and taking advice from her mother in Brazil about how to wash each item. I have seen some very odd things in my time, most of them in my own home.
After 'breakfast' (I'm not really sure what else I should call it, but it wasn't the breakfast that I know and love) I travelled by foot to the railway station, and thence by cheap day return to Edinburgh. I wish they wouldn’t call them cheap – it sounds like a nasty cheap rather than a good deal financially (what’s wrong with bon marché, anyway?). It was very pleasant, as I was able to buy coffee on the train, had no luggage to carry, and was very clean. Even my socks smelt and felt good. Edinburgh is a lovely city with an enormous castle in the middle, and a large green area for walking and eating on. I went to the tourist information centre (being a tourist), bought a Sinclair keyring for Rodney (Sinclair is his middle name and his mother's maiden name), and got directions to his family home and chapel, Rosslyn Castle and Roslin Chapel. The bus left from stop 15a at 37 minutes to the hour, but when I got to the bus-stop it was already 45 minutes to the hour. My maths is excellent fortunately, so after spending some time with my cellphone making some calculations, I worked out that I had maybe 30 minutes or more to wander around, so I visited the local art gallery. Actually the British art galleries are quite good. I saw some very famous art works, and the toilets were fabulous. No modern art this time, just lovely old dark ones.
I got the 37 minutes to the hour bus around quarter to, and got to Roslin 6 miles later. 
Everyone got off the bus at Roslin so I assumed they had read Dan Brown's book or perhaps were Rodney's relatives. Some of them spoke French, so I figured Rodney hadn't told me everything about his background. Roslyn Chapel is very old, very cold, and very interesting. It’s built of a soft stone (is that an oxymoron?), which I guess was comparatively easy to hack at, so it’s intricately carved with all kinds of messages and symbols leaping out from the stone work.
I listened to a tour guide and wandered about checking stuff and noting things, then went downstairs to the crypt and thought about the church cat that crept into the crypt, crapped, and crept out. Fortunately I didn't see any evidence of his visit. I checked out the mason’s pillar and stood under the pointy thing on the ceiling over where the Holy Grail might be. Apparently some people feel a deep sense of peace when they stand there, but I felt a funny feeling in my ankles and a grippy feeling around my throat, from which I conclude that there is at least one body buried under the stone. Probably not worth digging up – it will be too old to be any use, and the teeth will have fallen out. I bought a muffin and a book for Rodney and headed down to the castle ruins, just below the chapel. I loved the castle, which had beautiful views of the Esk Valley below.
Back in town, I checked out the local castle and the Royal Mile. I found a tartan mill and bought some lovely scarves for people at home, and then looked around a working mill. I thought of my ancestors working in mills, and how the machines clanked and rattled so loudly - it looked to me like a lousy job. I guess they couldn't be picky in those days, as the unions weren't the best. I managed to get back to the station in time for my cheap day return and travelled back to Glasgow, where I enjoyed another salad and small bottle of wine, perched on my desk looking at the Clyde and marvelling about how wonderful everything little thing is.
Then while I was eating and drinking and looking at the Clyde, I realised I had to give a presentation the next day, so I hauled out my laptop and rewrote my PowerPoint, which is what I usually do the day before a presentation. I moved things around, then back the other way, changing pictures and font sizes and even the order of the slides until I decided perfection was an elusive thing, quite like a butterfly, and there was just no point in chasing it. So I looked one more time out the window, then went to bed to the sound of football supporters singing as they staggered around Glasgow. I hoped they wouldn't fall in the Clyde.
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