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Press-ganging Scottish Literature?

Kidnapped and the City Of Literature’s One Book, One Edinburgh project [1]

John Corbett

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In 2004, following a campaign orchestrated by activists from the literary and arts industries in Scotland,[2] UNESCO recognised Edinburgh as its first designated ‘City of Literature’. This acknowledgement pioneered UNESCO’s establishment of a category of ‘Creative Cities’ (Cities of Cinema, Music, Folk Art, Design, Media Arts and Gastronomy are planned; see the ‘Global Alliance for Cultural Diversity’ homepage at In the wake of UNESCO’s recognition, which takes the form of an institutional endorsement rather than a financial dowry, a charitable trust was established to promote Edinburgh as ‘UNESCO City of Literature’ (  The trust comprises of two full-time employees and a steering group that sets policy. The trust has had several managers in its brief history, and the steering group consists of academics, arts administrators, booksellers, librarians and even a professional writer, Ian Rankin.  In its early days, this trust has had to find a niche for itself and compete for public and private funding amongst the other national and regional bodies promoting the arts, and literature in particular, in Scotland. Rival bodies include the Association for Scottish Literary Studies, the Scottish Poetry Library, the Edinburgh Writers’ Museum – all core or part-funded by the Scottish Arts Council, a quasi-autonomous non-governmental organisation that distributes public funding for the arts. The Edinburgh City of Literature (ECOL) project has come into being at a time when the status of the Scottish Arts Council is also in question: a report commissioned by the Scottish Executive recommended that it be transformed into a new body.[3] Although the process of transformation is not quite what the review ordered, the Scottish Arts Council is shortly to become ‘Creative Scotland’, and while this metamorphosis promises increased funding for literary activity, it is unclear how this promised largesse will be prioritised or distributed. Even so, in its first years the nascent ECOL project brought the prestigious International Man Booker literary prize ceremony to Edinburgh, and in February 2007 it launched its first major participatory event: a city-wide reading campaign based on Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped.


Mass reading campaigns are not new. The promotional literature for the Kidnapped event points to the success of Chicago’s reading campaign around To Kill a Mockingbird in 2001, and Bristol’s campaign around another Stevenson novel, Treasure Island in 2003. These have become annual events. Despite some reservations about the focus of the reading campaign in Bristol, as well as the tenuous link between Bristol and Stevenson, who never visited that city,[4] ‘Creative Bristol’ followed Stevenson’s tale of ‘treachery, pirates and rum’ with 3-month reading campaigns based on The Day of the Triffids in 2004, Helen Dunmore’s The Siege in 2005, and Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days in 2006. In 2007, Bristol joined Glasgow, Liverpool and Hull, three other cities with historic involvement in the slave trade, and from 11 January to 31 March ran a project centred on Andrea Levy’s Small Island. The four-centre project resulted in ‘the largest mass-reading project to have taken place in Britain’, and 13 000 copies of the novel were distributed to Glasgow libraries, alongside readers’ guides and supplementary texts (

Edinburgh City of Literature’s One Book, One Edinburgh campaign followed the pattern of its models by distributing free copies of several versions of the chosen text:

  • 10 000 copies of Barry Menikoff’s edition of the text, with a new foreword by author Louise Welsh, published in paperback by Canongate
  • 7500 copies of a ‘simplified retold edition’ for younger readers, published in conjunction with the Russell Trust
  • 7500 copies of a graphic novel based on Stevenson’s text, written by Alan Grant and illustrated by Cam Kennedy, both of whom have worked on the Judge Dredd, Batman and Star Wars comics. Available separately for purchase was a Scots language version of the graphic novel – Kidnappit – adapted by Matthew Fitt.

The expressed hope of the City of Literature campaign was that the free distribution of these texts will act as a catalyst to ‘get as many Edinburgh citizens as possible reading the same book […] on their own initiative, or through libraries, schools, reading groups and adult literacy classes’ (ECOL promotional literature). If successful, the intention is that the campaign will serve as a precedent for further projects involving other Scottish locations; it may be that ECOL is sensitive to the charge that it is too Edinburgh-oriented, given that its proposal to UNESCO stresses outreach activities:

[The principal gesture that Edinburgh wishes to make] centres on a wish to offer other cities and other nations the hand of friendship in a particular way. We offer a simple model for nurturing the human achievement that derives from literature and the life around books.[5]

The notion of cities of literature and the promise of nations of literature invite the alignment of literary and tourism studies. The ‘City of Literature’ criteria listed on the UNESCO website include, after all, ‘an urban panorama in which literature, drama and/or poetry play an integral role’. The ECOL campaign, like its predecessors, attempts to marshal the reading practices of a citizenry and urges each literate citizen to identify with a specific text – at least for a set period, in this case a month. Edinburgh’s so far unique configuration of text, city and national literature raises obvious questions of canonicity and identity, but it also prompts us to revisit the issue of what reading a novel involves and how the process of reading might be studied. A framework for the latter questions can be imported from recent developments in tourism studies. John Urry discusses the way in which tourism turns land, a potential site of agricultural exploitation or perilous navigation, into landscape through a process of visual consumption.[6] Urry further distinguishes different kinds of tourist gaze that may be directed towards the landscape of choice.[7] Those most relevant to literary tourism are:

  • the ‘most powerful’ romantic gaze, that assumes individual or intimate engagement, and results in a ‘semi-spiritual relationship with the object’
  • the collective gaze, which involves large-scale consumption of the object, and may give a sense of occasion, even carnival
  • the spectatorial gaze, which involves fleeting glances, ‘such as from a tourist bus window’[8]
  • the reverential gaze that involves intense, spiritual consumption of an object with sacred significance
  • the anthropological gaze, in which the activity of looking is embedded into ‘a historical array of meanings and symbols’, sometimes with the support of a tourist guide.
  • the mediatised gaze, which is another collective activity, in which tourists direct their attention to sites made famous by media events, such as the locations for Hollywood films. In his discussion of the mediatised gaze, John Urry cites a visitor exclaiming at the prospect of Victoria Falls: ‘Wow, that is so postcard.’[9]

There is always a danger in setting up a taxonomy such as Urry’s; boundaries between categories can be fuzzy. The anthropological and mediatised gaze can overlap considerably, for example, particularly in the case of literary tourism. Education packs, public lectures, and historical commentary can help situate the tourist gaze within a fact-based ‘array of meanings and symbols’. But a very similar activity can also be mediatised, or based on fictions rather than fact, as when tourists in Paris navigate its sites and construct meanings and symbols not with the help of a Baedeker but with a copy of Dan Brown’s novel The Da Vinci Code. Despite the overlaps between categories, however, Urry’s framework remains usefully provocative for several reasons. First of all, and most obviously, it helps us to analyse the discourse of the ECOL project as marketing discourse that promotes certain kinds of consumption of place (in this case, Scotland, and, in particular, Edinburgh). Secondly, if we map Urry’s categories of gaze onto different ways of reading, we can account more comprehensively for the kinds of literary activity that were shaped by the Kidnapped campaign. Finally, the focus on gaze and the sentiments it may inspire (romantic identification, reverence, concern for survival) leads us back to the novel itself – and to the kinds of engagements its characters have with the landscape of Scotland.

February is an auspicious month for literary carnival; the Kidnapped campaign mapped onto carnival proper, with Shrove Tuesday falling on 20th February, and it duly reached its climax on 1st March, ‘World Book Day’, thus completing a narrative arc of individual - book group - city - nation - planet. The type of gaze that the ECOL project is clearly keenest to provoke is the collective gaze; the free distribution of 25 000 free texts, supplemented by the commercial availability of others in attractive formats, is obviously intended to cross markets: adult, teenager, child; from middle-brow book group to graphic novel collectors. The chosen text has to bear the weight of the normative expectations of each group, and, as ECOL’s promotional material states, Kidnapped ticks the required boxes: ‘a tale of low skulduggery and high adventure, [it] is a great read that appeals to both children and adults alike, and with the free and special versions prepared for this event it will also be one that is impossible to miss’. The ECOL promotional pamphlets listed the kind of events that are intended expressly to invite the consumption of Edinburgh as a literary landscape:

  • The Kidnapped Walking Trail in conjunction with Edinburgh World Heritage Trust
  • Stevenson Holdings citywide participation by museums and galleries displaying their Stevenson holdings
  • VisitScotland collaboration to promote Scotland and our literary culture through our citywide reading campaign.

Each of these events involves physical presence (which may of course be facilitated by the tourist agency, VisitScotland) and the act of looking. The inclusion of a walking trail is noteworthy; David Balfour and Alan Breck Stewart, after all, spend little time in Edinburgh itself. The House of Shaws is in Cramond, the brig The Covenant is moored in Queensferry, home of the lawyer, Mr Rankeillor. There are few episodes in the novel that call for a descriptive evocation of the picturesque Old Town, or any that allow city centre tourists to walk in the footsteps of David and Alan – save for a final scene in which David heads for the British Linen Bank via the Grassmarket.

The Edinburgh World Heritage Trust therefore devised a walking trail – printed as part of a One Book, One Edinburgh promotional pamphlet – of ten locations associated with Stevenson: from his childhood home in Heriot Row to St Giles Cathedral, where tourists can gaze on ‘a plaque in Stevenson’s memory’. The descriptions of all the ten stops on the walking trail are in three parts: a statement of the link with Stevenson’s biography, a quote from the man himself, and a general observation of greater or indeed lesser relevance to Stevenson’s life and work. Typical is the entry for Advocate’s Close:

Stevenson founded a secret society, with meetings held in a pub in Advocate’s Close. The motto? ‘Disregard everything our parents ever taught us’.

‘…You look down an alley and see ships tacking for the Baltic.’ – RLS

The Old Town of Edinburgh, with its tall tenements or lands was the first place in the world where people lived in buildings up to 14 floors high.

(Walking Trail, devised by Edinburgh World Heritage, 2007)

At a glance such a text – with its abrupt jump in topics from secret society, to ships heading for the Baltic, to the architecture of Old Town Edinburgh – seems scarcely coherent. However, its coherence is guaranteed by the consistency of its function of fostering, via a romantic gaze, a ‘semi-spiritual’ identification between tourist, location, author and text: the walker gazes at a pub where our rebellious author formed a secret society; the vista down the alley puts the walker in Stevenson’s very footsteps and merges the gaze of tourist and author; as the gaze is directed upwards, the height of the buildings recalls the descriptive lines in the conclusion of Kidnapped: ‘The huge height of the buildings, running up to ten and fifteen storeys, the narrow arched entries that continually vomited passengers…’

Further visual pleasures available during the month-long reading campaign included exhibitions of some of the many illustrations of Stevenson’s work, offered up to the collective gaze in galleries and museums. Such displays invite a collective version of the kind of romantic gaze that the individual walker might indulge in at Advocate’s Close, or even that which a solitary and appreciative reader of one of the graphic novels might enjoy. Associated with the visual arts is also the participation by cinemas which offered ‘screenings of versions of Kidnapped and other Stevenson films’, thus allowing for another opportunity for the collective gazing at cultural products, and also a mediatised gaze, as one might take a trip across the Forth to the National Trust cottages in Culross where at least one version of Kidnapped was filmed. For another recent television version, of course, the literary tourist would have to visit New Zealand.

The gazes described above may intertwine and transform, one into the other: the walking trail, for example, might involve an individual, romantic gaze or a carnivalesque, collective gaze. If done in a hurry, it might allow for only fleeting, spectatorial glances at sites whose significance is discursively constructed by the trail guide, which thus facilitates an anthropological gaze. After such exertion, we may return to a solitary engagement with the text.


Of course the text itself can be subject to a plurality of gazes. Kidnapped is a shrewd, even obvious, choice for a Scottish literary campaign, despite the relatively few scenes set in the capital city itself. The theme of Lowland/Highland partnership across the barriers of history, politics, ethnicity and language has a strong appeal to tourist ideologies that are conventionally driven to present nation-states as unified organisms.[10] Moreover, landscape is crucial to Kidnapped – Stevenson himself, after all, lamented that the first American edition lacked the map that he deemed essential to all his novels, and Menikoff’s edition comes equipped with a useful gazetteer.[11] In turn, Stevenson is stamped on the landscape of Edinburgh and its environs. The two-volume presentation made by the City of Literature project team to UNESCO describes the author as ‘Edinburgh’s Robert Louis Stevenson’ before going on to state that:

Stevenson’s family background in Edinburgh gave him an acute sense of Scotland’s heritage, while his genius was matured by the foreign travel necessary for his health.

In his youth, he knew his native city and its sharp social contrasts intimately, savouring the differences between the Old and New towns, the richer and poorer areas, the urban centre and the rural environs, all recorded in Edinburgh, Picturesque Notes. […]

Stevenson is commemorated in Edinburgh by public memorials in Princes Street Gardens and the High Kirk of St Giles. Stevenson’s Edinburgh homes are marked with plaques and there is a permanent collection and display on Stevenson at the Writers’ Museum. The names of seventeen residential streets have been taken from Stevenson’s novel Kidnapped in an area associated with the novel. In addition, sites in France, USA and Samoa where Stevenson lived and visited now host museums and memorials to this writer who has captured the imaginations of millions of people.[12]

In this pitch to UNESCO, Stevenson is constructed as a man for all communities – rich, poor; urban, rural; old, new; adult, child; domestic, foreign. He is a man whom his city honours and whose literary work has now even given names to the urban landscape from which it drew some of its inspiration. The all-inclusiveness of Stevenson positions him as an author whose work can act as a locus for a plurality of literary and tourist gazes, all of which are again encouraged by the One Book, One Edinburgh reading campaign.

Ultimately, of course, the individual is expected to sit down and engage in an individual communion with the text: the romantic gaze is the holy grail of the reading campaign. Free copies of the text distributed through schools and libraries remove the possible barriers of finance and accessibility that might hinder this intense, subjective gaze. Literacy projects for reluctant readers, libraries’ commitment to providing braille and audio versions of the story and those reading activities ‘focussed on social inclusion’ all aim to broaden the range of social groups who can and will sit down and read Kidnapped. There is an idealism at work here: the promotional material shows two casually-dressed, pretty young women sitting on grassy parkland, books in hand, reading and smiling. One of the books is the hardback edition of James Meek’s The People’s Act of Love; while the two women may be talking to each other about their respective novels, the literary experience is at heart a solitary, subjective one. The implication is that Edinburgh, drug capital of Europe, will be weaned off crack cocaine and heroin, and instead be characterised by thousands of individual literary subjectivities that can then become the currency of everyday talk amongst its population and of course its visitors. Read Kidnapped in the Princes Street Gardens and you become de facto an honorary citizen of the republic of letters.

Other ECOL events targeted the anthropological gaze, putting individual readings of Kidnapped into interpretive contexts by commissioning literary critical material targeted at different educational levels and groups:

  • Education packs for primary and high school curriculum use
  • Public lectures in conjunction with the National Library of Scotland
  • Reading group guides
  • The formation of ‘Stevenson groups’, in collaboration with scholarly journals and special interest groups like the Stevenson Society
  • A ‘book crossing’ campaign, whereby a number of labelled copies were left in public spaces, to be picked up, read, and passed on

Such events inevitably impact on the individual’s reading experience: those who come to the novel via the cinema versions or even the graphic novel must find their gaze mediatised; those who glance through a labelled copy left lying in a public space as a result of the ‘book crossing’ element of the campaign might experience a spectatorial literary gaze by skimming for gist before deciding whether or not to continue reading.

Edinburgh’s promotion of a carnival of gazing may seem ironic given that Henry James comment that Stevenson’s style in Catriona ‘subjects my visual sense, my seeing imagination, to an almost painful under-feeding’.[13] Stevenson played down his descriptive intentions in both novels with the rejoinder ‘Death to the optic nerve’, and he claimed to have deliberately avoided descriptive prose in favour of the ‘portrayal of [the characters’] emotions roused by […] external conditions’.[14] Even so, Menikoff and McCracken-Flesher, in their editions of Kidnapped and Catriona respectively, argue that Stevenson makes extensive use of visual, descriptive passages in both novels, but that his use of descriptive passages is essentially modern in that they serve not only to evoke landscape but also to indicate the developing emotional state of the protagonist.

In Kidnapped, we see the Scottish landscape through David’s initially unappreciative eyes. Indeed, David Balfour’s character, and, through identification, the character of the reader, are shaped by his sentimental education as a reluctant tourist. David’s father’s death occasions his two-day walking tour to Cramond and the House of Shaws, stopping only briefly to take in the panoramic vista of the City of Literature:

On the forenoon of the second day, coming to the top of a hill, I saw all the country fall away before me, down to the sea; and in the midst of this descent, on a long ridge, the city of Edinburgh smoking like a kiln. There was a flag upon the castle, and ships moving or lying anchored in the firth; both of which, as far away as they were, I could distinguish clearly, and both brought my country heart into my mouth. (p. 17)

The semi-spiritual response of the country boy to his first view of the capital city qualifies this as an example of Urry’s ‘romantic gaze’; however, it is shortly countered by the sobering and perhaps even more affecting prospect of the House of Shaws, a sight whose meaning is contextualised by the encounter with Jennet Clouston. Like a parody of a tourist guide, she embeds what David sees in a historical set of circumstances whose significance to him is as yet opaque:

The woman’s face lit up with malignant anger. “That is the house of Shaws!” she cried. “Blood built it; blood stopped the building of it; blood shall bring it down.” (p.19)

At the House of Shaws, David then experiences what might be termed the worst of Scottish hospitality. The building is an unfinished, gloomy, Gothic pile, David’s room turns out to be damp, mouldy and spider-ridden, and the host serves him a parsimonious and unrelenting diet of porridge and small beer before attempting to murder him. He is next press-ganged into service aboard the Covenant under Captain Hoseason (coincidentally, Hoseasons is now one of the UK’s major self-catering holiday operators, offering ‘boating holidays on the beautiful waterways of Britain and France’: After being washed overboard, David experiences the Highlands directly, first on the small island of Earraid, where he is sickened by the seafood, and then, on the flight across the heather from Mull, via Appin, back to Queensferry and finally Edinburgh. As Christopher MacLachlan notes in his recent study guide for younger readers:

Despite the ordeal of their journey, Alan and David do have moments of enjoyment among the moors and the mountains. They camp out, fish for trout, cook for themselves, tramp through the heather, spot deer and eagles, and generally do most of the things that modern hill-walkers do nowadays.  It is easy to believe that what Stevenson is describing are his own experiences when travelling through the Highlands, and by his time that of course was something for tourists and holidaymakers. For the reader, if not exactly for the characters, the flight in the heather is like an adventure holiday, a strenuous and energetic hike across country in which you get close to nature and pit your wits, and your muscles, against her. For the reader in a comfortable armchair the hardships of the characters’ journey across Scotland has the romantic appeal which has become the normal way of thinking of the Highlands since Queen Victoria and Prince Albert made Highland holidays fashionable.[15]

The tourist gaze of reader and main character diverge, as MacLachlan shrewdly points out, and one of the narrative arcs of the tale shows how David’s ‘country heart’ and lowland eye are matured by his experiences into an appreciation of the Scottish highlands, a landscape he initially views as a depopulated wasteland:

The mountains on either side were high, rough and barren, very black and gloomy in the shadow of the clouds, but all silver-laced with little water-courses where the sun shone upon them. It seemed a hard country, this of Appin, for people to care as much about as Alan did. (p. 145)

And again:

The mist rose and died away, and showed us the country lying as waste as the sea; only the moorfowl and the peewees crying upon it, and far over to the east, a herd of deer moving like dots. Much of it was under heather; much of the rest broken up with hags and bogs and peaty pools; some had been burned black in a heath fire; and in another place, there was quite a forest of dead firs, standing like skeletons. A wearier looking desert, man never saw; but at least it was clear of troops, which was our point. (p. 193)

The latter description in particular recalls in some respects the kind of Scottish Tourist Board poster that McCrone, Morris and Keily discuss in their analysis of promotional images – scenic but barren mountains from which any signs of human life and past industry have been airbrushed out. The Scottish tourist industry is careful to present landscape as an unpopulated wilderness; this is certainly the way David sees it, but there is a clear tonal difference. While the tourist board images present the wilderness as a locus for a romantic gaze, David sees it as a site of desolation. It is his subsequent flight across the heather – or reluctant tour of the Highlands – that will afford him a set of experiences that will transform the way he gazes at the landscape.

To begin with, the hospitality that David receives from the Highlanders is in stark contrast to that offered by his kinsman, Ebenezer. A cottar family on Mull illustrates the point:

The good woman set oat-bread before me and a cold grouse, patting my shoulder and smiling to me all the time, for she had no English; and the old gentleman (not to be behind) brewed me strong punch out of their country spirit. All the while I was eating, and after that when I was drinking the punch, I could scarce believe in my good fortune; and the house, though it was thick with the peat-smoke and as full of holes as a colander, seemed like a palace. (p. 127)

A more obvious factor in the transformation of David’s perception of his environment is the central friendship that is struck up between David and Alan Breck Stewart, a friendship that endures through differences in background, politics and outlook, through quarrels and separation, and through David’s reliance on his companion to see him through his illness. When, in the end, Alan delivers David to his lowland home, to take up his rightful place in society, the hero finds himself at last in the heart of the capital city, on his way to the British Linen Bank:

It was coming near noon when I passed in by the West Kirk and the Grassmarket into the streets of the capital. The huge height of the buildings, running up to ten and fifteen storeys, the narrow arched entries that continually vomited passengers, the wares of the merchants in their windows, the hubbub and endless stir; the foul smells and the fine clothes, and a hundred other particulars too small to mention, struck me into a kind of stupor of surprise, so that I let the crowd carry me to and fro; and yet all the time what I was thinking of was Alan at Rest-and-be-Thankful [a steep point on Corstorphine Hill to the east of Edinburgh]; and all the time (although you would think I would not choose but be delighted with these braws and novelties) there was a cold gnawing in my inside like a remorse for something wrong. (pp. 276-277)

David is a traveller who consistently resists the romantic, consuming tourist gaze. When he looks upon the grandeur of Highland scenery, he sees desolation and poverty; his travels are a hard experience leavened by hospitality and a developing respect for and friendship with the Highland Other that can only be poignantly heightened by being set in contrast with family betrayal. Consequently when he comes at last to look upon the delights of the capital city, he feels dissatisfied with the evident liveliness and conspicuous wealth that so contrast with Highland poverty. David has learned to look beyond mere landscape and cityscape; he has become entwined into the mesh of human relationships that tie the individual to a place.

The analogy between different categories of tourist and literary gaze attempted in this article serves to bring different discourses into focus. Events like the One Book, One Edinburgh campaign prompts us to ask what it means to read a text individually and collectively, for private pleasure or for broader education, and how versions of a text interconnect with each other and with other cultural media, such as oral storytelling, visual art and film. We are prompted to ask what we talk about when we talk about literature – in book groups, in the classroom, on a park bench – and why. And we are prompted to ask how the tourist experience is embedded into the text chosen to represent the city. If Kidnapped represents David Balfour’s forced induction into tourism and the positive potential of hospitality, then one can only hope that below the ‘hubbub and endless stir’ of Edinburgh’s first UNESCO-sanctioned literary carnival, the participating readers – the passing tourists, longer-term sojourners, their hosts, and vicarious onlookers (whether engaged in solitary or collective activities) – found similarly enduring values to celebrate.



[1] I am grateful to Ali Bowden of the City of Literature project for her time and cooperation during the research for this article, and to Caroline McCracken-Flesher and Alison Phipps for their constructive comments on an early draft.

[2] Namely, James Boyle, then Chairman of the Scottish Arts Council; Jenny Brown, a literary agent and at the time the Manager of the City of Literature project; Lorraine Fannin, Director of the Scottish Publishers’ Association; and Catherine Lockerbie, Director of the Edinburgh International Book Festival, and Martyn Wade, National Librarian of the National Library of Scotland.

[3] See Review of Culture in Scotland – Final Report of the Cultural Commission, June 2005] Section 4.5.

[4] Kelly, Melanie Small Island Read 2007  Evaluation Report. (Bristol Cultural Development Partnership, 2007)

[5] Boyle, James, Jenny Brown, Lorraine Fannin and Catherine Lockerbie We Cultivate Literature on a Little Oatmeal… An Introduction to Edinburgh as World City of Literature (Edinburgh: Edinburgh World City of Literature Trust, 2004), p.70.

[6] See his book Consuming Places (London: Routledge, 1995) and article ‘The “Consuming” of Place’ in Discourse, Communication and Tourism ed. Adam Jarowski and Annette Pritchard (Cleveden: Channel View, 2005), pp.19-27.

[7] Urry, ‘The “Consuming” of Place’,  pp.21-22.

[8] Urry, Consuming Places, p.191.

[9] Urry, ‘The “Consuming” of Place’, p19, quoting P. Osborne (2000) Travelling Light: Photography, Travel and Visual Culture Manchester: Manchester University Press, p. 79.

[10] Prieto Arranz, J.I. ‘Two Markets, Two Scotlands? Gender and Race in STB’s “Othered” Scottishness’ Journal of Tourism and Cultural Change, 2:1, pp.1-23.

[11] Menikoff, ed. pp 325-334. On p. 325 Menikoff quotes Stevenson’s letter to Charles Scribner: ‘I must have my map when you next issue it: a book of mine without a map, Ye Gods!’

[12] Boyle, Brown, Fannin and Lockerbie, We Cultivate Literature on Little Oatmeal… pp.23-24 [bold as in original text].

[13] Booth, Bradford A. and Ernest Mehew, eds The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994), Vol 7, p.284.

[14] Booth and Mehew, Vol 8, p.45. See also Barry Menikoff, ed. Kidnapped, or the lad with the silver button by Robert Louis Stevenson (San Marino: Huntington Library, 1999), p.xxii.

[15] Christopher MacLachlan, Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, Kidnapped and Catriona Scotnotes No. 21 (Glasgow: Association for Scottish Literary Studies, 2006), p.22.