Scotland

I’m blinking through floor-to-ceiling windows that perfectly frame a pristine view of Edinburgh Castle, standing magnificent against an improbably cloudless Scottish sky. The elegant writing desk in the Archibald Signature Suite at 100 Princes Street hotel has all the makings of an elevated “work-from-home” set up, but the scenery – and the collection of aged single malt I know to be upstairs – make concentration an uphill battle. This luxury townhouse right on, you guessed it, iconic Princes Street was made for luxuriating, not hunching over laptops. Ducking into the entrance on Princes Street feels exclusive, like knowing a secret.

When Guillermo del Toro’s new film adaptation of Frankenstein makes its bloody advent on Netflix later this year, the backdrop for 19th-century body snatching and resurrection may look familiar to many viewers. It was shot last year on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile and images from the set suggest that, as ever with del Toro, this will be a hallucinatory and haunting exercise in Gothic extravagance. If so, he has picked the perfect city on which to unleash Frankenstein’s monster. Edinburgh is a place that wears its long and often violent history like a velvet cloak.

In the narrow strait between Jura and Scarba, the sea does strange things. Standing waves barrel over phantom surf breaks. Steely waters seethe and swirl, as if stirred by invisible hands. No wonder the gulf’s name, Corryvreckan, means “cauldron of the speckled seas” in Gaelic; this is the world’s third largest whirlpool, classified as “unnavigable” by the Royal Navy. Yet here I am, aboard a thirty-seven-foot rigid inflatable boat (RIB), riding the rapids. Skipper Sandy Campbell cuts the engine so we can try “boat surfing,” the swell dragging us apace past Scarba’s looming quartzite cliffs. Islanders of old dreamt up mystical explanations for this phenomenon.

It is a strange coincidence that both my sister and I, born and raised in Scotland, have married Americans. I live in New York. Lily lives in Nebraska. But we were both in our mother country over the summer visiting family and keen to make the most of our British culinary tradition. There is more to miss than you’d think. Diluting juice, which the English call “squash,” fruit flavoring added to water. A Sunday carvery, roasted meat and potatoes, with gravy and vegetables, complete with Yorkshire pudding. Fish and chips. Real chocolate. Decent Indian food. Breakfast cereal not coated in fructose. Tea worthy of the name. And above all, freshly baked scones. Americans may think they have scones rhyming with “stones.

The city of Edinburgh, Scotland’s capital, really comes into its own twice a year. Firstly is August, when its streets are thronged with revelers and amateur PR types (“four stars in the Scotsman!”) promoting their wares at the world-famous performing arts festival. And then the second comes at the end of the year, during the New Year’s Eve period of Hogmanay, which sees anyone claiming long-distant Scots ancestry taking part in the revels for a day or two, just as it seems anyone in Boston on St. Patrick’s Day suddenly remembers their long-lost Uncle Padraig or Great-Aunt Shelagh. In any case, Hogmanay in Edinburgh is a marvelous experience, freezing cold aside, and best experienced from the surroundings of somewhere comfortable.

Halloween traditions might hail from All Hallows’ Eve, the Christian celebration preceding All Saints’ Day, but that has roots in Samhain — a Celtic pagan festival. Long before Westerners carved pumpkins come fall, the Scots were sticking knives into "neeps" (turnips). Disguised children ("guisers") warded off evil spirits on the streets of Scotland centuries before brats in Gryffindor scarves demanded Twinkies.  There could hardly be a better place to spend the spookiest time of the year than Edinburgh, with its reliably moody weather and litany of imposing buildings. Those seeking to be truly disturbed need simply research the capital’s very real history of witch hunts, public executions and plague.