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The birth chamber was stiflingly small, but it's easy to stand there and let your imagination run wild

Always, however, only a brief flirtation has been possible - a few days in the Hebrides, on Skye, the Highlands, the Whisky Trail - but this year was going to be different. Not only is 2009 the year of "Homecoming Scotland", sending out an invitation to Scots settled all over the world, but it also marks the 250th anniversary of Robert Burns's birth, a cause for celebrating some of Scotland's contributions to the world - great minds, golf, whisky and much more.

And so I headed to its glorious capital, where I simply had to "do" Edinburgh Castle, which towers above the city like a giant, eroded molar, standing on a shock of rock, the basalt plug of an extinct volcano, estimated to have risen some 340 million years ago.

Of all the castle's offerings - museums, chapels, guns, prisons, palace and great hall - I chose to spend time in the Mary Room. No novel can equal the story of Mary Queen of Scots, probably the saddest royal who ever lived. Due to the sudden death of her father, James V, in 1542, Mary became Queen before she was a week old. In order to forge a link with France, she was shipped off at the age of five to be raised in the French court and marry the Dauphin, Francis, when she was older. But Francis died soon after their teenage marriage and Mary was sent back to Scotland. She was a pretty girl, lively and charming, and the Scots were delighted with her. The one problem was finding her a husband: as Queen, it was vital that she produce an heir.

In the end, it was Mary herself who chose Henry Lord Darnley. What a disaster!

Darnley was a spoilt, young playboy who took little interest in his wife's responsibilities. Mary concealed her disappointment until after their child had been born. In June 1566, she gave birth to James Vl of Scotland in the Mary Room. Above the doorway is a panel inscribed with that date. The birth chamber was stiflingly small, but it's easy to stand there and let your imagination run wild. Feel the drama of the moment, imagine the chambermaids and physicians, hear the clamour of voices, the ringing of bells and the cry of the baby, who was immediately wrapped in royal robes and shown to his father.

Shortly before, Darnley had played a part in murdering a great friend of Mary's, David Riccio. The year after his son's birth, he too was murdered.

Three months later, Mary was married again - this time to the Earl of Bothwell. Her subjects were horrified and Mary was imprisoned. After being forced to abdicate, she escaped to England, hoping for mercy from Queen Elizabeth I. Instead, she was imprisoned again. Bothwell fled to Norway, where he died, and after 18 years of imprisonment, Mary was executed in England.

Another room worth visiting is the Crown Room, where the Honours of Scotland (the Crown Jewels), first used for Mary's coronation in l543, are displayed. The crown is a velvet-topped, glittering confection of gemstones now safely under glass, but previously hidden to save them from Oliver Cromwell's clutches. When Sir Walter Scott in 1818 received permission to lift the lid of an old oak chest discovered in a locked room, there they were - safely hidden for years.

Now walk down the Royal Mile. It's difficult not to stop along the way, with all that lovely cashmere and lambswool - buy a scarf, £5, you'll need it. Even in summer that wind can bite. You might also want some shortbread and postcards, but stop when you see two red phone booths side by side, outside a tavern - Deacon Brodie's Tavern.

It all looks so inviting and cheerful, but Brodie's story is as macabre as the book he inspired: Robert Louis Stevenson's Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Born in 1741, William Brodie, more commonly known by his title of Deacon Brodie, was a respected town councillor who, by day, worked as a cabinet maker. But when night fell, he became a ghastly thief who broke into houses and stole shamelessly to feed his lust for gambling. Finally he was caught and hanged on the very gallows he had himself designed.

Another pub, another weird story and another visitor to the gallows. Maggie Dickson's Pub carries an incredible tale, and her nickname is even stranger: Half-hanged Maggie. Evidently, the lady fell pregnant before marriage, so to the gallows she was sent in 1728. But after the event, on the way to the burial ground, she woke up. Her shamed family sent her back. Once again the gallows did not finish her off, and she escaped to the continent, where she lived to a good age. After all, she had only been half-hanged.

There is a spine of rock that runs down the Royal Mile from the Castle, and here the first citizens built their homes, all closely clustered for security. It was a narrow strip of land and so the houses had to be built upwards, storey after storey, until they were eventually forced to go underground. The entrance to one of Edinburgh's darkest secrets lies here: Mary King's Close - a sub-street maze of narrow passages and dark rooms in which people, lived, worked and died.

You'll have to join a guide to go down there. Ours was lovely: ostensibly Mary King's daughter, she spoke exactly as she might have done in l635, and knew just when to evoke a scream, see a rat, sense a haunting - the dark stories follow fast, including the fact that into those "closes" went all the garbage, sliding down to the loch. If you had heard, from above, the cry "Gardy Loo" (from the French gardez l'eau - "mind the water") you would naturally run for cover.

Now step out into the sunshine and absorb the beauty of St Giles' Cathedral with its Crown Spire. A minister in this cathedral once had a stool thrown at his head. King Charles I of England had ruled that a new Anglican prayer book be used in Scotland, and this upset one Jenny Geddes so much that she threw her stool. This act, it is said, set off a riot and eventually led to war.

Don't miss the statue of Greyfriars Bobby, the adorable Skye terrier who sat by his master's grave in Greyfriars Churchyard (or Kirkyard) for 16 years.

As in so many cities, a Farmer's Market is held on Saturday mornings. What makes this one different is the situation - right at the foot of the castle. Look up, and there's the ponderous, grey mass; down below, a plethora of stalls with bright awnings (in case the "haar", the sea mist, comes rolling in). The temptation to pile your basket is high - Aberdeen Angus beef, scallops, prawns, game birds, pies, cakes, Arran cheese and breads. Friendly people, wonderful produce, they smile, you taste, you buy.

Finally, I visited Rosslyn Chapel. William St Clair decided, in l446, to build a place of worship in gratitude for the blessings in his life. It was not to be a regular chapel, but one so splendid that stone masons and carpenters from all over the world would be employed.

Sir William died before it was completed, and during the Reformation much of it was destroyed and fell into disrepair. But over the years it has risen again, and the restoration still continues. When you step inside you will be struck dumb, stunned as you gaze upon apostles and unicorns, roses and rams, lions and suns and moons, gargoyles and cherubs, disciples and devils and even an angel playing the bagpipes. Notice, especially, the plethora of "green men" with vines sprouting from their mouths (a symbol of Pagan fertility); also the floriated crosses so often associated with the Knights Templar. No one knows what lies in the Crypt beneath: The Holy Grail? The Dead Sea Scrolls? Knights? Ancestors? No-one may lift the stones.

Back in Edinburgh I was just in time to go to a pub to see the second test between the Brits and the Boks. How they cheered, those Brits, sipping their frothy lagers, grinning at each other and the waitresses. After all, we were being beaten all the way, the final result was a foregone conclusion - until suddenly, right at the end, we triumphed. Instead of swearing and banging their tankards, instead of saying nasty things about the Boks, the Scots simply filed out in silence. All I heard was, "Well Angus, I'm gob-smacked." Gentlemen.

Thoroughly exhausted, I retired to my son's garden, a glass of golden cider at my elbow, and allowed myself to breathe in the essence of the city.

The setting sun unexpectedly cast a gentle ray, washing the old grey buildings, while those strange birds with their maniacal laughs (I never could find out their names), swooped and diced among the chimney pots. Night fell like a dark cloak and everything was still.