The cure for jet lag
I have found it. The cure for jet lag. (Well, if you’re able-bodied, anyway.) Works like a charm. Don’t bother with melatonin pills. Skip meals only if you feel like it. No need for nap on arrival.
Just go climb to Arthur’s Seat in Holyrood Park.
Well, yes, that does require that you come to Edinburgh. What, you thought jet-lag cures came cheap?
My travel karma on the trip out was pretty favorable, all told. Not a single flight was late. I had an entire row to myself on the way to Newark from Cleveland, and while I was booked for a middle seat (ugh) to Edinburgh, I was able to switch to a window (score!) by virtue of agreeing to move so that a brother and sister traveling without parents or guardians could sit together.
I did manage to grab a few winks on the flight, which is more than I usually do; I daresay I’d have slept quite well if the North Atlantic hadn’t decided to bounce us around a bit. Those neck pillows are pretty nice! Only trick is, wear them backward. I arrived in Edinburgh without even a crick.
Passport control in Edinburgh is absurdly simple. Wait in short line, get called up, hand over passport and landing card, “business or pleasure? how long are you staying?” and then they wave you off. They’re very careful to tell you “that’s all, enjoy your stay,” probably because Americans are so used to TSA nonsense it’s hard for us to believe UK efficiency!
I’m staying in an 18th-century manor house, a sandstone confection of a place; my room is reached through a twisty maze of little blue-carpeted passages, all alike. More American hotels ought to have towel warmers, that’s all I can say. To my considerable relief, my room was ready when I arrived despite it being two hours until official check-in time.
So I dumped my stuff, changed into my trail shoes, and toddled off down Holyrood Park Street to Holyrood Park. This is, all the guides will tell you, the “hard way” of getting up to Arthur’s Seat. Maybe so. After you enter the park, you are soon faced with a fork. The right-hand path is, I think, the truly insane way up; I didn’t try it. Go left. Left leads you fairly gently around the saddle and upwards through a profusion of flowers (Queen Anne’s lace, gorse, other yellow stuff, purplish trumpetflowers, other purple things which I don’t know what they are, and of course thistles, this being Scotland), bees, butterflies, and magpies. Then you can pick one of the goat-tracks up to the Seat.
It wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t as hard as the climb David and I did in Perrot State Park. Assuming able-bodiedness as before, if you’re not completely sedentary, you can do this the “hard way.” The views on the way up are worth it!
I cheerfully grant that this was an incredibly foolhardy thing to do on an injured ankle, and I advise a good deal of caution on the goat-tracks, especially on the way down. The hill-spirits had mercy on daft American tourists today; I stressed my ankle about to its limit and had one close call, but I didn’t actually injure it. Walked back to my room for a much-needed shower feeling absolutely grand, if somewhat rubber-legged.
Arthur’s Seat. I’m telling you. Kills jet lag dead. Don’t let on or they’ll all want one.