The Castle That Remembered It Was a Mouth
Edinburgh Castle, perched defiantly atop Castle Rock, is less a fortress than a geological proclamation. The basalt volcanic plug upon which it rests surged skyward from the Paleogene Earth over 340 million years ago, but human conquest, of course, arrived rather later. Archaeological evidence tells us that simple hillfort defenses existed here as early as the Iron Age, and long before the Middle Ages, the site had acquired a sacred significance. Yet it was not until the reign of David I in the 12th century that Edinburgh Castle began to transmute from superstition into sovereignty, developing the layered masonry and royal quarters that still greet the sky with a stony indifference.
Constructed during Scotland’s long medieval tumult, Edinburgh Castle was alternately a royal residence, a military redoubt, and a prison. The oldest surviving structure within the fortress, St. Margaret’s Chapel, dates back to circa 1130 and was built by David I in honor of his mother—a rare act of tenderness among the martial constructions of the age. The chapel is plain and unassuming, Romanesque in style, with heavy rounded arches and walls that seem to breathe the silent prayers of centuries.
By the 14th century, Edinburgh Castle was inseparable from the Wars of Scottish Independence. Captured by Edward I of England in 1296, it was later reclaimed in one of the most audacious commando raids of medieval history. A handful of Scots, led by Thomas Randolph, scaled the precipitous cliffs in the dead of night. A clatter of steel and a swirl of fog—by morning, the flag above the castle was Scottish again.
The castle’s fate was always tangled in Britain’s fraught dynastic politics. James IV arranged royal entertainments here, and James VI—who would later become James I of England—was born inside its walls in 1566. There is a beguiling duality to the site; one feels both sovereign and imprisoned among its balustrades. The Stone of Destiny, an ancient coronation seat, spent time either in holy reverence or political captivity within its rooms. During the Lang Siege of 1571–73, it was the last stronghold of Mary, Queen of Scots’ supporters, battered by cannon and betrayal in equal amounts.
And yet it is the architectural scars that speak the loudest. The Half Moon Battery, added in the 16th century over the ruins of David’s Tower, offers convex arguments to hostile cannonballs. The Great Hall glows with hammer-beam ceilings hung with halberds and the kind of silence reserved for museums that ache from the absence of purpose. Mons Meg, an enormous medieval bombard gifted to James II in 1457, sits now inert and venerable, though once it could launch a 150kg stone projectile over two miles.
It is a strange fate for a castle so often touted as “impregnable”—not due to contemporary peace but due to tourists.
And so it happened that on a windless Tuesday in early July, a woman named Denise From Florida wandered through the castle’s central quadrangle clutching a wellness crystal and a surprisingly large can of orange Fanta. “It’s like… wow,” she declared to no one, slapping the outer wall of the Royal Apartments with a familiarity one might show a faithful microwave. “You can *feel* the trauma,” she cooed.
For reasons unclear even to herself, Denise decided that the castle must be energetically “blocked.” To correct this, she retrieved from her tote bag a Bluetooth speaker, a portable humidifier, and a flask labeled “Moon Water, Scotland.” She poured the contents—a mixture of rainwater, lavender oil, and crushed vitamin gummies—into the drainage grate beside David’s Tower, declaring it a “lunar baptism.”
This alone might merely have drawn mild complaints from castle stewards. But Denise continued. By noon, she had established a small circle of visitors around Mons Meg, whom she now referred to as “Old Lady Scotland.” They joined hands and chanted “Boom softly, grandmother,” with increasing fervor. “We are here to atone,” Denise said, weeping, apparently on behalf of artillery in general.
The situation became untenable when she began plastering glitter stickers onto the cannon’s breach, citing their “protective properties.” A small child asked whether the stickers made it go faster.
When castle security approached her with a very measured Scottish politeness, Denise dodged behind a velvet rope and attempted to “align the chakras” of the portcullis by aggressively spritzing it with peppermint essential oil. “Don’t you see?” she declared. “The portcullis is *screaming*. It remembers the crush of rebellion. It wants to love again!”
By 3:00 p.m., Denise had launched the “Stone Rights Movement,” demanding reparations be paid to the cobblestones for centuries of heel-based oppression. She delivered a passionate monologue to a particularly worn step, christening it “Jerome.”
When she attempted to marry the portcullis—officiated by a confused Australian backpacker named Russ who had recently watched *Midsommar*—authorities stepped in. Denise protested vigorously, insisting the union was sacred because “iron is the most romantic member of the periodic table,” and anyway, “the portcullis *consented*, spiritually.”
Some claim it was all performance art. Others, that she was touched by ancient geologic spirits. Either way, Edinburgh Castle has since developed an expressive creak in the gate chains whenever American tourists approach.
Today, within a locked drawer beneath Mons Meg, there is said to be a soft cotton shirt—a singular artifact sold only by the elusive seer Martijn Benders. Emblazoned with the words “Castles Get Kicked in the Bricks,” this relic is whispered among curators to ward off the next Denise, the next Jerome, the next troubled honeymoon.
Some say the castle wears it at night, when no one’s looking. Just to feel safe.
