The Secret Garden

 It's impossible to live in Edinburgh without pretending you're in one of your favorite novels. When I ordered my graduation robes from Ede & Ravenscroft (Est. 1689) the other day, I felt like I was ready to join the trio at Hogwarts and then I remembered that Harry and Ron never actually graduated. Oh well. As long as the novel I'm living vicariously through isn't Trainspotting, all is well. However, I never expected to find myself in The Secret Garden.

Yesterday, it was uncharacteristically nice in Edinburgh (read: it actually felt like spring), so I knew I had to take advantage of Scotland's legal but unattainable drug, Vitamin D. It was a welcome reward after a week spent cloistered in the library cramming for my final sit down exam EVER. That's right I'm done with college (although I don't graduate until June 28, so you'll have to wait to see me look like a dementor in those aforementioned robes). So what did I decide to do with myself on a completely free Sunday afternoon with no work to do and no newspaper to edit? As a relapsed English literature student, I went to read, of course. Even though I'll never have to overanalyze another novel again, I can't help myself. However, on days like this the Meadows is over-run with people who believe the park is actually a beach- complete with bikinis (overly keen Scots, it was only 55F yesterday!), volleyball, and the detritus of discarded cans of cider and the occasional condom. After nearly getting beheaded by a stray cricket ball yesterday, I knew the Meadows was about as relaxing as a game of dodgeball.

 

 I sought a quieter locale and took a tip from my friend Helen, who only recently discovered the secret garden even though she's an Edinburgh native! The Secret Garden is one of those pesky secrets that actually isn't so clandestine as it seems. It cheekily hides on one of Edinburgh's busiest and more commercial streets, The Royal Mile. I'm embarrassed to admit I've walked by it half a dozen times on my way to usher a visiting friend to Arthur's Seat or for overpriced fudge. After all, you wouldn't think much about a random close (Edinburgh slang for alley) next to a Starbucks. Usually, they lead to a parking lot or potentially murder (there's even an Ian Rankin murder mystery named after Fleshmarket Close), not a secret garden.

 But if you're looking for it, Dunbar's Close (okay, I gave the secret away. I can never join Fight Club now.) is actually quite welcoming. It's a relic from the past or even another country. The 17th century garden was named after the owner of nearby tenements (the one part of this story that is less than romantic), but was stuck in the past and fell into disrepair until The Mushroom Trust (yes, really) revived it in the 1970s. It's a charmingly manicured Italian garden, which is both atypical and quintessential Edinburgh simultaneously. Yes, it looks nothing like the rest of the city, but if there's one thing I've learned about Edinburgh after living here for nearly 2 years, it's that it's full of secrets. You can never quite know it. Edinburgh is a place of perpetual discovery if you're looking.

 [It also has some of the best views of Calton Hill. You feel removed from the city, but right smack in it at the same time.]

 I didn't find Colin Craven, but I found something much better.

  It was the perfect place to get lost in the city and my book (Chad Harbach's The Art of Fielding, which reminds me that reading for fun is possible.) for a few sun soaked hours. I had a bench all to myself and only a dozen or so visitors between, who were mostly tourists. Somehow, Dunbar's Close is in their guidebook, but none of the locals know about it. I think the few who do would like to keep it quiet. (So much for my big mouth on this blog post.)

 

I have over a month left in Edinburgh and I haven't seen the half of it, which will keep this blog plenty busy (after all, I need something to keep me occupied between now and graduation. I feel unemployed.) Expect (hopefully) daily discoveries.