My 3 Days In Edinburgh, All Uphill And One Dram At The Top

I had three days in Edinburgh and no car, which turned out to be the right way round. Almost everything in this city stacks up along one ridge or sits at the foot of a dead volcano, so I walked it, and my calves knew about it by day two.

What follows is the exact order I did things in. Old Town on day one, from St Giles’ up to the castle and back down into the closes. Day two at Holyrood and then up Arthur’s Seat, with a very old pub waiting at the bottom. Day three over in the New Town and Stockbridge, with a gallery, a bridge, pastries and wine.

I booked almost nothing in advance and regretted it exactly once, at the castle. Learn from that.

Day 1, Old Town From the Mile Down

Day one stays almost entirely on one slope. I started at the cathedral, climbed to the castle, then came back down into the closes that run off the Royal Mile like cracks in a wall. The rhythm is up, then down, then underground. It ends with whisky, which feels like the correct shape for a first day in this city.

St Giles’ Cathedral

Day one began with the air still cool and the Royal Mile almost empty, a coffee going lukewarm in my hand. Inside St Giles’ the street noise simply stops. Stone, cold air, a smell somewhere between candle wax and old hymn books.

The ceiling is what got me, deep blue vaulting with gold picked out across it, and then the stained glass going from grey to colour as the light came round. The Thistle Chapel sits off to one side and feels almost secretive next to the main nave. There is a candle stand near the entrance and I lit one, the way people have been doing here since David I founded the place in 1124. Entry is free and the doorkeeper takes digital donations, which made me laugh a little.

I sat in a pew long enough for the light to shift. Then back out into High Street, where the Mile keeps climbing west, and I followed it up toward the castle esplanade.

Edinburgh Castle

By the time I reached Castlehill the wind had found me, the kind that comes straight off the Firth and goes through a jacket. The approach is a slog if your knees are not keen, steep cobbles the whole way, though there is a taxi that will carry you to the top if you need it.

Book ahead. It is a timed ticket and the day I went it was flagged sold out before breakfast. Inside, the queue for the Honours of Scotland and the Stone of Destiny looks worse than it is and moves steadily. The western fortification walk is where I stayed longest, cannons pointing out over roofs toward the water. I gave it most of the morning and did not check the time once.

Honest take, it is crowded, and several rooms were roped off or cost extra on top of a ticket that is not cheap. Worth it anyway for the view and for the one o’clock gun, which still makes everyone flinch.

From the esplanade I walked back down the Mile and ducked into Advocate’s Close.

The Devil’s Advocate

The close drops away in steps and the doors at the bottom are heavy black lacquer with a crow on them, which felt like a good sign for lunch. Inside is dark wood and low light, chatter rising up from the bar below. Charred meat and smoke.

I ordered the sourdough with salted butter, the haggis and the fish board, which between them left me very full. Small tip, ask them to warm the butter, it spreads like a brick otherwise. The whisky list runs long and they pour flights if you want to taste your way across Scotland without committing to a bottle.

Not everything lands. Regulars grumble about bland sides and I would come back for the drinks and the sharing boards before the mains. Book, or you will wait an hour at the bar like the couple beside me did.

Afterwards I climbed back up the close and crossed over to Warriston’s Close, barely two minutes away.

The Real Mary King’s Close

Underground the air changes, cooler and faintly damp, and the lantern our guide carried threw everything into moving shadow. We went down through several levels of streets that were built over and then forgotten, room by room, each one tied to someone who actually lived in it.

Our guide stayed in character as a sawmaker the whole way and it never tipped into pantomime, which I was braced for. No photography is allowed. I resented that for about a minute and then stopped noticing. They take one souvenir shot at the end and sell it in the shop afterwards.

Arrive ten minutes before your slot, they are strict. The tour runs an hour or so, maybe a little more with questions, and I came up blinking into daylight feeling like I finally understood the shape of the Old Town.

From the shop door it is a short walk west and then down the curve of Victoria Street.

Victoria Street

Late afternoon light hits the upper terrace first and leaves the shopfronts in shadow, which is when the curve looks best. I walked it twice, once along the terrace above for the view straight down, once at street level to read the painted signage.

It is a short street. It takes five minutes and most people spend forty.

Busy, obviously. Cameras everywhere and that shuffling pace you get when a street is famous mostly for being photogenic. Still, the bend of it is genuinely lovely, and the drop to Grassmarket at the bottom opens out so suddenly it feels like a reward. There is a whisky shop near the foot of the street where the staff will point you across the road for a drink, which is exactly what I did next.

The Bow Bar

Warm air, low ceiling, hops and hot pastry. The Bow Bar sits where Victoria Street turns into West Bow, a few steps up from Grassmarket, and it is small enough that you end up in conversation whether you planned on it or not.

There are close to five hundred whiskies on the shelves behind the bar. I said I had no idea what I wanted and the barman let me smell three before I chose, then showed me how much water to add. The malts of the moment board is the easy way in. Food is hot pies and that is the entire list, which felt right.

Prices are lower than anywhere else I drank in the centre, surprisingly so for the location. I had a dram, then a half of the oatmeal stout on tap, and walked back up the hill with the castle lit above the rooftops and my legs complaining about every cobble.

Day 2, Holyrood, Hills and Duddingston

Day two is the big-legs day. Palace and parliament at the flat end of the Mile, then straight up the volcano behind them, then down the far side into a village most visitors never reach. I ate late, in a pub older than almost everything I saw that morning, and finished on a hill watching the lights come on.

Palace of Holyroodhouse

Day two started at the flat end of the Royal Mile, down on Canongate, with the sky doing that pale Edinburgh grey that makes stone look soft. The palace opens into a courtyard and then two floors of rooms, and the audio guide is good enough that I replayed rooms instead of rushing them.

No photos inside. Outside is where I lingered anyway, in the roofless Abbey ruins with grass underfoot and sky where the vaulting used to be, then the gardens with Arthur’s Seat sitting right there behind the hedges. The grounds beat the interiors for me, and I say that as someone who likes a state room.

The cafe does decent coffee and something sweet, and the shop is pricey apart from the postcards and the tea tins. Buy your ticket before you turn up. Give it a couple of unhurried hours.

From the gate it is barely a crossing of Horse Wynd to the Parliament.

Scottish Parliament Building

Concrete, oak and odd angles, and not one straight wall in the place. After the palace it is a jolt. Entry is free, you go through a quick security check, and then you are loose inside a building most visitors walk straight past.

I went up to the public gallery above the debating chamber, where the windows frame the hills behind, then spent a while downstairs reading about how the thing was built. Free guided tours run about forty five minutes if you register. Parliament was not sitting the day I came, so it was quiet and I had room to look.

The cafe is cheap by city centre standards, though a man in the queue told me to skip it and eat at Black Grape instead. Half an hour, or much longer, depending on how much politics you can take.

Then out the door and straight into Holyrood Park, with the crags rising directly ahead.

Arthur’s Seat

The grass smells of warm earth and, in patches, of burning, where recent fires left black scars across the slope. I went up by Jacob’s Ladder, which is relentless steps for a long stretch, and came down past Dunsapie Loch, which is gentler and far prettier.

Fifty minutes at a steady pace got me to the top, around two hundred and fifty metres of climb. Nothing technical, but there is slick rock near the summit and I was glad of proper shoes. Take water. You will feel like you are on a stair machine.

Up there the wind is biting even on a mild day, and the view goes all the way round, city on one side, the Firth of Forth and open sea on the other. I stayed long enough to get genuinely cold.

Dropping down the eastern paths, Duddingston appears below with its loch beside it, and the garden is signposted from the kirk.

Dr Neil’s Garden

Lavender first, then pine, and underneath it the flat green smell of loch water. The way in is through the kirk hall at Duddingston, across the church car park. I will save you the detour I took, because the route the map wanted was fenced off.

Inside, the garden folds into sections, each with a bench somewhere private, and the paths tip down toward the water. There is a small physic garden and Thomson’s Tower by the loch with its curling museum. Free, with a donation box, and dogs are not allowed in.

It was a weekday and nearly empty. Birds, still water holding the reflection of the trees, Arthur’s Seat standing over all of it. After a morning of hill this was exactly what I needed. I did not check the time.

From the gate a short uphill lane runs into the village, and the pub sign shows up on the corner of The Causeway.

Sheep Heid Inn

Low beams, polished dark wood and the smell of gravy, which is what you want after a climb. The Sheep Heid claims to be the oldest pub in Scotland, fourteenth century, and the back of it holds a skittles alley that a member of staff showed us without being asked.

I had the steak pie off the specials board and it was enormous and properly savoury. Haggis, neeps and tatties went past on the next table and looked right too. Reserve if you can, because it fills fast at lunch even when it sits empty at opening.

It is not flawless. Some people have clearly had bad plates here and the reviews swing hard in both directions. Mine was good, the courtyard is sheltered, and the streets around are too tight to see the hill you just came down from.

A cab back across town, then the steps that climb off Regent Road.

Calton Hill

After the last of the sun the whole city goes amber and then blue, and everyone up here knows it. The climb is ten or fifteen minutes from the centre and only steep in the final stretch, which makes it the gentle alternative to Arthur’s Seat.

At the top there is the unfinished National Monument with its row of columns, the Nelson Monument standing like a telescope, and the Dugald Stewart rotunda that every postcard of this city uses. People sit on the grass and nobody hurries. The castle holds its rock across the rooftops, Arthur’s Seat behind, the Firth glinting away north.

I stayed until the street lights came on and the cold got real. Walking back down into Princes Street with the city lit below and my legs aching from the morning, I called it there and went for a very long shower.

Day 3, Galleries, Dean Bridge and Stockbridge

Day three crosses over to the New Town and the valleys below it, which feel like a different city entirely. Art first, then the drop into the gorge at Dean Bridge, then a slow slide through Stockbridge with a pie, a pastry box and a garden. It ends in a wine bar full of locals, which is how I like to leave a place.

National Galleries of Scotland

Day three opened quietly, in the hush and warm-wood smell of the gallery on The Mound, where the building splits Princes Street Gardens in two. A busker was playing guitar out front and two children were jumping on the bronze relief map of the city, which I had wanted to photograph. I waited. They did not stop.

Inside is free, with a suggested five pound donation that feels almost rude to skip. You walk off Princes Street and within minutes you are in front of Van Gogh, Monet and Cézanne, then up through Turner and Velázquez, then a whole floor of Scottish painting with Landseer’s Monarch of the Glen and two portraits of Mary, Queen of Scots that I kept returning to.

One grumble, the glass over the paintings throws glare and you spend time dodging your own reflection. An hour or so, longer if you sit on the benches upstairs.

From the gardens I walked northwest until the ground dropped away at Dean Bridge.

Dean Bridge

You hear the water before you see it. Dean Bridge carries Queensferry Road high over the Water of Leith, traffic rolling past your shoulder, and then you lean over the parapet and there is a village of old mill houses sitting in a green gorge far below the city.

I went down the steps and walked the riverside path under the arches, which is where the noise drops off and the birds take over. The village side gets crowded with cameras, so I crossed and walked the quieter bank instead, which gave a better view of the whole thing anyway.

Telford built the bridge in the nineteenth century and it still feels improbably tall. Stay as long as the light is good, because the stone changes colour completely when the sun comes through.

From the far end the road climbs toward Comely Bank, and lunch was waiting on the corner.

The Scran and Scallie

Wood, warmth and the smell of pastry and beef the second the door swings. The Scran and Scallie sits on Comely Bank Road and calls its menu Oor Menu, split into Yer Starters and Yer Mains, with a play corner at the back for small scallywags.

The steak pie is the thing. Mine arrived with a buttery lid and a bone of marrow set in the middle to melt down into the gravy, and it takes about twenty five minutes, so order a drink and wait rather than filling up on chips the way I did. Fried haggis to start was softer and better than I expected. The sticky toffee pudding earns the room it takes.

Wines are grouped by style rather than region, which I liked more than I thought I would. The wagyu burger gets complaints. Stick with the pie.

Afterwards I walked downhill into Stockbridge, toward a queue on Hamilton Place.

Lannan Bakery

You smell it before you reach it, butter and cardamom out on the pavement, and the queue bending around the corner. I had pre-ordered, which is the trick, placed two days ahead and collected next door at the Pantry instead of standing in line. Be warned, nothing tells you that when you arrive.

The cardamom bun is the one I thought about later, the pain au chocolat had that honeycomb interior you only get from serious lamination, and the raspberry custard slice was flaky layers with sharp icing on top. Also a Basque cheesecake. Also a cinnamon and cream cheese bun, because I have no self control in a bakery.

There is nowhere to sit, which is the only real flaw, so I carried the box like it mattered. If you turn up without an order, early morning moves faster than late morning.

A few minutes north on foot and the gates of the Botanics open up.

Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh

Wet grass, cut cedar, that cool green air botanic gardens always have. I came in carrying a pastry box and found a bench, which is as good a plan as any. The grounds are big enough that you cannot see it all in one go, and I decided that was fine rather than a problem.

Rhododendrons in every colour, junipers with violet cones, water features, and a faint line of city skyline over the treetops. Entry is free and there are several gates, so pick the one that suits your direction. The Palm Houses have reopened after five years of work and run timed slots that do sell out, so book that part before you come.

I wandered for a couple of hours without a route. Cafes and loos are scattered through the grounds and the bus stops sit right outside.

At dusk I walked back toward the New Town, down to Northumberland Street.

Good Brothers Wine Cellars

A small dark room, the clink of carafes, something old on the speakers and a handful of people who clearly all live nearby. Good Brothers sits just off the main Stockbridge run, on Northumberland Street, and feels like somewhere you would make a habit of if this were your neighbourhood.

I asked for a flight and let Graeme choose. There was a Godello I would happily drink forever and an orange wine that was stranger and better than I expected. They pour 125ml, 175ml and carafes, so you can taste widely without regret, and the list changes often. Snacks are bread from Palmerston, olives, spicy pickles, and a mini venison pie I ordered twice.

Three days of hills, closes and pastry, and this is where it ended, coat still on, last glass taking its time. The walk back was ten minutes and felt like exactly the right length.

Three days is not long for Edinburgh, but it is enough to stop feeling like a visitor on the Royal Mile and start noticing which closes work as shortcuts. If I did it again I would trade one castle hour for another hour down in Duddingston, and I would pre-order from Lannan on day one instead of day three.

If you have an Edinburgh place you would add to this, tell me. I keep going back and there is always one slot free.