In Pursuit of Scottish Shindigs
Ah, Edinburgh! The very name whispered tales of a city steeped in history, kissed by unpredictable Scottish weather, and adorned with a landscape that seemed plucked straight from a Tolkien novel. It was this promise of adventure that lured me to the Scottish capital, ready to experience a new world, new surroundings, and perhaps even a glimpse of Nessie. Okay, that last one might have required a road trip, but a traveler can dream!
Now, why did I find myself hurtling towards Scotland like a bagpiper chasing a runaway haggis? It was first and foremost a craving to escape from the madding crowd of my hometown (well, the one where I work actually). I yearned for a locale where tranquility was more common than a rainy day in Edinburgh. I longed to be somewhere distant, where the rolling hills whispered ancient secrets and the sheep outnumbered the populace. The prospect of being steeped in culture, wrapped in history, and occasionally drowning my worries in a pint of the finest British ale in a quaint little pub was akin to the siren's song for this wanderer. I dreamt of lively banter with like-minded souls, swapping tales, chortles, and embracing that peculiarly dry British humour. So, with a backpack full of socks and a heart ready for adventure, I set forth for the land of kilts and ceilidhs.
The chronicle of my voyage to the eastern part of Edinburgh was somewhat uneventful. The trip began inauspiciously enough with a flight via Amsterdam – a city so charming that even tulips can't help but blush, as they say. The first leg of my journey suffered a slight delay, but these days, delayed flights are practically the universal language of modern travel. And then, oh, the second flight! Another delay that was enough to make even a stoic Scotsman tap his foot in frustration. My host, bless their punctual soul, had been waiting for my arrival well before the stroke of midnight. As fate would have it, I waltzed into Edinburgh fashionably late, somewhere in the deep hours of the night, with only the moon and a stray bagpiper to greet me. Or was it a policeman rushing us towards the exit? Anyway, the day had one more trick up its tartan sleeve. A 45-minute tram ride stood between me and my respite. The tram, I must admit, was a trusty steed, swift and true, carrying me through Edinburgh's winding streets like a phantom in the night. (Why do they keep on sticking large printed ads onto the windows, obscuring the view?, I don’t know…) And, lo and behold, as the tram rattled along, it gathered a noisy, merry band of tipsy young souls. Now, these young rapscallions, despite their inebriated state, maintained an admirable sense of order and decorum. They shared tales of their own Edinburgh escapades, their laughter dancing like will-o'-the-wisps through the night air. It was a merry distraction and they kept me company until the tram reached the city centre. With Waverley stop as their final destination, this merry band disembarked and vanished into the night, ready to paint the town tartan with their youthful exuberance. I continued until I reached Leith and there, under the watchful gaze of the observatory on top of Calton Hill, my own adventure truly began. I nestled into my cozy Scottish abode, and sleep enveloped me like a warm blanket. The next day, the city was about to be discovered.
The morning after my not so grand arrival, I set forth into the heart of Edinburgh with the determination of a Scotsman guarding his single malt. - see? easily blending in already - The cobblestone streets were as quiet as a library on a Sunday morning, and I knew this city had secrets to reveal. I strolled along my small neighborhood humming with a laidback atmosphere and then, to fuel my escapade I stopped at a hip new coffee establishment. I must confess, their brew was so artisanal that I expected the beans to recite poetry. If not them, at least the young barrista lady listing the various offerings - from mild intensity brew to the more intense ones, from beans more familiar to the world to other, more obscure varieties. I smiled and nodded politely then went for a well-known foamy and fluffy flat white with a ‘pain au raisins’. With the energising life elixir coursing now through my veins, I continued straight onto Leith Walk – a street so long it could give even the most steadfast pedestrian second thoughts.
I had my sights set on the Old Town, where history beckoned like a storyteller spinning tall tales by a cozy fire. Or so the printed guide said. As I ambled through the Old Town, the place was abuzz with folks from all corners of the globe. Perhaps encouraged by the land’s old history, selfie sticks were wielded with the enthusiasm of a knight brandishing a sword, although a rather tenderfoot one. I paid those impromptu fighters little heed, for my curiosities lied elsewhere.
Past the Scottish Galleries, I ascended the hill toward Edinburgh University, a mighty and imposing structure that could make even a castle blush with envy. The panoramic view from its lofty heights was nothing short of spectacular, like gazing upon a masterpiece in an art gallery that nature herself had painted. Or in this case, the architects and landscapers.
With the panoramic view etched into my memory (and that of my mobile), I descended from the heights of academia back into the lively embrace of the city streets. The tourist traps would still be there the next days, so for now I bid them adieu then delved headlong into the heart of the matter - the pubs. No visit to this fine city is complete without a pilgrimage to its drinking establishments. Therefore I embarked on a pub-crawl of moderately epic proportions, exploring both the classical places and the new, trendy joints serving up an abundance of craft brews. As a self-proclaimed beer aficionado, I found myself particularly drawn to the latter. However, I must add that the true gem of my pub-hopping adventure was undoubtedly the 'smallest pub in Edinburgh' - Halfway House, a place pretty hard to find and so tiny it made a phone booth look like a football stadium. ** It was a quirky pearl, but it boasted a well-earned collection of awards and a coziness that felt like you were drinking in a hobbit hole.
As I ventured into this cozy pub, I was greeted not by a bustling crowd but by an unusual sight. The only occupants were the bartender, who looked as if he'd mastered the art of invisibility, and a young lady perched at the bar, her tears rivaling the British rain in intensity. “A.a.. are you open?”. I asked hesitantly. “Yes, yes! I am open!”, the lady opened her arms wide and shouted at me. It quickly became apparent that this damsel in distress had recently parted ways with her significant other, and she was determined to drown her sorrows in the finest Scottish libations. Beer mats, it seemed, had become the casualties of her emotional tempest, scattered about like debris after a storm. Initially, I mistook this chaos for a unique form of pub decor, but the truth soon dawned upon me.
Though my heart went out to her, I realised there was little comfort a stranger like me or even the bartender could provide in such a situation. Thus, I did what any reasonable traveller would do—I ordered a pint and minded my own business, allowing the lady to navigate her emotional sea. When she finally departed, it felt as if a hurricane had swept through the tiny pub. It was then, with pint in hand and a curiosity piqued, that I engaged the bartender in conversation. What he revealed surprised me in a way that only life's quirky twists can. You know, despite the late afternoon hour, the pub had remained eerily empty. I couldn't fathom why, given the charm of the place, until the bartender unveiled the hidden truth with a hearty laugh: a train strike in England, of all things, had prevented the English visitors from making their way over to Scotland! It was a mishap of epic proportions, one that left the smallest pub in Edinburgh, albeit full of character, devoid of patrons that day.
**Even the bartender confided in me that, on his first day of work, he had to follow breadcrumbs to find the place!
Pete’s Beerhive - Where Brews and Brexit collide
We’ve left the diminutive Halfway House behind and now, dear reader, picture this: I found myself at the doorstep of Pete's Beerhive, a charming little beer and wine shop tucked away in a cobblestone alley. Inside, it was a beer lover's paradise, a veritable cave jam packed of brews. There were more bottles and labels than you could shake a baguette at, and the variety stretched from local mysteries brewed in someone's garage to the names you'd spot in your grandmother's fridge. If you had an inkling of curiosity about beer, this place was your Narnia. Pete, the maestro behind this hoppy haven, was a character in himself. Upon seeing my eager eyes and knowledgeable grin, he knew he had met his match. We struck up a conversation that flowed smoother than The Water of Leith after a rainstorm. We spoke of the beer business, the craft beer renaissance, the styles that could make your head spin, and even the grand spectacle of all recent calamities – Brexit. Oh, Brexit, the great enigma that left even seasoned politicians scratching their heads like itchy pandas! Pete regaled me with tales of how it had turned into a clusterfest of bureaucratic acrobatics for small businesses like his. We laughed, we shook our heads, and we clinked glasses of bitter brew*** in a toast to the absurdity of it all (***a fitting Overtone IPA with a 99 IBU). It was a meeting of kindred spirits, two good ol’ chaps united by a love for beer and a bemusement at the state of the world.
Pete’s parting gift was a handwritten list, a treasure map, not to buried gold, but to the best drinking establishments in Edinburgh. I couldn't help but chuckle as I suggested, "Pete, my friend, you should have this printed and hand it over to other thirsty travelers like me."
Bidding Pete farewell and clutching his handwritten treasure map, I embarked on the next leg of my journey. Although barely on my first day here, my curiosity was similar to that of a kitten’s, one that you bring to your new home and who is inspecting all the corners of the house, trying to determine where he will best fit in. My trusty external charger, a recent acquisition, was proving its worth as I was snaking through the Old Town. In this day and age, the maps and travel guides on our devices can drain a battery quicker than I can chug down a cold, fizzy brew. With my digital lifeline securely charged I set my eyes on a hip haven known as The Hanging Bat. It was said to be a gathering place for the young and the restless, where hyped craft beers flowed in abundance. Soon I found myself amidst a throng of lively souls. Young and carefree, the patrons were as vibrant as a field of wildflowers. Craft beers and ciders were poured like liquid gold from the taps, and the menu offered a hearty selection of sustenance for a hungry wanderer. I found myself right at home in the heart of Edinburgh's spirited nightlife.
[…]
These were just a few scenes and snapshots from the opening act, the first day of many yet to unfold in the Scottish odyssey. The days that lay ahead promised feats aplenty. A jaunt to the lively St Andrews, where students reveled in the pursuit of knowledge and merriment. A journey to the quiet, colorful fishing villages of East Neuk, where life unfurled at its own leisurely pace. But the pièce de résistance, the epic voyage that I embarked upon, was a trek to Windermere, nestled in the majestic embrace of the Lake District. The landscapes there, my friends, were as breathtaking as a Highland sunrise.
As the days roll on and inspiration strucks like a lightning bolt in the Scottish Highlands, I would return with more tales, more laughter, and more pints of the finest ales.
