When I woke up this morning, I decided to read the Lonely Planet Edinburgh that was in my room. It described a walking tour through the New Town that would end in Stockbridge. While Stockbridge has no meaning to me other than being the origin of the turnpike in a James Taylor song, I knew the walk would be pleasant, so I copied the directions into my notebook and stuffed it in my back pocket. 40 minutes later, I no longer knew where I was going. The next street on my list was nowhere in sight and I was staring up the business end of an unfriendly incline. I really don't know why I thought that I could accurately read, write and brush my teeth at the same time, but I was very wrong. However, this is Edinburgh, so even when you're lost, you're still in the midst of old and ornate buildings whose worn edges can't help but capture you. You're also frequently just steps from a whisky shop. I enjoyed a tasting. I couldn't distinguish between anything, but by that point, I was really thirsty and was hoping that I'd get a glass of water to clear the palate. I entered the cheesemonger's shop next door and was plied with baguette and various cheeses, some of which made me want to gag, but one of which - a sweet and nutty triple cream brie - proved too good to have only one piece of. Despite this, I left quickly. The store smelled like feet. I returned to the hostel after almost four hours on my feet and in the sun and fewer than six hours of sleep. This is not a ratio I'd ordinarily recommend, but it was perfect for today.