The third day in Edinburgh brought even harsher weather and another refusal to enter the castle. Instead, we went into the National Museum, a brilliant place teeming with history, archaeology, and Scottish lore. Before we could fully grasp it though, we were called away for an unlikely meeting with an old friend from Sonoma Academy, Grace Erny. Grace, who is studying in Edinburgh, brought us to the Elephant House, the cafe where J.K. Rowling wrote the first chapters of Harry Potter. Sitting there, chatting over coffee, and gazing out at Edinburgh castle, it was easy to imagine the inspiration she must have gotten from the castle, city, and coffee-house for her story. Catching up with Grace was wonderful, and afterwards we got some Turkish wraps before heading off on further exploration of the city. This time we went to St. Giles Cathedral, an imposing place with beautiful woodwork and gaudy paint, and the most enchanting chapel adjacent that either of us have ever seen.  We go to a strange museum called the Museum of Childhood, full of dolls houses and wooden horses and every old toy that children ever played with. A purpose built temple of nostalgia. Upon emerging we dash straight into Games Workshop, which is next door, and are again transported back to the wonders of toys and battles and being king or emperor of your own little kingdom, in the way you only can at that age. Finally, we traipsed into the new part of town and followed long avenues until we reached the suburbs. We were in search of the botanical gardens and, though they were closed when we ultimately found them, the walk was enchanting. The neighborhood through which we strolled on our way there was one of the most idyllic I have ever seen. Sweet stone houses with golden light glowing from within, surrounded by trees and decorated by snow, with a stream running past in front of them and no interruption to the beautiful silence save the crunch of snow and the occaisional pffft of a snowball (thrown at me by Casey, with unfortunate accuracy). In a daze, we wandered back into town, where we found a fair of magical proportions. With little wooden huts selling crepes and gingerbread and cocoa and mead and pies and pastries and toys made by santas elves. People laughed with red cheeks and cold noses and Christmas music played decadently in the background. The lights and the joy and the smells (Christmas is All About smells, I have realized, from gingerbread to cinnamon to chocolate and happiness and pine and warmth) were entrancing, and we felt ourselves wrapped in joy and warmth. We drank mead (a warm honey drink) and warm Scottish ale with ginger, and walked back to Argyle basking in the reflected warmth of beautiful Christmas.

After dinner, we went out to a pub called Sandy Bells, recommended by Grace, where we lounged with aged Scots and listened to fantastic music, played by a bunch of serious Celts. The tunes were played on instruments ranging from familiar to bizarre, bagpipes and flutes and accordion to name a few, and were full of energy and joy and rhythm. Sitting in that warm little place, full of music and happiness and comaraderie (we were, I believe the only non-Scots there, but our enthusiasm for music allowed us to be accepted), we knew we had found the Edinburgh we had been searching for, the city we had set out to find.