Traveling with Virginia Woolf
Edinburgh is just the place for thrifty, book-loving odd-balls.
Many areas, like Bruntsfield, Marchmont and Waverly sound like settings that Jane Austen has fabricated.
There is even a Bingham Park and, while I’ve yet to come across a Darcy Drive or a Wickham Way, it’s only a matter of time before mindful town planners restore the literary balance.
I suspect the city was designed by a brilliant, absent-minded professor of literature, who approached the task like the writing of an essay.
There are examples of sublime beauty, like the Balmoral hotel, the Walter Scott monument and of course Edinburgh castle, but they are clumsily linked by several hills, which pepper the city indiscriminately. The effect is similar to the reward felt by a reader who huffs and puffs their way through stodgy prose, wondering where it is all going, only to stumble suddenly on something quite profound.
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