Arthur’s Seat: 250.5m above sea level. Lat 35°56’43".8N, Long 3°9’38".3W. How the Hell did I get here? As I recall, it all started with Eddie Cooper, "Oh my God, you’re going to Scotland? You have to go to Arthur’s Seat. If you do nothing else you have to go to Arthur’s Seat. Promise me you’ll go to Arthur’s seat."

I chuckled to myself, "Alright, Eddie, I promise you I’ll go to Arthur’s Seat." We had this same conversation at least five or six times, so thankfully the name had been ingrained into my memory. Otherwise, who knows if I would have made it there. My trip to Scotland has just been one big shot in the dark, walking in one direction or the other, hoping to stumble upon something historic and/or beautiful. Usually I succeeded; other times I’d end up in the Port of Leith, beautiful only to me for reasons that people here in Edinburgh couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

As I had gathered from Eddie, and from the others around my hostel, Arthur’s seat was going to be somewhat of a challenge, so it required some preparation. The first thing was to lose the church clothes, I needed proper adventuring gear: cargo jeans, sneakers, a hoodie, and my backpack. The second order of business was provisions: one bottle of water, one loaf of French bread (in lieu of lunch), and one can of beer to be consumed at the Seat, as a celebration of my accomplished climb.

Map in hand, I set out from Prince’s St. East Hostel, walking up North Bridge, turning left onto High Street and walking the Royal Mile to Holyrood Palace. Then it was down Abbeyhill until there it was; A very large hill. Rolling along with other hills around it, it was beautiful in its splendor and daunting in size. The green was something not of this earth, contrasted by the brown and grey rock that jutted out all along the footpaths. Although it was a beautiful day, I couldn’t see all the way up the hill on account of the fog. I gave it a good long look, "Jesus," I thought, "I’m going to walk up that thing?" I took some photos to remind myself in the future of what I climbed, and then I set out.

I walked along the trail at a steady pace, hoping that the walk would take forever, but at the same time wishing that there would be instant gratification. Other groups ahead of me and behind me were stopping for breath, dropping like flies, and letting the hill take them, not the other way around. I carried on, I was conquering the hill. It was going to be mine. I was the lone soldier leading the charge.

I stopped to look over the edge of the trail and snap a photo. The fog still hadn’t lifted and the city was still draped in a thin gray blanket. I hoped that once I got to the top, the fog would have burned off and I’d get a better view. I carried on, but stopped when I heard quick footsteps getting closer. Someone was running the trail. Who the Hell would run this trail? They glided past me and all I could do was admire. I loved to run, and I loved to take on a challenge, but this was just ridiculous. I silently applauded their efforts and carried on by myself.

The fog was lifting, making the walk a bit disorienting. Where there should have been a clear line of vision off the edge of the trail, there was only gray mist. In the distance some of the city was visible, but it still gave me a dizzy feeling. I knew how high up I was, but I couldn’t make sense of it visually, and I kept feeling as if I was developing vertigo.

I pressed on, following the trail until it started going downhill. I thought to myself, "This doesn’t seem right, why am I going down when I should be going up?" But I let my doubts pass and kept on walking. Finally, I hit a grassy pass between to hills and walked further down into a small valley. Then it hit me; that wasn’t even the Arthur’s Seat hill, it was just one of the crags. I hadn’t even started the Arthur’s Seat climb yet. I swore quietly to myself and realized that my wish of an infinite walk may very well come true.

I started my climb up the second trail and could feel the lactic acid burning hard in my legs. I was sweating and my breathing wasn’t as easy as it was before, this was truly becoming a challenge, and I was loving every second of it.

The trail was very thin, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast down it. Spider webs were in the bushes all along the walk, and, as with the other trail, the drop off the side of it was quite steep. The red mud accumulated on my shoes as I attacked the hill with sheer determination.

As I ascended to the peak of the second trail, my disappointment kept growing. The fog that had been so pervasive the first leg of my trip was not breaking up at all. It seemed almost to be getting stronger, calling for reinforcements.

Still, the trip hadn’t been a total loss so far. Arthur’s seat was only a short climb up a steeper hill, and the clouds that I could see from my vantage point were quite beautiful. They looked unreal, as if they had been painted there, on a big canvas right in front of me. I thought I could have picked up a rock, hurled it at the clouds, and watched as a big tear formed across the painting. I took pictures but I knew they wouldn’t do any justice to what I had actually seen. I sighed heavily. The sky was blue but the mist was still below me. I wouldn’t be able to see the splendor of Edinburgh, just some fog.

I looked up at the sky, then looked back down a slope to my right. What was a pond doing there? Had that been there the entire time? How could I have missed it? I took a quick picture and looked to my left. The valley. The valley I had just come up from was staring back at me. I looked all around and saw the mist rolling back in all directions. I put my pad of paper away and strapped my bag back on, rejuvenated by the thought of the perfect view from Arthur’s Seat.

The rocks were slippery and I stupidly chose a weak trail. I nearly fell a couple of times, but it didn’t matter, it was like seeing the finish line of a marathon. I got to the top and stood breathless, not because I had moved so quickly up the slope, but because the sight was so beautiful.

Before me the whole of Edinburgh was spread out. I could see Edinburgh Castle, Scott Monument, Calton Hill, Holyrood Palace, all in perfect clarity. I could see a football stadium and wondered to myself, "Hearts or Hibs?" but let the thought pass and kept on taking in the city. Beautiful architecture, monuments, parks. I was struck by how much of the city was occupied by trees and grassy spaces. It was like a perfect combination of urban and rural environments. I looked farther north and could see the ocean and the Port of Leith, beautiful from far away, wretched up close.

I sat on the rocks and watched a crow hop by me. If someone had been there to talk with me, I wouldn’t have known what to say. I was speechless. I heard a train sound its whistle, then I heard the siren of a police car. It was calm and I could hear everything, the sounds of the city, the sounds of nature, everything the world had to offer. If you really stopped and listened, you could hear the wind. If you really stopped and looked, you could see each individual blade of grass dancing on the breeze, magnificent in its simple beauty.

With the entire city spread out before me, I was finally beginning to understand why the Scots are so proud. Politically they’re British, but they’re ethnically Scottish. Next to any Union Jack you’ll see the Scottish flag, the cross of St. Andrew proudly displayed. They’re proud of their history, of their heritage, but most importantly their proud of the land.

This land is beautiful. I understood why people would fight for this, would die for this. This land doesn’t play into my heritage at all, but I could completely understand laying my life on the line for it. Who couldn’t appreciate this, all the beauty? It stretches for miles and miles, the hills roll on continuously. The trees are tall and strong, the grass is soft and green. It is the ideal picture of a country side.

I breathed in again and slowly exhaled. I didn’t want to come down. Ever. I wanted to be Scottish, I wanted to live and die in these hills. I wanted to cheer for Hibernian and spit on Hearts. I wanted to drink pints of Tennent’s with Bell’s Scotch whisky on the side until the shaven-headed bouncers threw me out onto the cobblestone roads. I wanted to walk the Royal Mile and attend services at the Parish of St. George and St. Andrews. I wanted this to be my world.

But I’m not a Scot. I’m a blend of Eastern European heritages living in upstate New York. That didn’t make the experience any less special for me though. I couldn’t call it my own land, but I could be proud and happy for the Scots who could lay claim to it. I reached into my bag to put my camera away and saw the can of Tennent’s I had brought along. I decided to save it. It just seemed so pointless to waste my time drinking a beer when there was so much beauty before me. I sat for a while longer. I really did want to stay there forever, but I knew I couldn’t. I sighed at the prospect of walking back down. I moved to get up, but something made me stop.

"Just a few minutes more," I whispered to myself. I couldn’t stay forever, but I didn’t have to go just yet.