It started back when I was a young lass and fell in love with the stories of a seriously legit genius detective and his equally awesome and medically trained flatmate. The writer of these stories was also totally cool and just happened to have been born in Edinburgh (This information is very important, remember it because it is key in this story). Fast forward a few years and I'm less young, still lass, downright obsessed with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson and in a shocking turn of events in Edinburgh (See, I told you). Therefore my dragging my flatmate to Picardy Place to see the statue erected in honor of my favorite author was inevitable and honestly I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. We walked from our flat all the way down Princes Street and took a left, surprisingly without getting lost.
First there was a pub. The Conan Doyle, a sign sporting the silhouette of arguably the most influential fictional character of all time and a portrait of his creator. I tend to lose control over my speech over the silliest things, and this pub was one of them.
After the pub there was a small plaque on a building that declared that this small circle of buildings in the middle of my current home was in fact the birthplace of Sir Doyle and again I lost control of my mouth. I also began to regret not bringing my copies of the complete adventures of Sherlock Holmes on this particular excursion.
Then there he was, the great detective himself. Well, a statue of the great detective himself but nonetheless I was so excited I decided that I needed to get a picture with him which is saying a lot. I stood and marveled and spouted off pointless seemingly random facts about Mr. Holmes and Sir Doyle until my flatmate decided it was time for tea and we left in search of sustenance. During our search for a coffee shop I proceeded to get my flatmate and myself terrifically turned around multiple times, a fairly common occurrence, and through the use of rare free WiFi and Google Maps we eventually got on the right path and the rest of our day was as smooth as fine scotch. However I should have taken heed of the universe trying to warn me of my poor directional skills. Sadly, I've never been good at spotting obvious signs.
The next day I rose bright and early determined to visit the famous Doune Castle where bits of Monty Python and the Holy Grail were filmed. I set out alone on an ill fated journey back to Stirling for what I was sure would be the final time. The Internet had told me that by taking a train from Edinburgh to Stirling then a bus from Stirling to the village of Doune I would arrive at my destination safely and be free to take pictures and frolic about to my hearts content. Murphy's Law says that anything that can go wrong will go wrong and being the sharp witted college student I am had avoided incident until I reached the bus station. After checking a chart to figure out exactly what bus I needed I turned around to see it drive off without me. 20 minutes after the next bus was supposed to arrive I boarded and asked the driver if I could in fact get to Doune Castle via that bus, he replied in the affirmative. I then asked which stop it would be and he told me there would be a library. It needs to be mentioned that the majority of the bus drivers I have met in Stirling and other more rural areas are jerks who hate tourists. The bus was empty save for me and a handful of other people. At this time I barely had an hour at the castle before it closed and when I saw a building with a bunch of books painted on the windows I followed two people off the bus, but only after asking the bus driver if that was in fact my stop. When he nodded I departed. As the bus drove off I found myself face to face with not a library but a creepy primary school in the middle of the twilight zone. The people who had left the bus before me seemed to just vanish into the damp grey scenery. The entire town, which lined a single cracked road, seemed deserted save for a black cat who hissed at me as I walked passed. The only shop around was closed, there was only one bus stop and no other bus for another hour. So I did what any self-sufficient 20 something would do and called my mom, who was in the United States and could do absolutely nothing to help me, and waited alone in the misty rain disheartened at never actually reaching my destination. My bus driver snickered at me as I boarded the bus.
I tried the following weekend to get to Doune Castle with a few friends in tow for safety but we discovered once we arrived in Stirling that the castle had closed the day before and wouldn't reopen for a month.
I can't get no satisfaction.
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