This morning, we’re on a bit of a mission—we literally have a train to catch—but first, we need a cab. The hotel doorman gets to work hailing one while we wait in the velvet-accented lobby of County Hall, complete with a piano. We joke about me playing the only song I currently know by heart, “Pretzel Logic” by Steely Dan. Thankfully, the cab arrives just in time to spare the lobby my performance.
Before we know it, we’re pulling into the drop-off zone at King’s Cross Station for our London to Edinburgh by train, and our kind cabbie helps us unload our bags. Farewells and well-wishes are exchanged, and soon we’re stepping into the surprisingly chilly terminal—famous, of course, for Platform 9¾ of Harry Potter fame.
A long line winds past the “magic” wall where fans wait to pose in Hogwarts scarves with luggage and owl cages. An assistant stands just out of frame, tossing the tail of each scarf for that windswept-in-mid-run look. Next to the platform sign is a Harry Potter shop, with its own line to get in.
Hungry and hoping to warm up, we spot a tavern called The Parcel Yard upstairs, advertising breakfast. The exterior brick looks original to the station, and the sprawling interior offers plenty of room for us and our luggage.
Kenny orders a “Full English” (complete with pork sausage, bacon, Hampshire black pudding, grilled tomato and mushroom, hash brown, baked beans, and eggs), and I have the smashed avocado on sourdough toast, topped with charred tomato, kale, and feta.
Before we leave, we stop to use the facilities—and I’m intrigued to discover they’re original Thomas Crapper & Co. toilets, complete with ceramic pull chains. I can now say I’ve officially used the crapper. I don’t know when this will ever come up in conversation, but I’m ready if it does.
London to Edinburgh by Train – LNER
Back downstairs, under the dramatic ceiling that resembles a giant geometric tree canopy, we begin looking for our platform. We must look a little lost, because a LNER attendant approaches right away.
He checks our tickets and consults his device, assuring us we’ll be able to board soon—and that he’ll guide us there himself.
We chat briefly about our upcoming Scottish tour, and true to his word, he soon escorts us through the gates and onto the train, even helping with our bags. We’re the first passengers to board, and we are a little surprised by how smoothly everything’s going.
We settle in with iPads and Kindles—it’s a four-hour ride ahead—but the seats are comfortable, and soon a train attendant appears to take our order: crumpets, butter, strawberry jam, and black coffee.
The crumpets are delicious—light, fluffy, and a little springy, like a puffier English muffin. Then we’re off, rumbling out of the city.
The grittier edges of London zip past the windows, quickly replaced by sweeping fields of green and shocking, highlighter-yellow patches that look like stretches of the yellow brick road.
I zoom in with my camera and snap a few photos. At first, I think it’s goldenrod, but later I learn it’s rapeseed, used to make rapeseed oil—a staple here, much like olive oil in Italy.
We stop in small towns along the eastern corridor, making our way steadily north. Near Berwick-upon-Tweed, we start catching glimpses of the sea out of the right-side windows. If my eyes could stretch across the water, I’d be looking toward the coasts of Denmark.
Finally, we arrive in Edinburgh.
It feels good to stretch our legs after the journey. At the cab stand, a short wait later, we’re unloading in front of the strikingly modern W Hotel. Its spherical shape is wrapped in a coiling brass ribbon that ends in a flourish at the top.
Our good luck continues when we discover we’ve been upgraded to a suite. The room is large and open, with a curving sofa, a tall dining table, and a mysterious burgundy and black speckled egg as a welcome gift. It looks like a dragon egg.
Kenny taps it open with a knife to reveal it’s hollow and made of dark chocolate. Tasty, but neither of us wants to polish off half a chocolate egg before dinner.
We freshen up and head out toward Edinburgh’s historic Royal Mile. The walk is easy enough, and soon we’re on the bustling main street, lined with shops, pubs, and tourists.
The city feels ancient and dramatic. We turn right, toward the castle, dodging crowds and admiring the Gothic architecture. After some searching, we lucked into outdoor seats at Deacon Brodie’s Tavern.
Kenny orders a cider; I go for a Guinness. We share a bag of crisps and soak in the view, the chilly breeze, and the lively energy of the Royal Mile.
Edinburgh’s Royal Mile is just as I imagined it—though I hadn’t expected quite so many kitschy tourist shops. Still, I’m not surprised. From our table, we can see the spire of St. Giles’ Cathedral rising like a crown above the rooftops.
Refreshed, we continue our walk, popping into shops to browse the wool and cashmere scarves, blankets, and hats. By evening, we arrive at the Scotch Whisky Experience, just beside the castle.
Our tour began at 6:20 and lasted about 90 minutes. After a quick look around the gift shop, we check in and are ushered into a darkened room with softly glowing lights and interactive screens.
The first stop is an immersive film about the land and water that give Scotch whisky its distinct character. We learn about the regions—our favorites are Speyside (home of Glenlivet and many others) and the Highlands (like Glenmorangie). The peaty whiskies, like Laphroaig and Ardbeg, are less our style.
In the first tasting room, we try two blended whiskies that are smooth and approachable. We move on to a dazzling room filled with glowing bottles—an amber-lit temple to whisky.
We taste another dram at a round table in the center. It’s my favorite part of the whole tour. The final room delivers the peatiest pour, which is not my ideal note to end on, but it’s all part of the experience.
Would we do the Scotch Whisky Experience again? Probably not. For whisky newcomers, it’s informative. But for seasoned distillery tour-goers, it feels a bit basic. Still, we leave the gift shop with lighter hearts.
As we climb the hill to view Edinburgh Castle at sunset, the clouds blaze gold and the battlements darken in silhouette. Somewhere down the Royal Mile, bagpipes echo.
Feeling the chill in the air and the first pangs of hunger echoing in our stomachs, we walked the sloping stone street to The Piper’s Rest, where there were two things I was hoping to enjoy. The first was their Cullen Skink in a bread bowl, which came highly rated, and the second was some good local traditional music.
I got neither.
Seated in the cozy back room of the pub, the waiter sadly informed me that they were out of Cullen Skink. In retrospect, I think he was more matter-of-fact than sad, but still. I ordered the soup of the day instead, which was a lentil of some sort. Fine, but nothing to write home about.
Kenny, however, bravely ordered the Haggis. Well, the vegetarian haggis. He wasn’t feeling that brave.
He enjoyed the veggie version, though, and it would be the best of the ones he tried while in Scotland. Spoiler Alert: he never got around to trying the real thing, and I think we’re both okay with that.
The music that began towards the end of our meal was not what I had hoped for, either, unless what I was hoping for was a Scottish Jimmy Buffett.
Tired from our long day, we walked down a steep, curving street to Princes Street, then headed back up toward the gleaming ribbon of the W Hotel—ready for some much-needed rest.
