Tale of Two Celtic Capitals: Urban Explorer's Journey Through Edinburgh & Dublin

Edinburgh doesn't merely sit upon the landscape—it emerges from it, as if the ancient volcanic formations decided to transform themselves into human habitation. My exploration began with a pre-dawn hike up Arthur's Seat, that magnificent extinct volcano embracing the city. As the sun broke through morning mist, Edinburgh revealed itself in layers: the medieval density of Old Town, the Georgian elegance of New Town, and beyond to the steel-blue Firth of Forth.

What strikes me as a translator is how Edinburgh's urban design reflects linguistic structure—the winding medieval closes (alleyways) of Old Town function like complex subordinate clauses in Scottish literature, revealing meaning gradually, while New Town's ordered streets echo the Enlightenment's precise prose.

I spent hours wandering the Royal Mile, but the true discoveries came when I ventured into the wynds and closes branching off this main artery. Each narrow passage tells a different story—some lead to hidden courtyards where time seems suspended, others to unexpected viewpoints framing the city anew.

My daughter would have been fascinated by Greyfriars Kirkyard, not just for its famous canine guardian, but for how nature and stone have co-created a space that feels simultaneously solemn and vibrant. I documented the unique lichen formations on centuries-old tombstones—a living fermentation process transforming stone over generations.

For capturing Edinburgh's dramatic contrasts, my compact travel camera proved invaluable, especially in the atmospheric lighting conditions of autumn. The camera's excellent low-light performance perfectly captured the golden hour glow on Edinburgh's sandstone buildings.

Where Edinburgh speaks through stone, Dublin communicates through word and story. The linguistic landscape here feels like an ongoing conversation—one that I, as a translator, found myself naturally joining. My urban exploration centered around literary Dublin, not just the obvious landmarks like Trinity College's Long Room (which houses the Book of Kells), but the living spaces where literature continues to be made and consumed.

I spent an entire afternoon in the warren of independent bookshops around Grafton Street, where contemporary Irish writers receive the same reverent treatment as Joyce and Yeats. What fascinated me was how these spaces function as community hubs, with impromptu poetry readings and passionate debates about translation choices—something that reminded me of similar literary communities in Seoul.

Dublin's pubs deserve special mention not as drinking establishments but as storytelling institutions. At the historic Davy Byrnes (immortalized in Joyce's Ulysses), I listened to locals dissect the etymology of Dublin place names with the same fervor my Korean neighbors discuss kimchi fermentation techniques. These are spaces where language ferments into something richer than its individual components.

For navigating Dublin's literary landscape, I relied heavily on my pocket guidebook, which provided excellent themed walking routes focused on literary history. The compact format made it easy to reference while wandering the city streets.

Dublin's Georgian squares offered a different kind of urban text—the architectural grammar here speaks of empire and resistance, power and adaptation. Merrion Square, with its colorful doors and Oscar Wilde statue lounging on a boulder, perfectly captures Dublin's blend of formality and irreverence.

As someone who documents tea traditions across cultures, I was particularly interested in how these Celtic capitals interpret the global ritual of tea. The contrast couldn't be more pronounced—and more revealing of each city's character.

In Edinburgh, I discovered tea rooms that embrace formality with a distinctly Scottish twist. At the historic Signet Library Tea Room, afternoon tea is served with architectural precision that mirrors the city itself: tiered stands holding precisely cut sandwiches and mathematically perfect scones. The ritual feels almost ceremonial, reminiscent of Japanese tea ceremonies I've documented in Kyoto, though expressed through an entirely different cultural vocabulary.

Dublin's approach to tea proved more conversational and community-oriented. In charming establishments like The Pepper Pot Café in the Powerscourt Centre, tea becomes a facilitator of connection rather than the focus itself. The mismatched vintage china and relaxed service create an atmosphere where lingering for hours is not just permitted but encouraged.

For serious tea enthusiasts visiting these cities, I recommend packing a travel tea set. This compact ceramic set allowed me to enjoy local tea blends in parks and scenic viewpoints across both cities, creating impromptu tea moments that became some of my favorite memories.

What fascinated me most was how both cities have evolved their tea cultures in response to global influences. In Edinburgh, I found Korean-inspired tea cafés where Scottish ingredients meet East Asian brewing techniques. In Dublin, several shops now offer kombucha brewing workshops—a fermentation technique gaining popularity that bridges traditional Irish herbalism with contemporary gut-health interests.

Cities, like fermented foods, are living entities transformed over time by cultural catalysts and environmental conditions. This parallel struck me repeatedly as I explored Edinburgh and Dublin's food scenes, which have undergone remarkable transformations in recent decades.

In Edinburgh's Leith district—once a rough port area, now a culinary hotspot—I visited small-batch producers creating distinctly Scottish fermented products. At one workshop, I watched artisans combine traditional Scottish brewing knowledge with Korean fermentation techniques to create unique flavor profiles. The parallel to my own mixed cultural heritage wasn't lost on me.

Dublin's fermentation scene centers more on revival and reinterpretation. At the Dublin Food Co-op, I participated in a workshop where participants learned to ferment traditional Irish ingredients like cabbage and caraway using methods that would have been familiar centuries ago. What struck me was how this ancient practice now serves as a point of connection between Dublin's diverse communities—I met recent immigrants from Eastern Europe and Asia who found common ground with native Dubliners through shared fermentation knowledge.

For documenting these experiences, I relied on my pocket notebook to record recipes and techniques. There's something about handwriting these observations that helps me process the sensory experiences more deeply than digital notes ever could.

Both cities revealed how urban food cultures ferment and evolve—Edinburgh's scene reflects its architectural character: tradition reimagined through contemporary design thinking. Dublin's food landscape, like its literature, tells stories of resilience, adaptation, and the incorporation of global influences while maintaining a distinct sense of place.

My daughter's cricket obsession has trained my eye to spot cricket grounds wherever I travel, and both Edinburgh and Dublin surprised me with their cricket heritage—though in distinctly different ways that reflect each city's relationship with British cultural influence.

Edinburgh's Grange Cricket Club, with its Victorian pavilion set against the dramatic backdrop of Arthur's Seat, speaks to Scotland's complex relationship with traditionally English pursuits. During my visit, I was fortunate to witness a local match where the gameplay seemed to embody the Scottish national character—technically precise yet played with distinctive flair and adaptations to the challenging Scottish weather conditions.

Dublin's cricket scene tells a different story. At Trinity College's cricket grounds, I spoke with members of the university team who described how the sport's perception has evolved in Ireland—from being viewed as an emblem of British colonialism to being reclaimed as part of Ireland's diverse sporting heritage. The Phoenix Park Cricket Club, founded in 1830, now celebrates its role in Irish sporting history while embracing players from Dublin's growing international communities.

What fascinated me most was how cricket functions as a cultural text in both cities—the way the sport has been translated and reinterpreted to fit local contexts mirrors my work as a translator, where meaning must be preserved while adapting to new cultural frameworks.

For cricket enthusiasts visiting either city, I recommend bringing a compact binoculars. These allowed me to observe matches from ideal vantage points and appreciate the technical details of play even when watching from a distance.