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It’s my last day in Edinburgh, and it seems fitting that I’m spending most of it at my pub. For the afternoon I set up a wee office at a table, with my computer and my Eurail map and my knitting, and my friend Lauren and a few half pints of red cask ale and then some red wine, and now a haggis for supper…my boss gave me a lovely card and a silver bracelet, and it all seems like a proper end for my time here.
This has been the most amazing year of my life, people, and Edinburgh, and this pub, are the reasons.
So on my last day, here’s a pictorial of my walk to work, which I won’t do again.
Outside my door is Leith Walk, and the potential to rent Bollywood movies.
Down Elm Row is Joseph Pearce, a Swedish pub that sells Portuguese lager on tap. Its menus are glued into Disney books. Last time we were there, we read Dumbo.
I go past the Omni Centre. There’s the giraffee statues out front, inside of which - when walking home at 5 a.m. after Canada Day – I discovered an Irish couple sleeping. What would happen if you crawled inside there and couldn’t get out? Jase and I have imagined the scenario a number of times.
“Hi, Ola? Hi this is Aasa calling. Uh, I’ll be a bit late for work today…Why? Well, I’m stuck inside a giraffe…yeah…Don’t worry though, the firemen are on their way with the Jaws of Life so I shouldn’t be too much longer…I’m fired? Right, okay.”
I got a bit teary, today, crossing the North Bridge, and knowing I no longer get to walk across it every day. Not many places do you get, on your way to work, to gaze at a dormant volcano to your left and a castle to your right.
If I’m working in the morning, I cut through the North Bridge arcade, past the Who’s Who clothing store which used to employ Mr. Chad Wilson, to my favorite news agent
Naz! He gives me free stuff.
Then I go up the nearest close to the Mile…
…to my wee pub with grand food.
Inside (if you’re lucky) you’ll meet these guys.
I’ll miss you, McGregor.
I must have blinked, because August is over.
There’s a build up most of the year, where everyone talks about how things will be ‘during the festival’, and so when it goes by so quickly it’s a shock to the system. For most of a month we looked out the door of the pub and saw hordes of people, a stage full of performers, talked to people about the shows they’d seen and cleared piles of flyers off the tables. Then, on September 1, everything was gone. The Royal Mile is back to its old self, the crowds have vanished, and we’re reminded very suddenly what regular life in Edinburgh is like. It feels bizarre.
I had a great festival. I saw some good shows. I took advantage of the 5 a.m. bar closing time (once or twice).
Also, unexpectedly, I developed an obsession with drums.
It started at the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, which Jase and I went to mid-month. Despite buying cheap tickets and having a view obstructed by a big speaker, the show was fantastic. The best part of the show was these fellows:
The Top Secret Swiss Drum Corp. Unreal.
(The Tattoo runs the month of August, and is held on the castle esplanade, so yes that is Edinburgh Castle in the background)
Then, for my pre-birthday celebrations, we went to see the Tom Tom Crew. Our boss has recommended it; they’re a troupe of breakdancing, beat-boxing, acrobatic Aussies. Awesome.
On two seperate occasions, while talking to customers at the pub, I was told that the Tao Japanese Drum group was the best thing they’d seen at the festival. And because we weren’t drummed out yet, we took that in as our last show of the year. It. Was. Amazing.
Some more festival highlights: (not these routines though, just some examples)
Reginald D. Hunter
Jason Byrne
METRIC. Emily Haines sounds amazing live. They played this as an encore. There was much jumping.
There was much more than this of course. There was the one-woman show ‘Chronicles of Irania’, and Sylvia Path’s only play ‘Three Women’, and the musical comedy duo ‘Pig with the Face of a Boy’, the Sound and Fury troupe’s ‘Sherlock Holmes and the Saline Solution’, which I went to see because they’d played at the Lyric in Swift earlier this summer. I was not disappointed. I saw a few crap things as well, but the good shows and good partying and spending this last month in Edinburgh with good people made up for all the crowds and the busyness and the odd craptastic comedian.
This is it for Edinburgh, soon, I’m afraid. Jase leaves in two days for London and then Germany, Carla in five for Portugal, Lauren in two weeks to prepare to go to Nepal. Jenny S. already moved to Paris. And on September 20 I head to London and then Oktoberfest and then where ever my rambly heart desires. Oh it will be fun, but oh how I already miss the group of friends I have right here and now, which will shortly be no more. This is the hazard of traveling.
Sigh.
Dear Tourists Coming to Edinburgh;
Already you’re starting to arrive for the festival season, and as you walk around this fair city you might actually be thinking ‘Man, what a dump.’ Please know that Edinburgh doesn’t always look like this.
The bin workers have been on a partial strike for awhile now. They have a bone to pick with city council, and have lessened their rubbish pick-ups around the city to make their point – particularly in the tourist areas. Edinburgh is usually a very clean city; those piles of heaving bin bags you see on the street are not the norm. Please don’t let this affect your opinion. Edinburgh is lovely. (The rubbish bags have also caused an infestation of sea gulls, who like to pick them apart and spew garbage everywhere. It’s definitely adding to the Royal Mile’s charm.)
ALSO, Princes Street and Leith Walk aren’t usually blocked off and torn to shreds, but the city is in the midst of a ridiculous, over-priced, ill-conceived tram project at the moment.
I hope you can look past these things and see that Edinburgh is still a breathtaking city. She just has a few spots at the moment.
Sincerely,
Aasa
Dear Readers of the Blog;
There are already telltale signs that it’s festival season, though technically it doesn’t start until Friday. Outside the pub are bands of street performers in costume promoting their shows, more musical and street performer buskers than usual, and hordes of people. Not as many as there will be on the weekend, mind you, but loads.
When we say ‘The Festival’ starts, we actually mean a ton of festivals start. the International Festival and the Fringe Festival (the biggies), but also the Book Festival, Festival of Politics, International Television Festival, Edinburgh Mela, the Interactive Festival, the Festival of Spirituality and Peace, and the Military Tattoo all take place in August.
It’s. Mad.
Also, most of the clubs extend their licences to 5 a.m. during August. My pub’s licence still ends at 1 a.m. Yummy.
Cheers,
Aasa.
Dear Aasa’s Liver;
Prepare thyself.
Aasa.
Edinburgh was awash in more tartan than usual this weekend.
This being Scotland’s Homecoming year – Robbie Burns’ 250th birthday – Scottish descendents from around the world have come back to various events, particularly The Gathering, that took place Saturday and Sunday.
The event consisted of Highland games, dancing, music, clan tents and Scottish food at Holyrood park (behind the palace and parliament at the bottom of the Royal Mile). Saturday night the clans gathered at the palace and began a march to the castle, and we stood outside our pub to watch over 8,000 of them go past, a mile of tartan and bagpipes. When the McGregor clan passed, they stopped to point and cheer and take pictures of the pub.
They all (it seemed) returned later, after the parade, and we were (shock) still there drinking. We made friends with lots of American McGregors, mostly with fantabulous beards.
On Sunday we headed to the festivities. We watched women do a poor job of caber-tossing, large men with spiked boots chucking long hammers. We got free samples from every food stall (Arran Cheese, fresh bread, chicken pie, strawberry ice cream, lots of shortbread, cider, and haggis crisps? which pretty much just taste like pepper).
We stopped by the MacGregor tent, and the man in charge tried to convince us of his clan marketing prowess and how it can benefit our Mcgregor pub. We discovered the (mostly) American brand of enthusiasm towards their clan heritage when an old man from Colorado would spontaneously tell us the entire history of his clan, or MacGregor man would pile clan newsletters and flyers into our hands.
Last night, when we were at work and the festivities at the park had shut down, the McGregors descended upon the pub once again. They were from the States, from Germany, from South Africa, and had dubbed our pub ‘HQ’. They bought t-shirts in droves. When another ‘clansman’ would arrive, the entire back section would erupt in a loud ‘MCGREGOR!’.
The Montana McGregors (one of whom looks like Santa) have invited us to their lake cabin whenever we’re in North America. Jase has their email address.
Canada Day in Edinburgh was smashing.
A group of ex-pats organize a pub quiz every year, and the pub becomes a sea of red and maple leaves and hockey jerseys. They served Moosehead and poutine made with yellow cheese. My (Scottish) friend Carla came with me, and we joined a quiz team with no Canadians.
We came in second, and won maple flavoured baked beans. (Questions I got wrong included the length of the Trans Canada highway, and being unable to identify a picture of Lester Pearson. I did however know that crosschecking is a minor penalty, and could identify a picture of Steve Yzerman. This surprises exactly no one.)
While standing at the bar getting a drink, I met a guy in a Team Canada jersey from Leader.
‘Holy crap!’ I said. ‘Do you know Elizabeth Huber?’
‘Does she have a sister named Beth?’
Um.
The group sitting next to us was the drunkest group there, and the drunkest guy in the group was from Alberta.
‘Where in Saskatchewan are you from?’ he asked.
‘Kyle’
‘That’s wierd…I was just in Berlin and…’
‘Holy crap, you know Andrea don’t you?!’
We texted her immediately to share the wierd news.
At the end of the quiz we got to two-step to The Hip, which made me all sorts of happy. That, though, after a rousing version of the anthem. (Warning: contains fantastically foul language)
Today is as crisp a blue-sky day you get in Edinburgh. I woke up at 8:30, even though it’s actually 7:30 (stupid time change), threw a coat on over my pajamas and went to the corner store. I bought two Sunday papers. I came home and made coffee.
I don’t work again until Thursday, because I still have annual leave that I need to use the hell up. For someone who works six days a week, this much freedom is a bit disconcerting. I don’t want to go anywhere because I’m saving my money for April 11, when Jenny! gets here – so I’ve offered to paint my flatmate’s walls during my time off in exchange for a rent reduction. I love the barter system.
About an eon ago, Andrea! was here. I haven’t written about it because I was waiting for her to send me some pictures, and then she did and I forgot to actually check that email account for weeks, so I didn’t notice.
It turns out we just took a lot of pictures of ourselves, with Edinburgh in the background.
When she arrived, and every so often over the next few days, Andrea said things like ‘It’s a shame you live in such an ugly city’. Then she decided she might never leave.
Into her three days here we packed a lot of wander-shopping, pint-drinking, and some sight-seeing. We ate haggis for Robbie Burns night, Andrea got a spontanenous rock-star hair cut, and took part in the oh-so-Scottish tradition of attending Australia Day festivities at the Walkabout. I got a Fosters hat.
I think I can convince her to come back in August.
Stroke another mandatory Scottish experience off the list: I made it to a football game.
My boss has season tickets for the Hearts of the Midlothian footie club, one of two in the Edinburgh (the other is the Hiburnians – the evil Hibs. We have to be Hearts fans in our pub). He and his friend were going to be out of town last weekend when a game was on, so he gave Jase and I his tickets for the game, along with his red and white striped Hearts scarf.
The seats were prime. The weather was perfect. The fans were hilarious.
My favorite of the soccer chants, that started up whenever the other team’s fans got rowdy, went like this:
“We’re from the capital, you’re from a shithole – you’re from a shithole, we’re from the capital”.
The nickname for the Hearts is ‘Jambos’, which I didn’t understand for ages, until I finally asked John the Regular. Here’s the logic: ‘Hearts’ rhymes with ‘Tarts’, and some tarts are jam tarts, hence: Jambos. What? I don’t know. What I do know is that you can find Jambos the world over: another of our regulars, Stewart, once found a pub called ‘The Jambo Bar’ in THAILAND. I have a feeling the same is true for Rider fans.
We are now officially Jambos.
It snowed on Sunday night; bit fat fluffy flakes that stuck around on the ground. It was perfect snowball/man snow, perfect for sliding around on the sidewalk. Aussie bartender Jase and I, and our new American friend El Presidente, went to the Walkabout for cheap drinks, and discovered it had been taken over by Welsh kareoke singers, all in town for the Six Nations Rugby game.
Jase the Aussie gets giddy-excited about falling snow, understandably, but it seemed everyone on the street was ecstatic about it. We were throwing snowballs at each other, but so was everyone else – running and ducking and dodging and laughing. When we talked to people the next day, they said they saw the same thing happening all over the city – on the Royal Mile, in the Meadows. As we walked to and from the bar, people came up to chat, ask we were from, invite us to Wales. We ran around a park with someone else’s dog, made snow angels.
On Monday, we went up Calton Hill and built a snowman.
We knew in advance he was going to be a drunken snowman, and brought appropriate props. His costume, though, kept getting more elaborate.
He’s the first snowman I’ve ever seen with a belt. Also, the first snowman who drinks Tesco lager and sings ‘The Old Grey Mare’ on street corners for change.
Then, some Italian tourists wanted to pose with our drunken snowy friend. We obliged.
Edinburgh is a bit magical in the winter. Also, cold. But I don’t need to go there at the moment.
At the end of November, in Princes Street gardens, the Winter Wonderland opened with a ‘turning on the lights’ ceremony; the trees are lit with fairy lights, and there’s a ferris wheel and carosel and various other amusements that look pretty from a distance. (Like here, from the North Bridge).
There’s also a skating rink (where I’m planning to take the new Australian bartender, and the South African and Spanish chefs from my pub, for their first skating lessons):
Beside the Winter Wonderland are the German and Highland markets:
and beside the skating rink is a stand that sells the best hot chocolate on the planet:
(Jason, the new Aussie bartender, drinking the best hot chocolate on the planet)
Beside the skating rink is also the Speigel tent, which apparently is a kids play area that doubles as a bar.
Oh, Scotland.
There is one part of Greyfriars cemetery that is locked to the public, and there’s only one way to get inside: take a walking tour called City of the Dead. The Covenanter’s graveyard has been locked for years, because of the activity of one particular poltergeist, that of Bloody George Mackenzie.
The Covenanter’s prison held around 1,200 prisoners in 1679 who rebelled against the national covenant, and the place became the very first ever concentration camp. The prisoners were held there for months with no shelter through Scottish winter and very little food; many died, and the ones that didn’t were boarded on a ship that was supposed to be bound for Barbados or somewhere where they would end up slaves. Some people say their ship encountered bad weather and sunk before it got there – others say George Mackenzie had the ships anchored and sank.
During the walking tour we learn just how many people are buried in Greyfriars. Not the exact amount, of course, but the fact that what used to be a valley is now a hill gives some indication. It was the only graveyard during the years when the city was grossly overcrowded and also plague-ridden, and the place was pretty much a mass grave.
Inside the Covenanter’s prison the guide leads you right into Mackenzie’s crypt, where we wait for something creepy to happen. Nothing does. Apparently though over 350 people have been attacked or have passed out inside the graveyard – some report being strangled by disembodied hands, and develop burn marks around their necks. Others feel very cold and collapse, or wake up the next morning with scratches on their bodies.
So I won’t be going back to Greyfriar’s at night. But I still like it during the day for other reasons. The place has inspired many a writer: Mary Shelley conceived of Frankenstein after visiting Greyfriars during a period when grave robbers stole bodies to donate to scientists who were working to cure diseases, but whom people thought were trying to raise the dead. Charles Dickens apparently encountered a gravestone with the name ‘Ebenezer Scrooge’.
On the other side of Greyfriars, visible through the gates, is a school: Heriot’s School. And because I’m a huge nerd, I’m abnormally impressed with the fact that it was on this school that J.K. Rowling based Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Nerd.
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